The Spiral Path (28 page)

K
enzie
sipped on a cup of good English tea as Rainey rehearsed a scene with
Richard Farley, the very distinguished actor playing Sarah's father. The
combination of Marcus Gordon's contacts and a first-class script had given
The
Centurion
an impressive lineup of experienced British character actors.

They were nearing the end of a week of
intensive rehearsals in London before filming began again. Though the New
Mexican shoot had been mostly action, with the only important talking scenes
those between Kenzie and Sharif, the English portion of the movie was almost
entirely character interactions so rehearsing was essential.

Sir James Cantwell, the aging and even
more distinguished actor on Kenzie's right, said loftily, "Neither you nor
Miss Marlowe are working terribly hard."

It was the sort of comment allowed a man
who'd been a star when Kenzie was a very green RADA graduate, awed to be
sharing a stage with a giant of the British theater. Mildly he said,
"We're saving the raw emotion for the camera."

Sir James gave him a wicked glance.
"Or you've been ruined by Hollywood. You were a promising stage actor as a
lad, but after all those action movies, you need to be reminded how to act by
some real players."

Kenzie grinned. "That, too."

Sir James's gaze went back to Rainey.
Even casually dressed in slacks and sweater with her apricot hair tied back
with a scarf, she had a compelling presence. "What is it like to be
directed by a woman one is in the process of divorcing?"

"It's ... interesting. Luckily, we're
on good terms."

Though not as good as that one night inside
a cliff. Now that they were surrounded by people, there was no chance that
rehearsing would slide from professional to personal. Just as well, since he
still hadn't recovered from the emotional backlash of one night's intimacy.
Calm and controlled, Rainey gave no sign that she'd been affected at all.
Perhaps that night had given her the closure she'd needed, and she'd put the
marriage behind her. For her sake, he hoped so.

"I've never done a movie with a
female director before," Sir James mused.

"Then it's time you did. Rainey's
good. She has a clear vision of what she wants the movie to say, and she knows
how to communicate that to cast and crew."

"She's learned to do that on her
first production?" Sir James said, intrigued.

Before Kenzie could answer, Rainey
glanced in their direction, saying hopefully, "Surely John's father will
know, Papa."

"My cue," Sir James murmured,
rising to join Rainey and Richard Farley. "I know that my son needs a
sweet girl like you," he boomed, bluff and utterly sure of himself and his
world. "I'll admit that being held captive by savages put the boy off his
feed a bit, but don't worry. He'll be cured as soon as he's wed."

Kenzie settled back in his chair,
enjoying the fact that Sir James was acting at full wattage, probably to show
up lazy colonials who'd worked regularly in Hollywood. Responding to the
challenge, Farley also began to emote as if the cameras were rolling.

Reacting to the men, Rainey moved fully
into Sarah, capturing the girl's combination of innocence and determination.
That lasted until her next scene with Kenzie. Rainey cut back from torch to
pilot light. Kenzie was equally subdued as the two British actors sat down and
looked pained.

Having his share of actor's pride, in
Kenzie's next scene with Sir James he cranked up the emotional intensity. On
the verge of breakdown, John Randall was struggling desperately to prevent
himself from falling apart in front of his father, whose good opinion he
craved.

Kenzie played the scene without
histrionics or overwrought body language. Instead, every word was torn bleeding
from his soul. The long, shabby room fell utterly silent. Even Sir James look
impressed.

"Well done," Rainey said when
the scene ended. "Another day of rehearsal and we'll be ready to
roll." She checked her watch. "This is a good place to stop for the
day. See you in the morning."

Scraping chairs and murmuring arose as
cast and crew prepared to leave. Pulling on his jacket, Kenzie asked Rainey,
"Are you satisfied with how rehearsals are going?"

"So far, so good, except for you
and me. I trust that we'll both hit the marks when it counts." She smiled
faintly. "One of the pluses for casting you in the lead is that you're so
good at nailing the first take. Very economical."

"I'm quite the bargain, especially
on a tight budget," he agreed. "Sir James was wondering how you
learned to direct so well on your first project."

"When you were shooting that film
in New Zealand, I directed a couple of episodes of
Star Pilgrims
for
television."

"Really? I've never seen your name
on the credits, and I don't think I've missed any." They used to tape the
show and watch it together, since the science fiction series was well-written,
well-produced, and highly escapist. It had been a ritual that involved large
bowls of popcorn and turning off professional judgment so they could simply
enjoy.

A flicker in Rainey's eyes indicated
that she also remembered those evenings. "Exactly. Did you know that the
Star
Pilgrims
executive producer is an old buddy of mine? She was willing to
give me a chance to get some experience. Since she didn't mind me using a
pseudonym to avoid publicity, I became 'R.M. Jones.' My first day on the set I
was terrified, but pretty soon I developed quite a touch for coaxing good
performances out of blue-skinned aliens."

"R.M. Jones? I remember seeing that
name.
Where Angels Dance
was one of yours, wasn't it? That was the best
episode of the season."

"That was because of the
script." But she smiled, and for a moment their gazes caught with unwanted
intimacy. Popcorn and pleasures.

The moment ended when Val called,
"Rainey, Kenzie, your limo is waiting outside. You go on back to the
hotel, Rainey. I'll close up here."

"Thanks. I'll see you later
then."

Kenzie followed Rainey, opening the door
for her. "Why Jones?"

Her smile faded. "When I was a kid
and wondered about my father, I'd think of him as Mr. Jones. My mysterious
progenitor. Jones was as good a name as any."

As they went down the stairs, he
wondered if it was possible not to be haunted by speculations about an unknown
parent. Probably not.

