She spent the rest of January trying to reach her contacts. She placed telephone calls, wrote notes to the studio executives she’d met through Flynn, and began making the rounds again, but nothing happened. The rent came due on the bungalow at the Garden of Allah, and she was forced to return to her old apartment, where she fought with her roommates until they told her to move out. She ignored them. Stupid cows, content with so little.

Disaster arrived in a pale blue envelope. A letter from her mother informed Belinda her parents would no longer support her foolishness. Enclosed was their last check.

She made a halfhearted attempt to get a job, but she’d been feeling sick, plagued by mysterious headaches and a perpetual upset stomach, like a case of the flu that wouldn’t quite take hold. She began hoarding what little money she had left, going without the meals she didn’t want to eat anyway, eliminating her trips to Schwab’s, and wondering how such horrible things could be happening to the woman Errol Flynn had once adored.

The knowledge that she was pregnant with Flynn’s child finally hit her the morning she couldn’t force herself to get dressed. For two days she lay in her rickety bed, staring at the stained ceiling, trying to comprehend what had happened. She remembered horrified whispers about Indianapolis girls who’d gone too far, rumors of shotgun weddings or, even worse, no weddings at all. But those were girls from the wrong side of the tracks, not Dr. Britton’s daughter, Edna Cornelia. Girls like her got married first and then had babies. To do it the other way around was unimaginable.

She thought about trying to contact Flynn, but she didn’t know how to locate him. Besides, she couldn’t imagine him helping her. And then she thought about Alexi Savagar.

It took her two days to locate him. He was staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel. She left a message.

Miss Britton will be waiting for Mr. Savagar in the Polo Lounge this evening at five o’clock.

The late February afternoon was cool, and she dressed carefully in a butterscotch velvet suit and a white nylon blouse that hinted at the lacy detail of her slip beneath. She wore pearl button earrings and a string of cultured pearls she’d received for her sixteenth birthday because her parents didn’t want to bother with a party. Her hat was a butterscotch tam, jaunty and carefree perched on the side of her head. With the addition of proper white cotton gloves and slightly improper needle-pointed heels, she was ready for the drive to Schwab’s, where she left her battered Studebaker and called a taxi to deliver her to the elegant porte-cochere that marked the entrance of the Beverly Hills Hotel.

Flynn had taken her to the Polo Lounge several times, but she still felt a thrill as she stepped inside. She gave the maître d’ Alexi’s name, and followed him to a curved banquette facing the door, priority seating in the most famous cocktail lounge in the country. Even though she didn’t like martinis, she ordered one because it was sophisticated, and she wanted Alexi to see her with it.

While she waited for him, she tried to calm herself by studying the other patrons. Van Heflin sat with a tiny blonde. She spotted Greer Garson and Ethel Merman at separate tables, and, across the room, one of the studio executives she had met when she was with Flynn. A page dressed in a brass-buttoned jacket came through. “Call for Mis-tuh Heflin. Call for Mis-tuh Heflin.” Van Heflin lifted his hand, and a pink telephone appeared at his table.

As she toyed with the long, cool stem of her glass, she tried not to notice that her hands were trembling. Alexi wouldn’t arrive at five o’clock. She’d damaged his pride the last time they were together. But would he come at all? She couldn’t imagine what she’d do if he didn’t.

Gregory Peck and his new French wife, Veronique, arrived. Veronique was a former newspaperwoman, dark-haired and beautiful, and envy coiled inside Belinda. Veronique’s famous husband gave her a private smile and said something only she could hear. Veronique laughed and placed her hand over his, the gesture tender and proprietary. In that instant Belinda hated Veronique Peck as she had never hated another human being.

At six o’clock Alexi walked into the Polo Lounge. He paused in the doorway to exchange a few words with the maître d’ before he moved toward her banquette. He was dressed in a pearl-gray silk suit, immaculate as always, and several people greeted him as he passed their tables. She had forgotten how much attention Alexi attracted. Flynn had said it was because Alexi had the uncanny ability to turn old money into new.

He slid wordlessly into the banquette, bringing with him the expensive scent of his cologne. His expression was unfathomable, and a small shiver slid down her spine.

“Château Haut-Brion, 1952,” he said to the waiter. He gestured toward her half-finished martini. “Take that away. Mademoiselle will have wine with me.”

As the waiter disappeared, Alexi lifted her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. She tried not to think about the last time they were together when his kiss hadn’t been gentle at all.

“You seem nervous, ma chère.”

The small collection of cells relentlessly multiplying inside her made doubts impossible, and she lifted her shoulders in a casual shrug. “It’s been a long time. I-I missed you.” Her sense of injustice sprang to the surface. “How could you go off like that? Without calling me or anything.”

He looked amused. “You needed time to think, chérie. To see how you liked being alone.”

“I didn’t like it at all,” she retorted.

“I didn’t think you would.” He studied her as if she’d been mounted between glass slides and pushed under a microscope. “Tell me what you learned during your time of introspection.”

“I learned that I’ve grown to depend on you,” she replied carefully. “Everything fell apart after you left, and you weren’t around to help me put it back together. I guess I’m not as independent as I thought.”

The waiter appeared with the wine. Alexi took a sip, gave a distracted nod, and waited until they were alone before returning his attention to her. She told him what had taken place in the past month: her failure to capture the interest of a single producer, the fact that her parents would no longer support her. She told him all her miseries except the most important one.

