The Spiral Path (43 page)

Since that wasn't practical, he sat next
to her on the bed. "Thanks for coming, Rainey. It ... helped."

"I'm glad for that, and glad I met
Charles Winfield." She covered a yawn. "How lovely that you were able
to give him the actor's equivalent of a Viking funeral--sending him off in a
blaze of glory."

He hadn't thought of it that way.
"I owed him more than I can ever repay."

"He's the first piece of your
pre-Hollywood past I've ever met." The statement was without inflection,
but she watched his face carefully.

"Charles and Trevor were the best
part of that past."

"Trevor?"

Kenzie must be even more tired than he'd
realized to say that. "Trevor was ... a friend of Charles's. He's shown in
some of the pictures downstairs."

"I don't suppose I'll ever fully
understand how much Charles meant to you," she said tentatively, "but
it occurred to me that I can put a dedication to him at the end of
The
Centurion.
Would you like that?"

His throat tightened. "Yes, and
Charles would have, too."

He rolled Rainey onto her stomach and
began rubbing her back. She gave a sigh of pleasure and stretched like a petted
cat. "That feels so good."

The massage benefited him, too. Touching
her always did.

He gave silent thanks that Charles had
died while he and Rainey were sharing this last interlude of intimacy, and not
just because her support was a blessing. It was good that she and Charles had
the opportunity to meet.

As Rainey's tight muscles softened, she
asked, "Did Charles have any family?"

"None that would acknowledge
him." Kenzie pressed his thumbs under the edge of her shoulder blades,
looking for knots of tension. "He was the black sheep of an upper-class
family. When he left Cambridge to act, they said that if he insisted on
following a dissolute, disreputable life, he should take a stage name and leave
them alone. So he did."

"Sounds as if you had a lot in
common."

Ignoring the implied question, he said,
"I'm the executor of his will. He wanted cremation and a small memorial
service. He said once that he'd had his time in the spotlight, and an actor
should know when it was time to leave quietly."

"I think English actors are much
saner than American ones."

"So much of America is larger than
life. Here, centuries of history are everywhere. It keeps things in
proportion." He patted her elegant backside and stood. "Ready for a
shower and breakfast?"

"I am now. Thanks, Kenzie."
She got out of bed and leaned into him for a long hug. "Will they serve
the classic British breakfast with eggs and bacon and fried bread and tomatoes
and all those other wonderful cardiac killers?"

"Probably. Being saner than
Americans, the English are much less obsessive about what they eat."

"I could get into that. Maybe I
should buy a flat here." Yawning, she returned to her own room to shower.

After dressing, he stood at the window
and gazed over London. On a Sunday morning, it was as quiet as it ever got.
Thank God he'd have today before he resumed work on
The Centurion.
The
sound stage scenes they were going to shoot would be the most searing in the
whole movie.

God only knew where he'd find the
emotional energy to get through this last week. He'd barely been managing even
before Charles's death. If not for his nights with Rainey, he wouldn't have
made it this far.

His mouth tightened. Charles would have
said the show must go on. As a private tribute to his mentor, he must dredge up
whatever it took to make these last scenes the best work of his life.

Then, thank heaven, he'd have two months
to go into hiding before his next picture began shooting. Ordinarily he'd have
Seth Cowan look for some small jobs to fill the time between pictures, but this
time he wanted inactivity. He'd go to Cibola, where the Gradys had already
moved into their new home. He'd be able to fix up the old ranch house the way
he wanted, recover, and explore the spare, beautiful land he'd bought.

Explore, recover, and try not to think
of Rainey.

Breakfast
in the Ramillies dining room was as cholesterol-laden as expected, and Rainey
relished every bite. Sometimes, a woman just had to live dangerously.

The residents were too well-bred to
stare at the celebrities in their midst, though after they'd finished eating
one woman shyly asked for autographs for her granddaughter, and several other
residents stopped by to offer sympathy and share memories of Charles Winfield.
Kenzie handled the condolences with his usual graciousness, but she could see
signs of strain. Deciding it was time for the anonymity of The Dorchester,
where they were booked for that night, she gave Kenzie the wordless signal that
married couples develop, and they said their goodbyes.

Realizing her hands were too empty when
they left the dining room, she said, "I think I left my purse in Charles's
room last night. Which way is it?"

Kenzie led her down the corridor and
opened the door for her. Winfield's personal belongings hadn't been touched,
but the bed was mercifully empty, and had been remade with a fresh bedspread.
Rainey crossed the threshold, then halted at the sight of the trench-coated man
studying the photos around the fireplace. He turned toward her, quickly sliding
one hand into his pocket. Nigel Stone.

Seeing the reporter, Kenzie swore,
"You damned vulture! Have you no shame?"

"Just a journalist doing my
job," Stone said piously. "A washed-up actor dying isn't newsworthy,
but you and your estranged wife spending the night reading plays to him is a
great story."

"Get the hell out of here right
now." Kenzie stalked forward, looking ready to remove the other man
bodily.

