All That Glitters

1

H ey, kid. Nice singing. Sorry about the smoke. If you can make it again next Friday, I’ll have a fan on, okay?

Alexandra Corday blinked against the pall of smoke assaulting her eyes and nodded. Sure, Will.

How much did you make?

She pulled a handful of crumpled bills from the pocket of her jeans and counted. Seventeen dollars.

He shrugged. Not so hot. But some nights are better, you know?

She nodded. Yeah. Got to run, Will. See you next Friday.

Okay, kid. Take it easy.

As she walked out of the smoke-filled coffeehouse, Alexandra breathed in the fresh, clean air. The early evening sky was a clear, cloudless blue.

What had her father always said about such days? Give me a rainstorm any day. At least then you expect a little thunder and lightning. But watch out for the days that look perfect, Alex, Wild Bill Corday used to warn her. They’re the ones that rear back and sucker-punch you.

Her dad had been right. All the really terrible things had happened to her on beautiful days.

Funny. Even though her father had been dead all these years, she could still remember everything about him. The way he looked and smelled. The deep timbre of his voice, especially when he laughed, which was most of the time. Always joking and teasing, he didn’t have a serious bone in his body.

Alexandra could recall whole conversations they’d had. He had been the most handsome, charming, exciting father any girl could ever hope for. He’d faced each day of his life with enthusiasm and a sense of adventure that was contagious. Everyone around him had been affected by his zest for life.

In most respects, Alex was her father’s daughter. She’d inherited his free spirit, and his friendly, outgoing nature, even though the events of her life should have taught her to be more cautious.

Tossing her guitar in the back seat, she got into her old Chevy, turned on the ignition, and backed out of the parking space. As usual, she was late. It had become a way of life for her. With classes at UCLA and a job as a waitress for a posh catering firm, she never seemed to have enough hours in the day. On Fridays and alternate weekends she sang at a campus coffeehouse, but she couldn’t really consider it a job, since she didn’t get paid, except for the occasional tip.

No one ever saw her walk. She ran through her days—and half her nights.

At the age when most girls were still playing with dolls, Alex had discovered just how fragile life can be. Maybe it was then that she’d leapt onto that treadmill, running and running, like the white mice in the science lab, who spent their days frantically going nowhere, hoping for their reward. Too exhausted at the end of the day to do more than fall into bed, only to awaken and begin the endless cycle again.

It never occurred to her that she could jump off. If she did, would she find a reward waiting for her? Or would she find herself, as Wild Bill had, dropping through endless space . . .?

She pulled her mind back from such dark thoughts. Threading the Chevy through the Hollywood Freeway traffic, she turned into the neighborhood where she and her little brother, Kip, had lived for the past eight years with their grandmother.

Once the neighborhood had been considered a cut above middle-class; now the houses and yards bore signs of neglect, but Nanna persistently groomed her immaculate little yard and tended her flowers, while the places around her decayed.

Parking at the curb, Alex bolted out of the car and raced up the front porch steps two at a time.

Dinner, honey, her grandmother called from the kitchen.

No time. Got to run. Tossing her books on a chair, she flew up the stairs.

She stripped off her jeans and sweater in the little bedroom and rushed into the small bathroom. A few minutes later, draped in a towel, she hurried from the steamy bathroom back to the bedroom, where she rummaged through the closet until she found her crisp black uniform and white ruffled apron. Alex dressed without even glancing in the mirror. Running a brush through her waist-length hair she secured it with a comb on either side, leaving it to stream down her back in a riot of damp russet curls. Then she grabbed a makeup bag and stuffed it into her purse. She’d attend to makeup later; right now, she had to get to the Montrose mansion before the catering truck.

Alex. You have to eat something.

Can’t, Nanna. I’m late.

Look at you, her grandmother scolded from the kitchen doorway, pointing a wooden spoon. You’re so thin, you’d blow away in a good wind.

Look who’s talking. Planting a kiss on the old woman’s cheek, Alex tugged at her cheerful print housedress. This old thing used to be snug at the waist, Nanna. Now it’s practically falling off you.

A gleam lit the old woman’s blue eyes. You can’t be too thin or too rich.

You’ll have to settle for one out of two.

So will you, honey, so will you. But I still think rich would be better.

At that, they shared a laugh.

Alex went to the little boy who sat at the table listening to their banter and gave him a quick kiss. Sorry I can’t hear about your day, Kip. We’ll talk in the morning.

He couldn’t wait until morning. He was bursting at the seams with the news he was carrying inside. I won the school art contest, he blurted out.

You did? Oh Kip! She gave her little brother a warm hug and kissed the tip of his nose. His hair was more copper-colored than red, and a parade of freckles dusted his nose.

That’s wonderful. Turning to her grandmother she said, Don’t make dinner tomorrow night. I don’t have to work, so I’ll take all of us to McDonald’s to celebrate.

Wow. The little boy’s eyes lit up. That’s great, Alex.

