Page 1

1

A gentle ocean breeze ruffles my hair, and I draw a deep breath as I stand on this balcony at the Pavilion Hotel and gaze out over the stretch of the Pacific that separates Catalina Island from the California coastline. The expanse is dotted with boats, their lights twinkling like stars against the deepening twilight that’s painting the water in a glow of orange and red and purple that will soon fade into an inky black.

It’s breathtaking. The kind of view that can blot out the chaos of the real world, and I draw in a breath, certain that this weekend will be spectacular.

Behind me, the double doors to the Grand Ballroom are closed, but even so, I can hear laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of hundreds of conversations. I start to turn back to join the party, certain that Damien must be wondering where I’ve gotten off to, but my movement is stopped by two large hands curving against my waist.

His breath competes with the wind, and the heat of it tickles the back of my ear. My nipples tighten as a familiar electrical sensation shoots through me, awakening every cell before pooling between my legs in a sizzle of heat and longing.

I stifle a moan as his chest presses against my back, his cock hard against my rear.

A sigh of pure need escapes me, but I lift my chin and whisper, “Careful. My husband is the jealous type.”

Those strong hands slide up, cupping my breasts, his thumbs teasing my nipples, hard against the fitted bodice of my slinky formal gown. “Is he?”

I try to respond but can only manage a moan as pure electricity zings from my breasts to my core. “Very jealous,” I manage to whisper, barely getting the words out.

“Then he’s a fool for leaving a woman as lovely as you alone for even a second.”

I close my eyes. My husband, Damien Stark, is a long way from a fool.

“Still,” I murmur. “If he catches us, I’ll surely be punished.”

His lips brush the back of my ear as he whispers. “Would you like that?” His hand slips through the slit of my skirt, sliding up to cup my sex over the thin bit of silk that makes up my tiny thong.

“Would you like me to spank you?” His voice is hot. Rough. “To take you to the edge. To lead you right to that precipice but never take you over?”

“Please,” I murmur, but I don’t know if I’m begging him to continue or to stop.

Continue.

The truth cuts through me, as ripe as my need. There are over a thousand people behind those unlocked doors. People who could walk out at any time, and yet all I want is for him to bend me over, push up my skirt, and take me right here, right now, with the last rays of the sun still shimmering like fire spread on the water.

“I know,” he whispers. “I want it, too. But I think perhaps we should take a rain check.” I whimper as he removes his hand and tidies my skirt, then turns me toward him. “Besides, we wouldn’t want your husband to catch us.” His dual-colored eyes twinkle with mischief. “He’s the jealous type.”

“He is,” I say as he pulls me close, then captures my mouth in the kind of kiss that sends heat swirling through me, along with the promise of future pleasures to come. I sigh when he pulls away, still craving his touch but knowing that it will have to wait.

“You’re a tease,” I say, letting myself bask in the glow of this enticing game and this gorgeous man. His raven-black hair with just a dab of gray at his temples. That sculpted jaw, with a roguish hint of stubble. And those eyes—one amber, the other black—that mark him as someone exceptional.

He holds out his hand. “I think it’s time we join the party, Mrs. Stark.”

“Anything you say, Mr. Stark.”

I step toward the doors, then change my mind and tug him to a stop. “Have I told you today how much I love you?”

“You tell me with every glance. With every touch. With every kiss.” He strokes my hair, hanging in loose waves around my face. “And your love is a miracle I never thought I could deserve. And I never tire of hearing the words.”

“In that case,” I say, “I love you.”

He cups my cheek, his expression as tender as I’ve ever seen it. “I love you, too, Nikki Fairchild.”

I lift my chin. “Nikki Fairchild Stark, thank you very much.”

“And thank god for that.”

We share a smile before he tugs open the door, and we trade the last remnants of twilight for the hum of opulence that fills the huge ballroom. The subtle glow of crystal chandeliers. The tuxedo-clad waitstaff moving through the room with trays of crystal flutes bubbling with champagne. The string quartet tucked into a corner and playing a soft, elegant arrangement.

The Pavilion Hotel is a spectacular venue, and its Grand Ballroom is the pièce de résistance. Marble floors gleam beneath the sparkling chandelier. Lush arrangements of white roses spill from silver vases. And the aroma of delectable appetizers dances on the air.

