Star-Crossed

Chapter One

"You really intend to go through with this, don’t you?" The man’s voice was a low growl, made even deeper by anxiety.

The elderly woman stared at her son for several seconds without responding. For one brief moment, in her mind’s eye, he was her little boy again, staring wide-eyed at the photographers while she shielded him from the glare of their flashbulbs. Now he was a man, living a vastly different life from hers. For years their only communication was hurried letters, or static-blurred phone calls from distant countries with exotic names. And he was now the one trying to shield her.

It tore at her heart to see him so concerned about her. It was bad enough that a wide swath of dressing covered the stitches in his forehead, which was now further marred by a frown. It distressed her to note the left arm enclosed in a cast, resting close to his chest in a sling. The right hand was clenched at his side. That was the nature of family, she thought with a sigh. They were so closely bound. It was inevitable that they worried about each other, hurt for each other.

Her clear blue gaze met his stern gray look. She nodded in response to his question and sat down stiffly at her desk. His eyes narrowed as he watched her movement, and she was reminded again how like his father he was. So dedicated to his work. Able to shut out everything that might interfere with his concentration. And yet unbelievably kind, so determined to protect her from the cruelty that was inevitable.

And you, Flynn? he said to the tall woman who hovered at her side. Can’t you make her see what a terrible mistake this is?

I’ve tried, Adam. You know there’s no reasoning with your mother when her mind’s made up. I— Her head came up sharply at the sound of the telephone. She lifted the receiver before the second ring.

Yes? She paused, listening, then cut off the speaker with a brusque Yes. Send her up.

Her voice was a monotone. That—reporter is here.

For one awful moment, there was no sound in the room. With a quick glance of concern at the older woman, her secretary clamped her mouth firmly shut on anything further she might have said, and strode from the room. As her footsteps echoed along the hall, mother and son turned and eyed each other before once more breaking the silence.

* * *

B.J. Conover turned up the collar of her camel’s hair coat against the bitter gust of wind from the East River. It had been a fairly mild November, but now, midway through the month, the weather had turned sullen. The sky was leaden, and there was the bite of snow in the air. B.J. shivered and studied the plush New York apartment building that loomed before her. Her agent had intruded on her much-needed vacation in the Florida sun to summon her home for the assignment of a lifetime. Nora London, the reclusive movie actress who had not granted an interview in thirty-seven years, had asked to meet with her. Her. And all because her latest book, So Dear, about the life of silent screen star Vernon Allmon, had apparently piqued the curiosity or, she thought with a smile, the discriminating taste of the great lady.

B.J. tucked an errant strand of auburn hair behind her ear. She had spent the five hours on the plane devouring everything she could about Nora London. The newspaper headlines alone were enough to fill a book. From her first movie in 1932, which thrust her into instant stardom, the actress had captured the imagination of the public and the press. She was the only star known equally by either name. "Nora lights up the screen in Heartsong. London snags top role in The Pirate with Stephen Hart."

Then in 1947, when Hollywood’s leading lady completed her thirteenth movie, she dropped out of sight to give birth to her only child. She refused to reveal the name of her lover, but it was widely reported that she had had a sizzling romance with her leading man during the filming of her last picture. He had made endless movies of romantic fantasy and adventure, and his off-screen life was rumored to be like that of a dashing swashbuckler as well.

The press had a field day. Although Stephen Hart never admitted paternity, he never denied it either. His oft quoted response was, I’m rumored to have children all over the globe, but of course, that’s part and parcel of being a star. With a careless shrug, he was photographed waving and flashing his most charming smile to the camera.

Photographers hounded the reclusive woman, even camping out on her doorstep in a rural cottage in France, to capture a picture of anyone who visited her. They were disappointed to see only a doctor and a nurse and one or two of her most devoted friends. All but her most loyal fans deserted her. She was branded a scarlet woman. Her career in movies was finished. To this day, Nora London had never revealed the name of her son’s father. She had never married. She had never returned to Hollywood, dividing her time instead between her apartment in New York, a home outside Paris, arid a chalet in Gstaad. And she had steadfastly avoided giving an interview—until today.

