Livvy responded, “No, my liege, I will not allow you to sully my pure and noble heart.” The sisters broke into peals of giggles and soon they were laid out on the sofa, catching their breath.
“Oh, I needed a good laugh.”
“I’m sorry Flynn Banks turned out to be a disappointment,” Judy murmured.
“S’okay, he’s still handsome.” Judy grinned at that, and Livvy chuckled. “But I liked him better when I was inventing versions of him for the heroes in my books.”
“Well, maybe he’ll surprise you and give you inspiration to finish writing one of them.”
Livvy’s heart sank. She hadn’t written a word since her parents’ accident. She wasn’t sure she ever would again. Certainlynot while she was making a picture. The studio had scarcely given her time to breathe. And she didn’t want to think about the dream she’d lost. She had a new dream now—making sure that Judy could have everything she’d ever wanted. Livvy forced herself to perk up. “Anyway, I have really gorgeous costumes! And a monstrous wig! Though I think I managed to convince them that I’d only need to wear it in the first scene. Shall we make dinner and I’ll tell you all about it?”
Judy nodded enthusiastically. “I brought home half a roast chicken from the audition. I made nice with the line cooks while I was waiting my turn at the club. It’s in the icebox.”
Livvy stood on the couch and wrapped a plaid blanket around her like a cape. “Tonight, we eat like kings!” she proclaimed. “Or at least, like Flynn Banks.” She gave Judy a wink, humming the theme toLancelot and Arthuras she marched into the kitchenette. Flynn Banks might be a disappointment, but her sister never was.
Chapter 5
The ocean frothed around Flynn as he lifted his head and gulped for air. Though the days remained warm in the Southern California sun, the Pacific was starting to cool for the season. It was bracing. The best cure for a hangover, or whatever was ailing you. Which, this morning, was a telegram from his brother that had been waiting when he got home last night.
FATHER FADING FAST. STOP. PLEASE COME. STOP. HIS DYING WISH. STOP.
For the second night in a row, Flynn hadn’t been able to sleep. His hatred for his father gnawed at him. He couldn’t go to England now. Not even if he wanted to. But if he didn’t, would he regret it one day? For a moment, he wondered if the memory of his father and whatever had been left unsaid would haunt him. But it wasn’t possible. His father was a monster. Flynn had proof of what an unforgivable deviant Lord Banks was. Proof even beyond the pain in his left wrist that flared when it rained, the memento of the time his father broke his arm for cheating at chess. He had been eight years old. He plunged his arm into the water with gusto, trying to banish his disturbing thoughts. If he swam hard enough, if he exhausted himself enough, he could master this.
Instead, Flynn called upon a memory of a bewigged, violet-eyed actress whose knees quivered when he touched her and who looked at him as if he were a rather curious insect. Olivia Blount was a difficult maths problem, but one he was eager to solve—which was, frankly, the first time he’d ever been eager to do maths. He plunged his head beneath the foam of a wave and dolphin kicked himself forward, trying to shake it off. Olivia was a beautiful distraction, but he didn’t like this churning feeling that arose in his gut every time she came to mind.
He desperately wanted to call Dash Howard. In the old days, he and Dash would have gone out to one of their favorite Hollywood watering holes and drunk enough between them to drown a small army. But Dash was domesticated now and in bed with his wife by 11:00 p.m. every night. Bloody boring.
For the millionth time, Flynn thanked his lucky stars that he was not so foolish as to chase love or romance. Look at his parents. They’d certainly proved that lesson. “Choose joy,” his mother had written. And that’s what he’d done, avoiding commitment like it was a life sentence. There were the joys of naked lust, and the rest was poppycock. So why did Miss Blount have him feeling so topsy-turvy?
If anything would get his head on straight, it was a bracing hour of swimming laps back and forth in front of his cottage’s private beach. Only he’d been out here for nearly three-quarters of an hour, and he still felt like he’d been turned inside out. Thank God the regatta was this weekend. He wouldn’t have time to get down to the marina before then, and if anything could set him to rights, it was a day on his sailboat. He lifted his head above water and noticed Hugh, standing on the deck waving at him.
Flynn swam toward the shore, standing and walking once he’d reached the shallows as the waves crashed against his knees,then his ankles. He let the morning sun hit his torso and reveled in the feeling of its warmth licking its way up and down his body.
“Hugh, what is it?” he called out.
“Harry Evets is on the phone for you. He’s been trying to reach you for the last half hour.”
Flynn swore loudly. Hugh didn’t blink; he was quite used to it. While Joan and Dash had a familial relationship with the head of the studio and regarded him as a doting father figure, Flynn and Harry had a much more strained history. Generally, if Harry wanted to talk to Flynn, it was because he wanted to reprimand him: “Don’t drag race down Hollywood Boulevard in the middle of the night! Don’t borrow a horse from the Hollywood Turf Club and ride it through the canyons! Don’t sleep with the wife of a rival studio head! Don’t keep a pet goat in your trailer. It ate your costume! Don’t replace the prop rum with real rum. The extras got drunk and threw up on the gaffer!”
The list went on and on; Flynn had heard it all. But he had been rather good lately, if he did say so himself. It had been at least a month since his last spot of trouble—when he’d found his face plastered on some rag that purported to know Hollywood’s secrets. He had no idea what Harry might need to talk to him about.
He sprinted up the sand, the coarse, golden grit coating his feet as he went. He took the creaky, wooden stairs that stretched from the beach to his deck two at a time, narrowly avoiding the hole in the third step from the top that was rife with splinters.
Hugh was waiting for him with a towel, which Flynn hastily grabbed and wiped over his arms, torso, and legs. “Hugh, can you go find my little black book? It’s in the breast pocket of the coat I wore yesterday.” Hugh nodded in acknowledgment. The swim hadn’t managed to clear Flynn’s head, so he was going to have to revert to finding a dame to help him do it.
He reached for the forest-green terry-cloth dressing gown Hugh was holding open for him. Flynn tied it loosely around his waist, sat on his deck chair, and picked up the phone Hugh had helpfully placed on the round glass table.
“Hello?”
“Flynn. Finally,” Harry growled.
Flynn hugged the phone to his ear, pressing it between his head and shoulder while he used the towel to dry his other ear. “Sorry, old sport, was in the water.”
“That’s a word I’ve never heard for hungover and still in bed.”
Flynn bristled. Harry always expected the worst of him. Admittedly, that was usually with good reason. “It’s not a euphemism. I was taking a dip in the Pacific.”
“Brrrr,” Harry exaggerated on the other end of the line. “A bit late in the year for a morning swim, isn’t it?”