"He may have taken something of
Charles's," Rainey warned. "He shoved his hand into his pocket when
he saw me."

Kenzie's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Robbing the dead. You're even more despicable than I thought."

"I swear I took nothing that
belonged to Winfield. She saw me put away a tape recorder I use for
notes." Stone pulled a small voice-activated recorder from his deep coat
pocket.

"Is he telling the truth,
Rainey?"

"What I saw was about that size and
shape."

Accepting that, Kenzie said, "Out.
Now. Unless you want to give me the pleasure of dragging you out."

Stone ambled toward the door, taking his
time. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. I just wanted to look
around."

Rainey grabbed her purse from under the
bed and followed the men toward the front door. Just before stepping outside,
Stone paused, his hard gaze on Kenzie. "I've only seen eyes that shade of
bright green once before," he said meaningfully.

"Haven't you ever heard of colored
contact lenses?" Kenzie yanked the front door open, and found a group of
reporters and cameramen waiting.

Rainey groaned. Running a press gauntlet
was the last thing they needed. As Stone joined his colleagues, she moved to
Kenzie's side. "Let's get out of here."

Face like granite, he draped a
protective arm around her shoulders and they started for his car. Reporters
stepped back to let them through, intimidated by his expression, though
questions came from all sides. Rainey bowed her head, wishing the small car
park was closer.

Pamela Lake, a reporter she knew
slightly, shoved a folded newspaper into Rainey's shoulder bag. "Take a
look at this, and call me if you have any comments." Intent on escape,
Rainey barely noticed.

A harsh voice rose above the others.
"Is it true Charles Winfield died of AIDS?"

From behind, Nigel Stone laughed
nastily. "Probably. Everyone knew he was queer as Dick's hatband."

Rainey could feel the fury that blazed
through Kenzie. He spun around, and for a moment she feared he would strike
Stone.

Instead, he placed a hand on the
reporter's shoulder in a gesture that looked casual, except for the bruising
power of his grip. Stone gasped and tried unsuccessfully to jerk away.
"Charles Winfield did not have AIDS," Kenzie said in a voice that
could cut glass. "Nor would it have been relevant if he had. Judge him by
his fine acting, his wit, his generosity, and the friends who will mourn his
passing."

Kenzie released Stone so abruptly the
other man staggered, then pulled out his keys and used the remote to unlock the
doors. Rainey dived into the safety of the Jaguar gratefully, and within thirty
seconds they were off the grounds of Ramillies Manor.

She exhaled slowly. "Your eyes
really are that shade of green."

"I didn't say they weren't. I just
asked Stone if he'd ever heard of colored contacts." Kenzie's voice was
blackly humorous.

"I wonder if he'll recognize the
weasel wording." She thought about the reporter's comment on Kenzie's eye
color. "Do you and Stone have a history?"

"'Twas long ago and in another
country and besides, the lad is dead."

She suspected that answering with
another fractured quote meant that Kenzie had known Stone, and didn't want to
talk about it. Next topic. "Did Charles have AIDS, or did that reporter
just ask because he was homosexual?"

"Technically I told the truth--he
didn't have full-blown AIDS, but he was HIV-positive, and that contributed to
his overall condition. He chose to drift out of touch with many of his friends,
not wanting pity, or to have them uncomfortable around him." Kenzie slowed
until he could safely pass a bevy of bicyclists. "Charles grew up in a
world where gays stayed solidly in the closet. He wouldn't have liked being
outed posthumously."

"Between HIV, smoking, and British
breakfasts, it's a miracle he survived as long as he did." Survived, and
flourished, and died on his own terms. Not a bad way to go. "Did his
family cast him off because of his sexual orientation?"

"I'm sure that was a large part of
it. He found the theater far more welcoming."

Where people like Kenzie would protect
Winfield's privacy even after his death. "The theater has always been a
world unto itself. From what I've read, even in Greek times actors were
outsiders. People like us were considered weird and wild and surely immoral,
but accepted because of our talents. That's as true in Hollywood as it was
twenty-five hundred years ago in Athens."

"Accepting diversity is perhaps the
best thing about show business. No matter how strange one is, there's room if
one has talent."

Kenzie's words were general, but the way
he said them sounded very personal. "Even if one of those reporters does
out Charles, he's beyond being hurt by it. I expect he'd prefer being buried in
his closet, though."

"There's much to be said for
closets. If Britons are saner than Americans, maybe it's because we don't feel
compelled to air our dirty linen in public."

"There are Americans who will tell
you more about their personal lives than you really want to know," Rainey
admitted. "Heck, they'll do it at high noon in front of television
cameras. But some problems really do need to be aired, or they'll fester."
Would it have helped if Kenzie had been less secretive? Perhaps. But she had
her share of things she'd rather not talk about. "I suspect that actors
who talk too much about their addictions and sex lives risk harming their
careers. A little mystery, that sense that there is always more to know, is an
asset to a star."