Inside the plush building B.J. gave her name to a security man and waited while he phoned for clearance. On the elevator she turned down the collar of her coat and nervously ran her hands through the thick russet hair that fell in soft tangles to her shoulders. When the elevator came to a smooth stop, she took a deep breath to steady her nerves. What do you say when you’re introduced to a legend?

When the apartment door opened, she faced a tall woman with coal-black hair pulled back in a severe bun. Rimless glasses intensified unblinking dark eyes. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties. A designer suit of navy wool looked fashionable on her reed-slim figure.

Miss Conover? The voice was clipped, professional.

Yes.

The woman extended her hand. Nancy Flynn. Miss London’s secretary. She’ll see you in the library.

The handshake was brisk, businesslike. But the eyes, B.J. noted, were cold and unsmiling. Chalk up one person who wasn’t happy about this interview.

As she followed the woman, B.J. heard the muted rumble of voices, low, tinged with emotion. Stepping into a book-lined room, she was greeted by a sudden, awkward silence.

A fire crackled invitingly. There was, all about her, the wonderful scent of old leather and books. Walls of books. B.J. was aware of all these things, but her gaze riveted on the woman behind the desk. The hair, once as dark as a raven’s, was now white and softened by a hairdresser’s tints. But the face was unmistakable. That face! That ageless, amazing, fabulous face, which had stared out from countless yellowed newspapers and magazines. She had once had the exotic features of a temptress. At seventy-two, she was soft, plump, pink—and still beautiful.

Two years earlier, on the thirty-fifth anniversary of her last film, a university in New York had held a month-long retrospective, showing all her films and honoring her with an award. The reclusive actress had sent her regrets that she would be unable to attend.

The woman stood, and B.J. was surprised to note that she was no taller than her own five feet four inches. Somehow, she had expected a giant. Her dress was pale peach, in a soft wool, with a matching cardigan jacket of darker peach cashmere. The shade enhanced her white hair and added color to her soft skin.

Extending a smooth, well-manicured hand, the famous actress smiled. Miss Conover. How nice of you to come.

B.J. swallowed down the laugh that bubbled in her throat. How nice? Wild horses couldn’t have kept her away. How nice of you to invite me, she thought of responding. But that would be totally inane. How wildly wonderful to have this rare opportunity would be more appropriate. B.J. was dying of curiosity. She had a million questions she wanted to hurl at this mysterious woman. But this was Nora London’s show. She’d let her play it her way.

Miss London. It’s a pleasure to meet you. B.J. wondered if her voice betrayed her nerves.

The handshake was cordial, sincere. The older woman turned slightly toward the man who stood to her right, half in shadow. Miss Conover, this is my son, Adam.

He stepped forward to offer his hand. B.J. felt her breath catch in her throat as the light from the fire played over him. In that brief instant she glimpsed a lean, well-muscled figure in worn denims and a plaid shirt with one sleeve cut out to accommodate a plaster cast. Several days’ growth of beard darkened his face, adding to his craggy appearance. A white gauze bandage covered his forehead and was a startling contrast to dark, shaggy hair badly in need of a trim. Penetrating gray eyes coolly appraised her.

From the little she knew of him, he was nearly as fascinating a character as his famous mother. A widely respected photojournalist and foreign correspondent, for years he had been reporting bloody wars around the globe. His name, if not his face, was familiar to millions of Americans, as he covered the battles that raged in the Middle East, Central America, Africa and Northern Ireland.

Hello, Adam. She was aware of his hand engulfing hers, warm and firm, while his sharp gaze continued to hold hers. She was shocked at the strong sexual pull, as compelling as an electrical jolt. In the depths of his steel gaze, she felt he was aware of it, too.

When he broke contact, she felt shaken. She had expected a star of the stature of Nora London to dominate the room. But this son of hers was definitely her equal.

Please, Miss Conover. Sit here. Nora indicated a pair of leather, high-backed chairs that faced the enormous desk. While her son held her chair, she seated herself.

She smiled and peered at the young woman. B.J. openly studied her as well, deciding immediately that she saw honesty and great strength in that remarkably unlined face. But around the eyes she could detect vulnerability. This woman might have been a survivor, but she had been deeply hurt as well.

What does the B.J. stand for?

Bernadette Jessica. Bernadette Jessica Conover, she said with thinly veiled distaste.

Why don’t you like it? It’s a lovely name. You should always use it.

