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Hugh didn’t waste time reassuring her that Bill was Maeve Lindholm’s cousin, nor did he demand a lengthy explanation for her panic. He said, “I’ll get my car.”

In less than a minute he returned from the parking area in a nice-looking convertible. He leaned over, flung open the passenger door, and holding those stupid heels, Wendy climbed in. She barely had the door closed when Hugh put the vehicle in gear and hit the accelerator.

Wendy dropped her shoes on the floor, groped for the seat belt, couldn’t find it, groped again.

“What do you need?”

“The—” The truth struck her. In 1940, there were no seat belts. She collapsed back into the seat. “That bastard. Betty had Hazel. She was taking her home. How did Bill get her?”

“When I came out of my dressing room, Betty was lingering nearby. When she saw me, she put Hazel down. She wanted to congratulate me on my performance. I was in a hurry to get to you, but I don’t like to brush off a young working woman. Hazel wanders backstage all the time. I didn’t think anything about it—”

“Other than the fact Betty was drooling on your good suit?” Wendy snapped.

“I’m sorry, Wendy.” He sounded guilty. She’d made him feel guilty when all he’d been doing was being polite to a fan. “I would have handled it differently if I’d suspected—”

“I know. I’m sorry, too.” She put her hand on his arm, then hastily took it away. “I’m taking it out on you when it’s Bill’s fault.”

He grasped her hand and put it back on his arm. “It’s money, I suppose. He gambles.”

Her fingers flexed, then relaxed. “I heard that. He doesn’t win?”

“I don’t know or care. I do know he’s tried to borrow money.”

“From you? For what reason?”

“Assumed friendship. It happens.”

She supposed it did. Hugh Capel was a movie star, a man who made unimaginable amounts during the depths of the Depression. Of course people would try and tap him like an ATM.

“I occasionally lend a hand, but usually through official charities and never to a gambler. Come on. When twenty-five percent of the United States is unemployed, why would I bother with a man who can’t control his impulses?”

“He’s going to demand a ransom.” She rubbed her forehead, thinking her way through this situation. “Probably already left a note somewhere for Maeve to find.”

“Is it possible he’s taking Hazel to The Tower?” Hugh asked.

She turned on him. “Have you met Bill?”

“Question withdrawn.” He shifted gears. “Hold on tight. This car will hunt him down.”

No seat belt, Wendy remembered. As Hugh whipped around the seven hairpin turns that made up Gothic, she did have to hold on. Thank heavens Beatrice had pulled her hair back tightly.

“Nice car,” she shouted.

“It’s a Delahaye 135. When I race it, I always win.”

The road before them, Wendy knew, was one of the foremost motoring and motorcycling routes in the world, famed for its curves, its scenery, its views, its groves of olive trees and old stand oaks. As the last of the twilight faded to starlight, they could see only the road before them in the headlights and, flashing in and out of the trees, Bill’s car as he raced ahead, taking Hazel to . . . where?

“When I took Hazel outside for a few minutes, I saw Bill watching her, and not in a good way. He met me at the stage door and when I questioned him, he claimed he had gone out to smoke a cigarette. I knew that was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. He didn’t smell like a cigarette, because he wasn’t smoking.” Wendy’s confession only made her more wretched to know she’d been distracted and her inattention had contributed to Hazel’s abduction. “He was hoping to get his hands on Hazel then. We have to get him before he hurts her. She can’t defend herself against a grown man. He’s bitter and he’s angry and I think . . . I’ll bet he’s in gambling debt up to his eyeballs and he needs money to save his own worthless life. The bastard. The fucking bastard! Stealing a baby.” Wendy was furious: fists clenched, jaw clenched, ready to fight.

The night air flowed over her hot cheeks, dark and cool, and the silence made its way into her mind. Hugh was, perhaps, shocked.

Wendy cleared her throat. “I guess women don’t say things like that here and now, huh?”

“Not often. Not that I’ve ever heard.”

“Probably not men, either?”

“No. Not often.” He sounded as if he was sifting through the words and thoughts and clues. “I guess my question is—why are you so angry? I’m not criticizing you at all, I’m angry, too, but I have my reasons. For you, this is personal. What are your reasons?”

Wendy knew she had to say something that would make sense to a man of the early twentieth century. To Hugh Capel. She had never told anyone about her past, but she was here on a brain-injury pass. He was her dream phantom guy. Why not tell him the truth?

Still, she had to tell it fast. Don’t dawdle, Wendy. Because the long, slow version hurts too much. “It’s not hard to understand. My mother died when I was three. My father was a good man but not good with money. We had enough to live and he cared for me. But when he died, I was thirteen and lost and destitute.”

“Must have been early in the Depression.”

“Um, yeah.” You have no idea. “I was put into a foster home, one with a lot of kids.”

“An orphanage?”