They passed the porter at the building's
front door, and stepped out into shouts and electronic flashes. "Miss
Marlowe, what about the reports of feuding on the production?"

"Did you fire Jane Stackpole
because she and Kenzie were having an affair?"

"I've heard talk of a
reconciliation between you two. Care to comment?"

Kenzie's jaw tightened. Usually
celebrities were photographed arriving and leaving London and largely left
alone otherwise, but his and Rainey's personal situation had created extra
interest. They'd both given interviews about the production, ignoring questions
about their relationship and talking about what a great film
The Centurion
would
be. That was the protocol--no matter how much one might want to be somewhere
else, one didn't bad-mouth the current production. Until now, that had been
enough to keep the tabloid press happy.

Guessing there were about two dozen
reporters and photographers waiting, he said under his breath, "It must be
a slow news day, with no royal scandals."

"Or they want to get an easy story
before we move to the country."

Since congestion forced the car to wait
halfway down the block, he placed a protective hand on Rainey's back and they
began walking steadily through the crowd. Kenzie was acquainted with most of
the reporters, so he smiled lazily at the man who'd asked about feuding.
"You need to find better sources, Henry. The production is going very
smoothly. Not a prima donna in sight."

The reporter grinned, unabashed.
"Of course you'd deny any trouble."

"Cooperation doesn't make much of a
story," Rainey said sympathetically. "But what can I say? This is a
great group of people to work with."

A tall blonde called, "Are you glad
to come home to England, Kenzie?"

"Of course, Pamela." He gave
her the smile guaranteed to scramble female thinking. "Where else can one
get a proper cup of tea?"

Pamela gulped before shifting her
attention. "Raine, is it true you put this production together just to get
Kenzie back?"

Rainey's eyes narrowed. "Nonsense.
I started work on
The Centurion
long before I met Kenzie, though I'll
admit I'm delighted to have him as the lead. He's doing a marvelous job."

As similar questions were tossed at
them, they continued toward the car. They'd almost reached it when a tall man
with a sharp face barked out, "Where were you born, Kenzie? Where did you
grow up?"

Thinking there was something familiar
about the man, Kenzie slipped into a Scottish accent. "I was born in the
Outer Hebrides, and my father says I'm the legitimate Stuart heir to the throne
of Scotland. Bonnie Prince Charlie married Flora MacDonald, you know, by traditional
Scottish handfast. They had a son, and bonnie Flora concealed the lad to save
him from the Sassenach, giving him the name Scott. As the direct descendant of
that son, I'll thank you to call me 'Your Royal Highness.'"

His statement produced roars of
laughter. "That's a good one, Kenzie." Henry grinned. "What a
headline that will make: 'Kenzie Scott Is the True King of England!'"

The sharp-faced man refused to be
amused. "What's the real story? You've always hidden behind a pack of
lies, and it's time to set the record straight."

Startled by the naked hostility in the
reporter's voice, Kenzie said, "Sorry, I don't recognize you. What's your
name and who do you represent?"

"Nigel Stone of the
London
Inquirer."

The tabloid was probably London's
tawdriest daily, but it was the name that caused Kenzie to catch his breath. No
wonder the reporter seemed familiar. They'd known each other once long ago,
when Nigel Stone had been a feral, rat-faced boy called Ned. As a
scandal-chasing reporter, he'd found the perfect profession.

Knowing the other man couldn't possibly
recognize him, Kenzie smiled charmingly. "I'm a mere player, a projection
of the audience's whims and fancies. Why spoil that with tedious reality?"

They reached the car, and the driver
flung the door open. Kenzie bundled Rainey in and followed quickly, but before
the door closed, he heard Nigel Stone bark, "You've got away with lies in
the past, but no longer. I'm going to find out who you really are!"

Rainey slid across the seat to make room
for Kenzie. As the car pulled away from the curb, she asked, "Your Royal
Highness?"

His expression eased. "See what
you're giving up by divorcing me? The chance to be the next queen of
England."

"As if I didn't have enough
problems with publicity!" She frowned. "If that Stone fellow tried,
would he be able to uncover your mysterious past?"

"He might be able to back to my
time as a student at RADA. No further."

Thinking Kenzie sounded very certain,
she asked, "Did you spend your childhood abroad so there's no paper trail
in Britain?"

He looked out the car window.
"That's one possible explanation."

In other words, back off. Moving to
safer ground, she asked, "What is it like to return to England? You seem
very British to me, but I've always sensed you have some ambivalence about
visiting here."

He exhaled, still avoiding her gaze.
"Britain is home in a way nowhere else can ever be, but not all the
memories are good ones."

Everyone had painful childhood memories.
His must be exceptionally bad to provoke such a reaction. "The movie
business brings you back here regularly."

"And I come. Ambivalently."

Yet he'd never become an American
citizen even though he'd been a legal resident for more than ten years. She
supposed that said something significant about his feelings for his native
land.

Once she'd guiltily examined his
passport when he left it lying on his dresser after a trip to Cannes. The
document said he'd been born in London on the February day and year he claimed,
but she wondered if the information was true. Would Kenzie's determination to
conceal his past extend to falsifying documents? Maybe.

Realizing she'd probably never know the
truth, she settled back in her seat. Because Kenzie hadn't demanded a separate
driver, they shared a car to and from the hotel. It saved a little money, and
she enjoyed the treacherous pleasure of riding with him. As promised, they'd
both pretended that night in the cliff house had never happened--but the sensual
awareness between them had been off the charts ever since. "The rehearsals
are going so well that I'm getting cautiously optimistic about the results,
even though I know there's many a slip twixt the camera and the final
edit."