The murmur of conversation fills the room, punctuated by bursts of laughter or the occasional pop of a champagne cork. It’s the same vibe as opening night at the theater, and everywhere I look, I see glitz and glam. Not surprising since the cheapest ticket to this charity event cost five thousand dollars, allowing only entrance to the party and a chance to bid in the auction. The most expensive ticket priced out at a cool hundred thousand, and the five purchasers at that level are in the running to win a spa weekend for two in Manhattan. Not that extravagant considering the ticket price, but as Matthew Holt, the organizer and sponsor, pointed out, the goal is to raise money for the charity. Not to spend it.

Personally, I’m hoping Damien or I win. We could easily afford a weekend of pampering, but the idea of “free” pampering seems so much more fun. Possibly because even after so many years as a billionaire’s wife, I still have sticker shock at so many of the things that are part of the Damien Stark lifestyle.

Mostly, I’m just glad to see how much money the ticket sales have raised. Sixty percent of the proceeds are going to the primary cause—the conservation and restoration of a huge catalog of films from Hollywood’s Golden Age. Twenty percent is going to fund classes and programs to help lower-income teens learn both basic life skills and skills that could lead to a job in the entertainment industry.

The final twenty percent will fund the creation of a charity that helps out-of-work actors and other film and television professionals in need of medical or housing assistance.

The theme, of course, was chosen by Matthew, a man I sometimes think of as the entertainment industry version of Damien. And who, at the moment, is across the room, greeting guests and shaking hands in a sea of stunning gowns and sharp tuxedos.

Behind him, scenes from various Vivien Lorainne movies play on screens set up throughout the ballroom. This event is all about that classic film star who was taken far too early in a violent death at her husband’s hands.

The murder shocked the Hollywood community so many years ago, as did Carlton Lorainne’s subsequent suicide in jail a few weeks later. Over and over, he’d claimed his innocence, fueling a Hollywood mystery that’s been debated for years. As far as the public knew, the couple was deeply in love. But as one biographer pointed out, murder is often a crime of passion. If Carlton believed Vivien was cheating on him…

As a fan, I’ve wondered about the truth for most of my life. But I also know that it’s impossible to ever know for sure.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Damien says, and I realize that I’ve stopped in the middle of the ballroom, my attention drawn to one of the many screens that line the walls, this one playing newsreel footage of her death.

“Just thinking about how sad it is,” I admit. “She was such a talent.”

“She was,” he says, then kisses my forehead. “Did you know she used to work in a soup kitchen? Even after she became a star, she would go every Saturday to help out. I think she would like knowing that the funds from this auction will do good.”

I smile, then squeeze his hand, forcing my melancholy aside so I can simply enjoy seeing the memorabilia and, perhaps, choose something to bid on myself.

We start across the room, where a cluster of posed mannequins shows off original costumes from her films, and display tables let the guests get a closer look at the queen’s crown and the assassin’s knife from one of her most beloved thrillers. It’s impossible not to feel the weight of history in the room, as if every artifact and image carries the essence of a bygone era.

“Nikki. Damien.” Matthew smiles as he catches up to us, taking my hand and raising it for an elegant kiss. “I’m so glad you were able to come.”

I’ve known Matthew for a while now, and he reminds me a bit of Damien. Devilish good looks and the kind of presence that commands a room. A form of gravitas that comes from not only being in control, but knowing that you deserve to be.

“We wouldn’t have missed it,” Damien says. “It’s an excellent cause.”

“Will you be bidding on anything?” he asks with a glance toward me.

“I’m sure we will, though I don’t know what. We’re still working our way toward the auction tables.”

“Well, even if you don’t find something you want, feel free to bid the price up,” Matthew winks. “It’s all for a good cause.”

Damien chuckles. “We’ll take that under advisement. In fact, we’ll go take a look right now.”

We congratulate him again on the spectacular event he’s put together, then continue toward the cases filled with the items that will be up for auction within the hour.

When we’re just a few feet from the first case, Damien tugs me to one side. “Did you notice?” he whispers.

I shake my head, not sure what he means.

“So many eyes on you as we crossed the room.” His voice, low and full of heat, is as enticing as a caress. “Women who want to be you. Men who want to own you. To touch your skin. To kiss your breasts. To cup your ass in their palms. To slide a hand through the slit in your skirt and explore your heat. To feel your desire.”

“Damien…” My cheeks are burning, both with the fear that someone might overhear and in response to his words. A hard, visceral response that makes me want to blow off the auction and hurry upstairs to our suite. “Hush.”

