Phoenix Falling (44 page)

"Have you seen any stills taken from the porn movie that allegedly shows Kenzie as a boy?" Naomi asked. "We haven't seen anything from that yet."

"The paper I just looked at had a still, and I don't think the boy is Kenzie. Right coloring and eyes, wrong chin, wrong cheekbones. It must be some other poor kid."

"So Stone hasn't got much. The problem is that this kind of thing can be hard to disprove unless we can clearly place Kenzie elsewhere at the same time he was supposed to be selling himself in London," Marcus said soberly. "Maybe Kenzie will finally talk about his early life to prove he couldn't be this kid hustler."

"Then again, he might say that he'll be damned if he'll be coerced into giving up the privacy he's protected so long," Naomi said dryly. "Underneath those lovely English manners, he can be pretty stubborn. Why should he have to talk about his private life, now or ever?"

Val frowned as she thought about early lives. "Get someone to look through a bunch of London school yearbooks from the right time and pick out half a dozen boys who looked like Kenzie. Then track them down and persuade them to appear at a press conference. Kick off the conference by showing a picture of the first man and announce, "This is James Mackenzie.'

"Then bring out the man whose photo it is. Ideally, he'll now be short, fat, and balding. Then you say, 'Actually, this is Reggie Smothers of Croyden, but didn't he look a lot like James Mackenzie?' After the reporters get through laughing, repeat that several times. By the time you're done, you'll have demonstrated there's no connection between the birth certificate, a fuzzy picture of a pre-adolescent, and Kenzie Scott."

Naomi chuckled. "Val, Val, are you sure you don't want to work for us? That's brilliant. If you don't want to do law or production, we'll put you in publicity."

"No, thanks. I actually rather like the law. I just need to find the right place to practice it." Val frowned. "I'd also make sure the reporters realized that whoever the boy was, he was so young then that he qualifies as a victim, not a callous hustler."

"I shudder when I think of how many exploited children there are living on the streets," Naomi said softly. "Don't get me started, or I'll be ranting."

The older woman's comment triggered a hunch. "There probably was a real James Mackenzie who was a boy hustler," Val said. "Maybe Nigel Stone genuinely believes that boy grew up to be Kenzie. But street life is hazardous, especially for someone who got into it so young. It's a long shot, but I'd look for a death certificate for the real James Mackenzie."

Marcus whistled softly. "If we could find that, it would certainly close Stone down. Great ideas, Val. Now you get back to your vacation and put this out of your mind. I think we're going to spike Stone's guns without any damage to Kenzie or to Rainey's movie."

Val sighed. "You really think I can put this out of my mind?"

"Call for daily updates," Naomi replied. "Trust us, Val. In a week or two, this will be ancient, discredited history."

Val hung, up, praying the Gordons were right. The movie might survive unscathed, but would Rainey's husband?

* * *

Chunk! Chunk! Chunk
! Gradually the banging sounds penetrated Rainey's fogged mind enough to draw her from sleep to hazy wakefulness. She lay with her eyes closed as she pieced together where she was and how she'd gotten here.

A pity she couldn't convince herself it was all a bad dream, but she was definitely in New Mexico. With two kittens purring on the patchwork quilt beside her, so it wasn't all bad.

The sounds and timing of the
chunking
noise varied somewhat, but overall were pretty regular. The world's largest woodpecker?

Aching in every muscle, she hauled herself out of the deep, comfortable mattress and headed to the bathroom, kittens ricocheting off her ankles. Good grief, was it really two in the afternoon? "Jet lag" was too gentle a term. "Jet victim" came closer.

A quick shower revived her some, though she was still bone-weary from accumulated fatigue. After dressing in khaki shorts and a jade green tank top, she made her way to the kitchen, accompanied by kittens who earnestly assured her that they hadn't eaten in days, possibly weeks, and were now hovering on the brink of starvation.

A search of the cupboards produced a bag of cat food, and the knowledge that Alma Grady had stocked the kitchen well. There were plenty of staples and a good selection of perishables in the fridge. Leaving the kittens diving into their food, Rainey poured herself a glass of orange juice and wandered outside to find the woodpecker.

The ranch had a number of outbuildings, including a barn and a bunkhouse. All were thick-walled adobe, like the main house. In a paddock behind the barn were two horses. She wondered if the Gradys would mind if she or Kenzie rode them occasionally. It would be heaven to get up into those hills on horseback.

On the far side of the bunkhouse, she discovered the source of the noise. Kenzie was chopping wood. Quite a lot of wood. The sun was hot, and he'd peeled off his shirt, showing the powerful, crisply defined muscles of his back and arms as he swung the ax. The sight of him weakened her knees with yearning that was as much emotional as physical.

It seemed like forever since their last night together. She wanted to walk into his arms and kiss the salty sheen of his skin, hoping that the sweet intimacy of sex could heal the searing wounds of his past, and salve her own bruised and exhausted spirit.

Yet desire was overlaid by a horrific image of a helpless child being molested by a sweaty, panting pervert. Knowing where he'd learned to be such a wonderful lover made her almost vomit the orange juice she'd drunk.

Keeping her voice light, she said, "Stockpiling firewood for winter?'

Chunk!
The ax swung wickedly through the air, and a half round of wood split into two kindling-sized pieces. He tossed them on the pile stacked against the bunkhouse. "This is about the only kind of ranch work a city boy can do without training."

There were blisters on his hands. He may have figured out the way to swing an ax, but his palms weren't hardened for this kind of work. Of course, firewood wasn't the point. Channeling his rage into productive violence was.