“In a private home.” Explain this, Wendy. “They have those where I come from. There were about thirty of us kids who were without family. The people who owned the home got paid a stipend for each one of us, but not a lot, and we were sleeping all over in bunk beds and sleeping bags.”

He nodded, so she hadn’t used too many modern terms he didn’t understand.

“There was a girl my age. Sandra. She’d been in the system for a while. She looked me over and said, ‘Girl, you got to get some training.’”

“Training?”

“She said I was going to get passed on to a household with fewer kids and maybe a father, and I needed to know how to fight. She said I had to be able to defend myself against . . . a grown man who would try to, um . . .”

“Molest you.”

“Yes.” Molest: the 1940 word for rape.

“Sandra sounds like a smart girl.” Hugh did not seem shocked; he seemed admiring.

“The system allowed me to take self-defense.”

He glanced at her blankly.

“Karate? Judo? Tae kwon do?” Why was she even trying? “You know, like where Asian people defend themselves against knife-wielding thugs using only their hands and feet?”

“I’m from San Francisco. In Chinatown, there are some shops that claim to teach such arts, but I never saw any proof.”

“It’s real. I learned.” She waited for him to argue further, but he drove, listening as if he wanted to hear about her and her past. “Thank God I did, because the first foster home they moved me to . . . the father locked me in the closet. When he finally opened the door, he grabbed my hair and dragged me out. His pants were around his ankles, so I grabbed his balls, ripped them up around his ears and, I swear, he’s never going to produce a son in his own image.”

“Ripped them up around his ears!” Hugh laughed and winced and laughed. “Good for you! I know he deserved it. But that description still makes me want to curl up and protect myself.”

“You asked.”

“I know. I want to know. I’m glad you can take care of yourself. I really am because . . . this thing with Hazel reminds me of all the reasons I never want to be involved with another living, breathing person.”

“Whoa. Okay, fine. It’s your turn. Maeve . . . Miss Lindholm mentioned you had a tragedy in your past. I told you mine. Can you tell me yours?”

“You don’t know?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t. I assume whatever happened was in the newspapers?”

“And in Photoplay magazine and on Winchell’s radio program. Everywhere. I was assaulted by . . . sympathy. Awash in sympathy. Drowning in sympathy.”

“It sounds awful.”

“Yes. It was. It’s been six years, but . . .”

“Loss never gets easier.”

He glanced at her. “Right. You know. You understand. My wife was a good woman. I worked in the movies. She stayed home with our son and cared for him herself. She went to all the right parties, lunched with the right women, wore the right clothes.” His voice developed a warmth, a timbre that spoke of love and sex. “She wasn’t the brightest girl, but she was mine, the mother of my son.”

“And your son?”

Hugh’s tone changed from whimsical to adoring. “Eddy was so smart. Outgoing, charming. Hazel reminds me of him. When I would come back from a shoot, he would run to me, lift up his arms and—” Hugh’s voice broke.

Wendy put her hand on his thigh. “I am so sorry.”

He didn’t speak for a long moment. “I appreciate that. I don’t usually speak about him. About what happened. In fact, I’ve never spoken of it.”

“I honestly don’t know your story, but if you can’t . . .” She withdrew from him, giving him space.

He caught her hand. “It’s all right. It’s time I manned up and told the story without breaking down.”

“You do not have to ‘man up,’ and you do not have to tell me the story. It’s your tragedy and you don’t owe anyone anything.” She breathed hard, indignant that this person thought he was weak for not wanting to speak of his heartbreak. “I can assume something terrible happened and they died.”

“Yes, that’s what . . . Yes. They died.”

He didn’t say anything further, and Wendy thought he was done. She focused on their surroundings, trying to map them over what she knew of the road in the future.

He picked up his story again. “Nora was not the best swimmer and my son was . . . rambunctious. We loved that about him. He loved the ocean. He’d play in the sand, in the waves. He would marvel at the birds and collect shells. We loved that, too. We discussed it and decided we needed a home on the water. Nora found a place that sounded likely and took Eddy to look at a house where we could raise him and his sibling . . . She was expecting.”

Wendy wanted to shut her ears to the pain waiting in the rest of his story.

“While she was touring the house, she realized Eddy had disappeared. He’d descended the steps to the beach. She ran after him. He was in the water, caught in a riptide. She went into the water and as I said—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t breathe.

Wendy rubbed her palm over his tense shoulder, and finished the phrase for him. “Nora was not the best swimmer.”

“I lost them both that day. I lost them all that day.” His voice sounded as if a rasp had ruined his vocal cords. “Every time I see Hazel, I want to back away. Because with her fearlessness, her confidence, her joy in everything around her . . . she reminds me of Eddy. And Eddy taught me life is fragile, and no parent should ever bury a child.”

His wife, his son, and his unborn child. What were the words that helped a man who had suffered such a loss?

But she didn’t have to say anything, because he slammed on his brakes. “We’ve gone too far.”