But he only steps closer, one hand at my waist as he leans in, his breath on my ear as he says, “But I’m the one who’ll have you in my bed tonight. Only me. Say it, Nikki.”

“Only you,” I whisper. I turn my head, leaning back enough so that I can meet his eyes. “It’s only ever been you.”

The smile that touches the corners of his mouth is so full of heat and joy that it takes my breath away. Even with three kids and so many years behind us, he can still make my heart flutter the way it did when I first saw him, this man who is the love I never expected and never thought I deserved.

“Thank you,” I whisper, then kiss his cheek.

He cocks his head, his eyes narrowing just a bit. “For what?”

“For our life. For loving me.”

“We gave each other our lives,” he says. “And as for loving you….” He trails off with a soft chuckle. “I’m not sure I had a choice about that.”

“I know,” I say, understanding what he means with perfect clarity. Because that’s how I feel, too.

He lifts my palm to his lips and kisses it. Then he cocks his head, and I see a hint of amusement flash across his face. “We probably should make a better effort to see the displays before the auction starts,” he teases. “Then let’s track down Sylvia and Jackson,” he adds, referring to his brother and sister-in-law. “They probably think we ran off.”

I glance around, not seeing either of them. “Or they did.” I grin. “Syl was telling me they haven’t had a night away from the kids in over a month. They had the look of a couple with something other than an auction on their mind.”

“I think I’m jealous,” he says as he presses a hand to my back, leading me toward the displays.

“Don’t get any ideas, Mr. Stark. I’m not missing out on the chance to bid on something of Vivien Lorainne’s.” As Damien well knows, she’s my favorite classic actor, and her last movie and only musical— The Red Carousel —has been one of my favorite films since childhood.

“Maybe I should just buy the entire collection and call it a day.”

I turn to look at him, afraid that he’s serious, then relax when I see his face.

He chuckles.

“Don’t laugh,” I say. “You know perfectly well that could have been a legitimate threat.” For that matter, I’m certain the only reason he doesn’t buy out the entirety of the items up for auction—is that it would steal the fun from other potential bidders. Plus, he’s determined to win the bid on at least a few items for me. And I’m certain he’s looking forward to the back-and-forth of bidding against someone else with the means to purchase and the wherewithal to bid against a man like Damien Stark.

I stop at the first case, drawn to a glittering silver and turquoise snake bracelet. I recognize it from The Red Carousel right away . It had been a gift to the heroine from the dead lover she mourned—and who came to her in dreams when she wore the bracelet. Vivien herself had found the bracelet during her travels overseas and had suggested it for the prop in the film. Now, here it sits, coiled on a velvet cushion. It’s stunning—delicate yet bold, with tiny emeralds gleaming in the eyes of the snake.

I want to call over one of the attendants to open the case and let me try it on, but the “Display Only/Not For Sale" placard stops me.

“It suits you,” Damien says, his voice low.

“It’s fabulous.” I turn to frown up at him. “I love the idea of an auction—especially one with memorabilia from all of her films— but including something that can’t be bought … well, that just doesn’t seem sporting.”

He taps my lips as if trying to erase my frown. “It’s probably earmarked for the traveling collection,” he says, referring to the props, costumes, and other memorabilia that will travel the globe, visiting various museums and institutions as part of the effort to raise funds for the charity. “We’ll find something else wonderful for you to bid on.”

I’m still disappointed, but he’s right. Sometimes, all the money in the world can’t buy what you want. I suppose that’s a good lesson to remember. Especially considering that after so many years with Damien, it’s not an issue that I bump up against often.

Nearby, a cluster of people oooh and ahhh over another case displaying a sequined gown she wore in a dark drama in which the naive young woman became ensnared in the clutches of a man determined to take her money and her innocence. Another case holds an ornate feathered headpiece and, further down, an embroidered silk robe from an iconic bedroom scene.

“You would look lovely in that,” Damien says.

“I have more lingerie than I need,” I tell him. “Especially since my husband never seems to let me wear it for a full night. Or a full hour,” I quip.

He comes closer, lowering his voice to a whisper as he says, “Your husband must have a keen eye to know that what’s hidden is even more beautiful than the garment that hides it.”

“If you’re trying to seduce me,” I tell him, “you’re doing a very good job.”

“Are you saying I have to seduce my wife?”

