Phoenix Falling (42 page)

"I don't. Most of the reason for going is to have a few days of relaxation a long way from La La Land." She eyed the car keys in his hand. "Are you up for driving, or should I?"

"The alcohol has burned off." He opened the passenger door. "Last chance to change your mind and be reasonable."

She smiled as she climbed in. "How often does either of those things happen?"

"Almost never." He got into the driver's seat, feeling a little better for the fact that in spite of everything, they were still friends.

Chapter 33

The mountains of northern New Mexico might have been on another planet from the London sidewalk where Nigel Stone had ambushed Kenzie. Rainey relaxed into the bucket seat, content to admire the molten colors gilding the austere landscape as the sun slid behind the hills. Still trying to process all he'd told her, she asked, "Did your mother's pimp try to get you back?"

"No, even if Rock had known I was with Trevor, he couldn't have traced me. It's a furtive, cash-only kind of business. Neither buyers nor sellers use real names and addresses. From Rock's point of view, I just vanished. He might well have decided I wasn't worth bothering with—I was almost too old to appeal to the pedophile trade."

Rainey shuddered. Even Kenzie's supreme detachment couldn't reduce her horror at the life he'd been forced into. "Do you have any idea what happened to Rock? A really long jail sentence would have been nice."

"A couple of years after I escaped the life, Rock was knifed to death in a bar. I wouldn't have known, except by then I was doing well with my reading lessons, and my tutor had me reading a daily newspaper. Rock was just a small story on a slow news day."

"How did you feel when you saw he was dead?"

His mouth tightened. "I was so happy that I totally lost the ability to speak for about ten minutes. My only regret was that he probably died quickly."

So he wasn't completely detached. "I don't suppose Nigel is likely to be knifed."

"I don't hate him the way I did his father," Kenzie said slowly. "The poor devil had a miserable childhood. His father was a monster, and his mother a drunk who knocked him around. He used to hide in movie theaters just like I did. It couldn't have been easy for him to claw out an education and become a successful reporter."

"You're amazingly forgiving."

"Not forgiving, exactly, but I'm aware that in many ways, I was luckier than Ned. Despite all her problems, my mother was a loving person, when she wasn't strung out. Once Trevor took me in, I was raised by wise, cultured old men who took pride in teaching and guiding me. It was like having a dozen kindly godfathers. I doubt there has ever been much kindness in Ned's life."

"Given how vicious he can be, who'd want to get close enough to be kind?" She wondered if Kenzie was as free from anger as he seemed, or whether a molten river of rage flowed through the depths of his soul. Maybe he owed his survival to an ability to let go of what couldn't be changed.

Since the atmosphere was relaxed, she asked, "Why do you hate the idea of children so much? You're great with kids, both fans and the child actors you've worked with. I'm not trying to change your mind, just trying to understand. You thought I wouldn't want kids for the same reason you didn't."

He slowed and turned left into a narrower road. "From what I've seen of people who've survived wretched childhoods, some react by wanting to have children of their own. Raising their kids as they wish they'd been raised is a way of fixing the past. Others can't bear the thought of revisiting childhood under any circumstances. I fall into that category. I thought you did, too."

"I did when I was younger, but in the last few years, I've realized that I want to fix the past, just as you said." She gazed out the side window. "Like your mother, Clementine could be wonderful and warm, but she spent most of her time on the road, performing. Even when she was home, she always seemed to be busy with work and her... overactive social life." There'd been a succession of nurses and housekeepers to take care of little Rainbow, but none had been her mother.

"I'd lie awake at night, hoping to see her. If I heard her come in, I'd patter out to say hello." Though first she'd make sure Clementine wasn't high or with a lover. "She'd laugh and put me to bed, and sing a song if I was lucky." Rainey sighed. "I've sworn that if I ever have children, I'll take them along when I do location work. I want them to feel loved and protected. I want them to know that they matter." She stopped, realizing how much she revealed. Well, if she wanted to be more open with Kenzie, this was a good place to start.

"It takes a lot of giving to raise a child well. I don't have enough in me to do that," he said bleakly. "The thought of having children is... painful beyond description."

Any hope she'd cherished that he might change his mind died. Wanting to drop the subject, she asked, "Did you used to wonder what it would be like to have a real father? I did all the time." Her cold, critical grandfather hadn't been much of a role model for fathering. "It was only after talking with you a couple of months ago that I found the courage to hire that detective I told you about."

"Has he found out anything new?"

She told him about Mooney's latest report. When she was done, Kenzie remarked, "A studio executive is on the list? That might explain your desire to run your own show."

"A hereditary desire to give orders? Maybe, though I suspect that most actors fantasize being the one in control. Don't you?"

"Not really." His voice roughened. "I hate being controlled, but I don't want to control others, either. Too much responsibility. I just want to be...
free
. Not in anyone's power." More moderately, he continued, "One thing that appealed to me about acting was being my own boss. If I didn't want to take a role, I could always support myself driving a taxi or working as a bicycle messenger."

The thought made her smile. "Instead, you were so successful that you now have the freedom never to work at all unless you want to."

"Which is fortunate, because I may never act again."

His voice was so low that it took a moment for his words to register. "Not act? Surely you're not serious! You're an actor's actor—so good, and so committed. How could you stop?"