"You chose well when you bought this place, Kenzie." She looked across the valley. "It's beautiful. Serene. A place to be sane."

"Maybe. Let's hope none of the gossip reporters will leave the city and hunt us down here." He set another length of log into chopping position. "They'd have a bad effect on the sanity."

She peered in the window of the bunkhouse, and saw a sizable room with four single beds and wide-planked floors. A door led into another room beyond. "This will make a nice guesthouse."

Chunk!
"I don't plan on having any guests."

Did he regret allowing her to stay here? He was avoiding eye contact, and the vulnerability he'd revealed on the flight to New Mexico had vanished behind an impenetrable shell. The trouble with loving an actor is that you never had the least idea what he was thinking if he chose to shut you out.

"Have you had any breakfast? Or I guess lunch would be more appropriate." Assuming his shrug meant no, she continued, "How about I scare us up an omelet? I can't remember my last meal."

He hesitated. "I suppose I should eat."

"An omelet won't take long. If you want to shower, the food will be done by the time you're finished."

He retrieved his shirt from the stacked logs where he'd left it and rubbed it over his sweaty face. "That sounds good."

Side by side but not really together, they returned to the house. She told herself it would take time for him to recover enough to relax with her again. She'd have a week before she had to be back in Los Angeles to start postproduction.

But in her gut, she knew a week would not be enough.

Chapter 35

Rainey savored the scent of frying onions as she tossed chopped pepper in the pan. How long had it been since she'd done any real cooking? No child could be raised by Virginia Marlowe without learning her way around a kitchen. Rainey had enjoyed cooking, despite her grandmother's critical comments when the sugar and butter weren't being creamed together properly, or some other sin. They'd even shared some fairly companionable moments when working together for a holiday dinner.

But movie stars didn't have a lot of time for cooking. Kenzie had a housekeeper who cooked like a dream, while Rainey used a personal chef who would drop wonderful, healthy meals by the house with precise instructions for reheating. She hadn't made anything more complicated than cappuccino in years.

The hashed brown potatoes she'd found in the freezer were crispy and golden, so she combined them with the onion and pepper mixture to make the omelet filling. She was whipping eggs with a fork when the phone rang. Since she could hear that Kenzie was in the shower, she lifted it warily. "Hello."

"Raine? It's Marcus."

She relaxed. "Good. I worry that some reporter will find this number."

"So far, only Naomi and I, Val, and Emmy know where you are, and none of us will talk."

"You'd better tell Kenzie's people," she suggested. "They'll have a heart attack if they don't know where he is."

"I'll call Seth Cowan, and he can handle Kenzie's end."

"How is the world responding to Nigel Stone's grand revelation?"

"About as you'd expect. The more respectable news outlets are ignoring the story since at this point it's basically hearsay, while the sensationalist press has pounced with glee. A couple of tabloids have dug up so-called experts who've never been closer to Kenzie than the local multiplex, but who are quite willing to speculate that his macho movie roles might be a way to cover up the fact that he's secretly gay."

Rainey sighed. "Why am I not surprised?"

The producer laughed. "One idiot even claimed that you're secretly gay, too, and you married each other to provide mutual camouflage."

Her mouth tightened. "Such rubbish. What are the white hats doing to make this go away?"

"Barb Rifkin has been cracking heads among her media contacts, which is probably why the story hasn't been picked up widely. Also, Val called from Ireland with some good ideas for counterattacking." Marcus summarized Val's suggestions. Rainey nodded through most of it, but frowned at the end.

Kenzie entered the kitchen, hair wet and expression unreadable. "It's Marcus," she said. "Do you want to talk to him?'

When he shook his head, she said good-bye and hung up. "Sorry the omelet isn't quite done. Would you like some orange juice?"

This time a nod. She poured a tall glass of juice. Noticing that he hadn't shaved, she asked, "Growing a beard for anonymity?"

"Maybe."

He was definitely not in a communicative mood. "I thought it would be nice to eat in Alma's walled garden. Would you set the table, please?"

Another nod. Juice in hand, he opened the door to the garden, kittens skittering out with him. She poured the beaten eggs into a skillet, then started the coffee and toasted Alma's sourdough bread.

By the time Kenzie had scouted the garden and located placemats and silverware, breakfast was ready to go. Rainey divided the omelet with two-thirds for Kenzie and the rest for her, slid the pieces onto plates warmed in the oven, then added the toast and a jar of honey. As she lifted the tray, she asked, "Could you pour the coffee and bring it out?"

He filled the mugs and followed her out to the garden, which was at the height of late summer glory. Flowering vines covered one wall and the air was heady with high desert scents. She noticed a small, weathered statue of St. Francis lurking beside a sage bush. The circular table and chairs were pleasantly cool under the arbor, and decorated with a hopeful-looking gray kitten.

Kenzie set down the coffee mugs and removed the kitten from the table. "Sorry, gray guy, that's not allowed."

"Is Gray Guy his name?" Rainey placed the plates on the table and set the tray aside, then took one of the chairs.

"It might as well be. Do you want to name the tabby, since she's just leaped on your lap?"

Rainey petted the little cat, who purred ecstatically at the attention. "She says her name is Honeybunny since her fur is bunny soft, honey-colored, and she certainly is sweet." Gently she returned the kitten to the weathered quarry tile floor. "I hope the food is okay. I'm feeling vastly proud of myself for remembering how to turn on a stove."