“Wouldn’t want you to get complacent, Mr. Stark.” I toss a smile and a wink over my shoulder before I move on to the next case, this one with various items from her home.

“I wonder what’s inside it,” Damien muses as I linger over a leather-bound journal with only the letters VL stamped on the cover. It’s small, the kind of notebook you’d tuck into a purse or leave by your bedside for late-night thoughts.

“I’d love to find out,” I admit.“ I can almost see her, pen in hand, pouring her secrets onto the page, and I’m overcome with an urge to bid on this journal. I imagine the feel of the leather in my hand, the rasp of a pen nub against the paper. And I think of all the secrets it holds.

“I can call over an attendant,” Damien says with a knowing smile. “Open the case. Let you take a closer look.”

Yes, yes!

The words ring through my mind, but I can’t make them come out. Instead, I shake my head, wondering at my reaction.

“Nikki?” Damien studies my face with a frown.

“I’m fine. Lightheaded.” It’s not a lie. I’ve eaten too little and drunk too much. “It’s probably a fascinating read, though,” I say as I point to the description: Private Journal, Vivien Lorainne. November 3, 1945 through January 12, 1946.

I shoot a glance toward Damien. “This was the journal she kept when she was filming Carousel and also when she moved back here after the film wrapped. It ends the day before she was murdered.”

I shiver, on one hand, not wanting to touch something that feels tainted by the way she was so brutally beaten just one day after she’d completed this journal. But on the other hand, wanting to get into her head. To read in her own words what was going on in those last days.

The truth is, I’ve already read some of the entries in this journal. One of her biographers quoted from journal entries in The Tragedy of Vivien Lorainne , an unauthorized biography that was published a few years ago. But to now have the opportunity to read all of her thoughts, and not just those the biographer chose … well that seems like an opportunity I can’t pass up.

“You want it,” Damien says.

“Is that morbid?”

He shakes his head. “She’s your favorite actress. You’ve read, what, all of her biographies?”

I nod.

“That’s not morbid. It’s curiosity. And caring.”

I want to tell him that I feel like the journal is supposed to be mine. That once I have it, I’ll be able to find answers. More, that I’m supposed to find answers. As if it’s up to me to finally tell the world what happened to Vivien. What secrets she hid. And why her husband snapped and killed her, beating and stabbing her. If, in fact, it was him who did it.

She’d managed to run from the house, but escape did her no good. She was found dead on the nearby beach early the next morning. Carlton, her husband, was raving when the police arrived, begging them to believe that he didn’t kill her. That the murderer was someone named Basil.

But neighbors testified that there was never any guest named Basil at the cottage, and the police were unable to find any evidence that such a man existed. On top of that, neighbors reported that the couple had recently been having frequent, violent fights.

In the face of all of that, the police determined that the crime was a murder … quickly followed by Clayton’s suicide while in custody. A suicide that convinced the police that Clayton was guilty and that he’d killed himself out of guilt and shame.

But there were others who knew the couple from when they’d lived in Beverly Hills, and every one of them swore that Vivien and Carlton were devoted to each other, that they’d never been violent with each other, and that Basil must have been a real person who burst in to destroy their lives, then slipped away, never to be heard from again.

No concrete answer was ever found. More, some now say that anything surrounding her has been cursed.

“She was a kind and talented woman who cared about her work and the industry,” Damien says when I tell him as much. “If I believed in curses, I’d say that hers has long faded. And the circumstances of her death certainly expanded her name recognition. Her films are all excellent, but there’s no denying that the murder is one of the reasons she’s still in the public eye after all these years. Did the mysterious Basil kill her?” he adds in an announcer-style voice. “Did her husband? Did they work together? And if so, why?”

I shake my head, grinning a little at his showmanship. The truth is, I have no idea. But my eyes go to the journal.

I know it’s silly, but I can’t shake the feeling that the journal is somehow calling to me. As if it wants me to have it. As if all the answers are hidden in those pages.

Which, of course, is ridiculous since the journal has been reviewed by several biographers.

Still….

With a shrug, I tell Damien that I’m going to bid on it. Hell, maybe it is calling to me. Maybe Vivien wants me to have it. Maybe my fascination with all things Vivien Lorainne makes my purchase inevitable.

Maybe I just need retail therapy.

“Go right ahead, baby,” he says, the words and his tone making clear that I can bid as much as necessary to ensure that the journal is mine.