“I see,” he said. “So much to have happened in such a short time. Are there any more disasters you need to lay at my feet?”

She swallowed hard. “No, nothing else. But I’m out of money, and I need you to help me make some decisions.”

“Why don’t you go to your former lover? Surely he’ll help you. I’m certain he’ll rush to your side on his white charger, sword flashing, slaying your villains. Why don’t you go to Flynn, Belinda?”

She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep her tongue in check. Alexi didn’t understand Flynn-he never had-but she couldn’t say that. Somehow she needed to ease his bitterness, even if it meant lying. “Those days at the Garden…They were like nothing that had ever happened to me. I mixed the two of you together in my mind. I made myself believe all my feelings were coming from Flynn, but after you left, I realized they were coming from you.” She’d rehearsed exactly what she needed to say. “I need help, and I don’t know where else to turn.”

“I see.”

But he didn’t see, not at all. She began pleating her napkin to avoid looking at him. “I-I’m out of money, and I can’t go back to Indianapolis. I-I’d like you to give me a loan-just for a year or so until I get the studios to notice me.” She took a sip of the wine she didn’t want. With Alexi’s money, she could go away, find someplace where no one knew her, and have her baby.

He didn’t say anything, and her nervousness grew. “I don’t know where else to turn. I’ll die if I have to go back to Indianapolis. I know I will.”

“Death before Indianapolis.” His voice carried a note of amusement. “How childishly poetic, and how like you, my sweet Belinda. But if I loan you this money, what would I receive in return?”

The page brushed by their table, brass buttons glinting. “Call for Mis-tuh Peck. Call for Mis-tuh Peck.”

“Whatever you want,” Belinda said.

The moment she spoke, she knew she’d made a horrible mistake.

“I see.” The words were a hiss. “You’re selling yourself again. Tell me, Belinda, what sets you apart from those overdressed young women the maître d’ is turning away at the door? What sets you apart from the whores?”

Her eyes clouded at the injustice of his attack. He wasn’t going to help her. What had made her think he would? She stood and snatched up her purse so she could get away before she humiliated herself by committing the unpardonable sin of crying in the public glare of the Polo Lounge. But before she could move, Alexi caught her arm and pulled her gently back into her seat. “I’m sorry, chérie. Once again I have hurt you. But if you keep throwing these knives at me, sooner or later you must expect me to bleed.”

She bent her head to hide the tears spilling down her cheeks. One of them made a dark smear on the skirt of her butterscotch suit. “Maybe you can take from someone without giving anything in return, but I can’t.” She fumbled with the clasp of her purse, trying to open it to get a handkerchief. “If that makes me a whore in your eyes, then I wish I’d never come to you for help.”

“Don’t cry, chérie. You make me feel like a monster.” A handkerchief, folded into a precise rectangle, dropped in front of her.

She closed her hand around it, lowered her head, and dabbed at her eyes. She made the motion as inconspicuous as possible, terrified that Van Heflin might be watching her, or the tiny blonde with him, or Veronique Peck. But when she raised her head, no one seemed to have noticed her at all.

Alexi leaned into the banquette and regarded her intently. “Everything is simple for you, isn’t it?” His voice grew husky. “Will you put away your fantasies, chérie? Will you give me your adoration?”

He made it seem so simple, but it wasn’t. He fascinated her. He even excited her, and she loved the way people looked at her when they were together. But his face had never been magnified on a silver screen until it was big enough for all the world to see.

He pulled a cigarette from a silver case. She thought his fingers trembled on the lighter, but the flame held steady. “I will help you, chérie, even though I know I shouldn’t. When I have finished my business here, we will go to Washington and be married in the French embassy.”

“Married?” She couldn’t believe she’d heard him right. “You’re not going to marry me.”

The harsh lines around his mouth softened, and his eyes filled with emotion. “Am I not, chérie? I want you, not as my mistress but as my wife. Foolish of me, non?”

“But I already told you-”

“Ça suffit! Do not make your offer again.”

Frightened by his intensity, she drew back from him.

“As a businessman, I never gamble foolishly, and there are no guarantees with you, are there, chérie?” He traced the stem of his wineglass with his finger. “Hélas, I am also a Russian. A film career is not what you want, although you don’t understand that yet. In Paris you will take your place as my wife. It will be a new life for you. Unfamiliar, but I will guide you, and you will become the talk of the city-Alexi Savagar’s child bride.” He smiled. “You will love the attention.”

Her mind raced. She couldn’t imagine herself as Alexi’s wife, always under the scrutiny of those strange, slanted eyes. Alexi was rich and important, famous in his world. He’d said she’d be the talk of Paris. But she couldn’t give up her dreams of being a star.

“I don’t know, Alexi. I haven’t thought-”

The planes of his face grew harsh. She felt him withdraw. If she refused him now-if she hesitated for even a moment-his pride would never allow him to forgive her again. She had only this one chance.

“Yes!” Her laughter was high-pitched and strained. The baby! She had to tell him about the baby. “Yes. Yes, of course, Alexi. I’ll marry you. I want to marry you.”

For a moment he didn’t move, and then he lifted her hand to his mouth. With a smile, he turned her wrist and covered the pulse that beat there with his lips. She ignored the pounding of her heart, the fearful rush of blood that asked her what she’d done.

He ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon. “To the end of fantasy.” He lifted his glass.

She licked her dry lips. “To us.”

At the next banquette, Veronique Peck’s soft laughter chimed like a string of silver bells.