“Take care of yourself, okay?” With that, he heard the phone snick as she returned the receiver to its cradle.
She’d sounded sad. Like she pitied him. Well, to hell with that. He loved his life. Sure, he’d been out of sorts lately, but it would pass. He returned to his book, drawing a line through Lily’s name, but not one so dark that he couldn’t erase it if she ever got divorced. He was nothing if not practical. His eyes wandered the room again and stopped on a set of legs and a pert little butt in a pair of ill-fitting trousers. Even through the ungainly cut of the pants, he could see this woman had a comely shape. A boyish athleticism. But the figure was decidedly out of place here, standing at the bar in a set of work pants, where the waiters wore black tie. Frankly, he was a bit shocked they’d let someone in dressed like that. But the doorman was a sucker for a well-timed bat ofthe lashes. It made Flynn all the more eager for the dame to turn around so he could see her face.
One thing was certain—the unsuitable attire meant that whoever she was, she was new here. That was exactly what Flynn needed to puncture this black cloud hanging over him.
But then the figure turned, and Flynn deflated. The khaki pants were matched with an equally dull button-down top. Now that he had his eyes above the figure’s waist, he noticed they had cropped black hair and a newsboy cap on their head. As the interloper sipped at what appeared to be a glass of soda with a twist of lemon, Flynn realized he’d been ogling a man. A man with an unfairly tight butt and shapely legs.
If his taste didn’t run exclusively female, he would’ve been intrigued enough to approach. Hollywood had a bit of something for everyone, so long as you were discreet. But as it was, Flynn needed to go back to the drawing board. He huffed, his lips spluttering like a horse, and flipped to a new page in his book. Another list of dead ends. He nursed a rankle of disappointment as a new wave of listlessness swept over him. He needed to snap himself out of this. He reached again for his Scotch and knocked it back in one gulp, wincing as it went down.
It was unseemly, really, for a man of his position to feel so disaffected. What was the point of all his money and devastatingly good looks, if not to make the most of them? But there was no shaking the sense that something had fallen out of place. A chip in the ornate pleasure dome he’d built for himself to avoid things like boredom and responsibility. Maybe he just needed a day out on the water. It was a good thing that the Catalina Regatta was coming up. There was no cure for any ailment quite like sea air. It was why he lived on the ocean and why he loved to sail. A whiff of salt water and brine was hisinstant pick-me-up when girls and liquor would not suffice. It had never failed him yet.
He squared his shoulders and sat up straighter. “Pull yourself together, Banks,” he muttered, returning to his book with new vigor. At last, he found a name. Rhonda Powers. An up-and-comer he’d chatted up at Joan and Dash’s latest house party. He’d helped her workshop new surnames because Powers was too close to his buddy Tyrone’s last name. She’d flirted with him. A little, then a lot. By the time she was tucking a napkin with her address and phone number on it behind his pocket square, he’d figured his plans were sorted for the night.
They’d taken a lap around Joan and Dash’s pool, kissing under the fronds of a jacaranda tree. But when Dash had caught Flynn in the kitchen refreshing his drink, he’d warned Flynn that Rhonda Powers was looking for something Flynn wasn’t selling. Namely, a picket fence and a passel of towheaded kiddies.
Flynn had cursed himself for his propensity to find the clingiest dame at a party. Then, he’d turned to the peroxide blond who had walked into the kitchen moments before and extended her glass for him to refill. He’d given her a look, and she’d kissed him full on the mouth and led him out the front door by his tie.
The next morning, he’d returned to his Malibu cottage thoroughly satisfied, never knowing the blond’s name. He’d had no complaints about the turn of events. But that had been a few weeks ago. Maybe Rhonda had blinked away some of the stars in her eyes that were an occupational hazard for every fresh-faced kid in Hollywood. It was worth a shot, wasn’t it? At least it’d be something new. Something to break through this pall of insufferable malcontent.
He reached for the phone and said her name aloud to the operator, and then suddenly, it was as if he’d conjured her. Shewas there. In the Troc. Striding toward him with a fiery look of determination on her face. He smiled at her, the crooked one that had served as a skeleton key to an indeterminate number of bedrooms over the years. “Rhonda, darling.”
She snarled, “You louse.” Shit. It appeared she wasn’t the forgive-and-forget type. Despite the intervening weeks, she was clearly still in a tizzy about the fact he’d kissed her and then disappeared into the night.
She was approaching his booth with frightening rapidity, and he wasn’t particularly eager to find out what she’d do when she got there. His eyes darted around the room, desperate for an escape. But it was an open floor plan, and she was blocking his quickest route to the exit.
Flynn gulped and slid down the booth, his suit gliding along the vinyl until he was crouched under the table.
He wished he could say this was the first time he’d hidden under a table in the Trocadero, but being a rakish movie star meant he spent a surprising amount of time on his hands and knees—for better or worse. He peeked out from the edge of the booth to see if she was still headed toward him, and he sighed in relief when he noticed she had been stalled by a waiter.
He reached inside his coat for his wallet and pulled out a ten-dollar bill, sticking his hand out and slapping it on top of the table. A preemptive tip for the server currently saving him from having a black eye on his first day of production. Not that it would have been surprising to his makeup artist.
His debts paid, Flynn seized the opportunity for escape and crawled out from under the table, creeping his way to the bandstand. Still on his hands and knees, he snuck behind the upright bass player, a heavy-set Black man named Chuck. Not batting an eye, Chuck kept playing and edged forward so Flynn could crawl behind him.
“Thanks,” Flynn whispered before he scurried behind the piano.
“Dave,” Flynn hissed at the pianist, the cousin of the bandleader, Xavier. The Spaniard kept playing “Let’s Face the Music and Dance” and looked down at Flynn without missing a beat.
“Yeah?”
“See the dame over by my usual booth? The redhead?”
“The one that looks steamed?”
Flynn’s eye twitched. How did he get himself into these situations? “Yeah, that’s the one. What’s she doing?”
“Talking to Alain, who is trying to get her to sit down in a booth. It’s a heated argument from the looks of it.” All the while, Dave kept playing the song, talking out of the side of his mouth.
“Heated enough for me to make a run for it?”
Flynn watched as Dave cricked his neck to get a better look at Rhonda. “If you stay low, I’d say so. But make it quick. I’m not sure how much longer Alain can hold her.”
Flynn cursed. “Thanks, Dave. I owe you one.”
Dave nodded as if to say, “Think nothing of it,” and Flynn crawled out from behind the piano, scurrying to hide himself amidst tables and chairs on the opposite side of the dining room.
If he stood up, Rhonda would see him and it would be all over. So he remained on his hands and knees, gritting his teeth as the diners at the tables looked down at him and gasped.
“Doing research for a role,” he quipped as he crawled through the crowded dining room awash with stars and rich tourists dressed to the nines.