In the dark, all she could see was his profile faintly illuminated by the dashboard lights. "Acting was my way of escaping myself. Now... my self has caught up with me. I don't know if I can act anymore. Or if I want to."

Chilled, she recognized bleak conviction in his voice. The work that had been his joy and his passion might have been stolen from him as surely as his mother's pimp had stolen Kenzie's trust and innocence.

With so much taken away, would there be anything left of Kenzie Scott?

* * *

Kenzie halted his SUV on the rise that looked across the valley to the ranch house, anticipating the serenity of the place. "I wonder why the lights are on. The Gradys moved into their new house several weeks ago, so the ranch house should be empty."

Rainey covered a yawn. "When I called Emmy Herman to arrange for the car rental, I also asked her to let the Gradys know you were coming. My guess is that Alma stopped by to unlock the door and turn on the lights to make it look friendly."

He headed down into the rutted road. "Having good assistants is like having invisible elves smoothing out one's life."

He hoped Rainey was right that the lights were just a friendly gesture. Though he liked the Gradys, he was in no mood to deal with anyone else. Hard to believe that it was only this morning that Nigel Stone had revealed his sordid past. It had been an endless day covering eight time zones. A third of the way around the world.

Tired to the bone, he pulled up in front of the house and turned off the ignition. A low-powered outside light illuminated the area as they climbed from the SUV. He lifted the two largest suitcases from the back of the vehicle and crossed to the house.

Pulling a wheeled case, Rainey opened the door into the kitchen for him, then gasped. "Have we come to the right place?"

He stepped inside and set the suitcases down on the mellow, well-worn tile floor. "I called Callie Spears, the interior designer I used on the beach house, and asked her to fix the place up. The kitchen was pretty dismal."

"You were right about elves taking care of life's hassles." Rainey ran her hands over the oak cabinets, then stroked the vanilla-colored countertops. "This particular elf really knew her business—the kitchen is simple but gorgeous. Just right for this house. Smart of Callie to keep the tile floor and stucco walls and exposed beams—the good stuff." Her eyes narrowed as she studied the room. "But the old hutch, table, and chairs look like the Gradys' furniture. Those wonderful Indian rugs are awfully familiar, too."

"Alma said they might seem charmingly authentic to outsiders, but to her they were worn rugs and beat-up old furniture, and she was looking forward to going out and buying exactly what she wanted for once in her life. She only took a few items that had sentimental value to her."

Two fur balls tore into the kitchen, skidding on a rug as they rounded the corner. They were the gray and tabby kittens from the litter Rainey had visited weeks before. These two had doubled in size, and were utterly fearless.

He scooped up the gray kitten, a male who wriggled ecstatically at the attention. Noticing a note on the table, he said, "If we're hungry, there are enchiladas and frijoles and salad in the refrigerator."

"Alma is a genius. A saint. Bringing the kittens to greet us was a master stroke." Rainey caught the dancing tabby kitten, rubbing her cheek against the soft fur. "I'll put the food in the oven. By the time we're settled, dinner should be nice and hot."

"Which bedroom do you want? The two at the end of the hall are the largest." It was the most tactful way he could say that he couldn't bear to sleep with her.

Rainey got the message. She walked down the hall and checked out the bedrooms. "I'll take the one on the right—the velvet and brocade patchwork quilt is spectacular. I've always liked the Southwest interior design style, but there's no substitute for the real thing."

He took his bags into the other bedroom, glad Rainey had left it for him. He liked the antique quilt pieced together of whites and faded blues that Callie had found. The designer had also bought a dresser and wardrobe made from a silvery weathered wood that suited the house perfectly.

Curious, he moved through the other rooms. The two smaller bedrooms were clean but empty. The sofa and reclining chairs in the living room were new, upholstered in soft tan leather that invited touching, while a tiny powder room had been tucked into a hall closet. He made a mental note to give Callie a bonus for achieving so much in such a short period of time, most of it with local labor. He'd specified that, knowing that people in the area needed work.

The last major project had been to renovate the bathroom. Rainey caught up with him there. "Oh,
bliss,
" she said reverently. "A thoroughly modern bathroom, with whirlpool and separate shower. This place is a gem, Kenzie."

She was right. This was a house he could live in forever. And probably would.

* * *

After a very long day and a good meal, he thought he'd sleep well, but no such luck. He couldn't even blame the bed, since Callie had installed the same type of mattress he used in the beach house.

Whenever he closed his eyes, nightmare images assaulted him. Incidents that he thought forgotten returned in a flood of horrific detail. Suffocating, gagging, at the mercy of sweaty male bodies. His desperate need to please. Terror at being dominated, body and soul—and the utter hopelessness of believing he deserved nothing better.

He'd survived by separating his mind from the body of the powerless child compelled to perform on command. During the ordeals, he'd mentally fly away to better times. Afternoons in the park with his mother, visits with her to the cinema. They'd both loved movies, and would watch double and triple features at cheap rerun theaters.

That detachment had kept him sane, but behind the wall of separation churned a holocaust of emotions. The wall had been built so high and wide that in time he'd managed to almost forget the details of his early years. Then John Randall cracked the wall, and Nigel Stone had smashed it to splinters, releasing the horrors as irrevocably as Pandora when she'd opened her box.