B.J. shrugged. I suppose I decided it sounded too pretentious.

I hope you won’t mind if I call you Jessica. I can’t imagine calling anyone as lovely as you B.J.

For the first time, B.J. laughed. She had a deep, husky voice, and her laughter had a rich, joyous tone. You sound like my mother. She always called me Jessica. But I’ve been B.J. since I wrote my first book. My editor thought it would sell better if the readers thought I was a man.

What was it about?

With a chuckle, B.J. said, It was a dry, literary piece about Bacon and Shakespeare. It probably sold a dozen copies. My relatives and friends were very supportive.

The actress shared her laughter. But your picture was on the back page of your newest book. How can you hope to fool anyone?

By now my secret’s out. After my second book my cover was blown. Now everyone knows B.J. Conover is a woman. But it’s too late to change my pen name.

Disdaining a chair, Adam leaned a hip against the bookcase and studied this disarming young woman. He, too, had seen her picture on the book, but it hadn’t prepared him for her vitality. The brief biography that accompanied the photo had merely given her age—twenty-eight—and her background. A degree in journalism from Michigan State University. Two years as editor with a major publishing house in New York before publication of her first book. There had been three more books since then, and each of them had received critical acclaim.

The photo didn’t do her justice. He itched for a camera. In the dappled sunlight her hair was lush, dark, with fiery strands that caught and held the light. It was the kind of hair that men dreamed of, on long, moonlit nights in faraway lands. Her skin, too, looked kissed by the sun. She had obviously not been spending her time here in New York. The Sun Belt, he decided. Spending her days lazing around in a hammock. He could picture her swaying lazily, her nose stuck in a book. The eyes were green, crinkling when she laughed. There was intelligence in them, and humor. She slipped out of her coat to reveal charcoal wool slacks and an ivory mohair sweater that hugged high, firm breasts and a narrow waist. Adam felt a rush of heat as he found himself wondering how she looked in a bikini. Surprised and a little angry at the direction of his thoughts, he clenched his fist and continued to stare openly.

B.J. was aware of Adam’s scrutiny. She had sensed his curiosity, and even more, his hostility when she entered, and now, feeling his gaze burn over her, she had to force herself to concentrate on the reason for this visit. Her cheeks grew hot. She blamed it on the fire.

In the exchange that followed, she completely forgot Adam London and the secretary who discretely hovered near the door.

I’m having some tea, the actress said. Would you like some?

Yes, thank you.

Nora London picked up the phone and said, Gerta, we’ll have our tea now. Replacing the receiver, she continued, "I loved your book, So Dear, so much, I’ve read it twice."

B.J. blinked in surprise, then allowed a warm smile to spread across her features. Thank you. That’s the finest compliment you can give a writer. Did you know Vernon Allmon?

The actress nodded. I met him when I first went to Hollywood. He was very kind to me. But then, he was kind to everyone. He was probably one of the truly nicest men I ever knew. She leaned forward. You know, so many of the stars in Hollywood jealously guarded their fame. They realized how fleeting it can be. Her voice lowered perceptibly. There’s always someone in the wings waiting for you to falter so they can take your place. She smiled. But Vernon went out of his way to show me the ropes.

She smiled as a maid entered with a tray bearing a china tea service. Thank you, Gerta. I’ll pour.

The maid’s plain features softened into a smile as she handed her employer a delicately embroidered linen napkin. Turning toward B.J., the woman’s smile faded. She eyed her suspiciously before leaving the room.

B.J. suppressed a laugh. First the secretary, now the maid. The troops were circling the wagons, closing ranks around their leader, before the threatened attack. A reporter, even though an invited guest, was definitely the villain in this piece.

Nora continued as smoothly as if she hadn’t been interrupted. After a while, I’m sorry to say, Vernon and I lost contact. He signed on with a different studio. And when he shot that young starlet and took his own life, I was shocked and, I suppose, disappointed in him, but like everyone else, I just believed what I read in the papers at the time, and then eventually forgot about him.

She handed B.J. a cup of tea and a napkin. Sugar or lemon?

Neither, thank you.

The actress looked across the room at her silent secretary. Tea, Flynn?

She shook her head.

Adam? Tea?

No.

When B.J. glanced in