See you in the morning, Squirt. She opened the front door. I’ll be late, Nanna. Don’t wait up.

Where’re you working tonight?

Didn’t I tell you? Alex paused with her hand on the doorknob. Sidney Montrose, the director, is having a party. He lives in the old DeVine mansion.

Harold De Vine. Nanna’s voice held a trace of awe. I used to think he was the handsomest actor in Hollywood. I’ve passed that mansion a hundred times. Be sure and notice everything so you can tell me all about it tomorrow.

I will. Alex grinned at the look on her grandmother’s face. Maybe I’ll even get to meet old Harold’s ghost. They say he still haunts the place.

If you do, give him a kiss for me.

Alex was already running toward her car, her bag flung carelessly over her shoulder.

The Montrose house was a blaze of lights. It had been built in the twenties for the silent screen star and had been remodeled and enlarged several times to include tennis courts, an Olympic-size pool, and a guest cottage. It was a distinctly California structure, with terra-cotta roof tiles and stucco walls that had weathered to a pale buff. Wide stone steps were lined with clay pots brimming with vines and bright splashes of azaleas, petunias, and cool fragrant gardenias. The caterer’s trucks were already parked in the circular driveway, and several uniformed men were unloading them.

Using the car mirror, Alex put on blush and lip gloss and applied mascara to her gold-tipped lashes. She thought about adding a touch of color to her eyelids, but there wasn’t time. When a young man approached and asked if he could park her car, she got out, tossing him the keys, and hurried inside.

Remnants of something her father had once said rang in her mind: Regardless of what the rest of the world thinks, insiders know that Hollywood is just a small town-filled with very big egos.

Alex stifled a grin. The more she worked these parties, the more she realized how right her father had been. Not that she was an insider. But in his day, Wild Bill had been, and she had grown up on the fringes, aware of what went on, if not part of it.

After the heat of the day, the interior of the house was refreshingly cool. Alex’s gym shoes made soft squishing sounds on the gleaming marble floor of the foyer. As she entered the kitchen, the manager of the catering firm looked up with a frown.

You’re late.

Traffic. Where do you want me to work?

Ignoring her question, he glanced down at her shoes. I told you to wear high heels. You know the image.

She rummaged in her shoulder bag and produced black sandals. The manager looked relieved.

Okay, Alex. You handle drinks in the pool and patio area. He handed her a tray and turned away to give the other young women their orders.

Pulling out a kitchen chair, Alex slipped out of her comfortable shoes and buckled the straps of the spike-heeled sandals. She picked up her tray and headed for the open French doors that led to the pool.

Within the hour the crowd had swelled to over a hundred. An hour after that Alex had overheard so much Hollywood gossip, the words had begun to blur together: Annie Martinson, the soap queen, was pregnant by her director; Vicky Donlon, the comedienne, was suing her manager; hot young actor Tom Brennan, who lived with an actress almost twice his age, had just signed to star in Jerry Conrad’s new film. Every juicy piece of information whispered tonight would be repeated in tomorrow’s papers. There were as many reporters present as stars.

Just look at that face-lift, a brunette said, helping herself to a drink from Alexandra’s tray. Her skin wasn’t that firm when she was sixteen.

And that was more than fifty years ago, beside her said.

Don, you beast. You know her bio lists her age as forty-five.

They both chuckled.

. . . said if I don’t see the color of your money by the end of the day, you won’t see me back on that stage. And if you think that little stand-in can do eight shows a week on empty promises, go right ahead and let her try. The dancer who’d been speaking paused only long enough to set her empty glass on Alex’s tray and take a fresh drink. She turned to her companion and added, He managed to come up with a cashier’s check before the bank closed. And from now on he’s going to pay me—in cash—every week. I don’t trust the bastard. And I’ll never sign another contract with him either.

. . . her third husband, Harry. The one over there with the toothy blonde. And when I passed the dining room, her second husband was here with his latest. But she doesn’t mind, because she’s introducing that jerk hanging on her arm as her ‘fiancé. Where the hell does she find them?

Did you see the girl with David Ashcroft? This one looks about fifteen. Wearing leather and a lot of flesh. God, they just keep getting younger and younger. Pretty soon, I swear, he’ll show up at one of these parties with a dimpled little darling sucking a pacifier.

As the man speaking reached for a drink, Alex had a hard time keeping a straight face. She’d just seen the couple he described. The man, close to seventy, was wearing a tuxedo, though the affair was far from formal. The girl with him could have been his granddaughter. She appeared to be barely in her teens—except for her eyes. There was a hardness about the eyes that her a world-weary look.

. . . want to see the contract. I absolutely will not work with animals. No dogs, no horses, no birds. Ever again. The woman peeled back the sleeve of her dress and showed her arm to the cluster of people gathered around her. There were gasps and murmurs of sympathy as she displayed her scars. Goddamn hawk sank his talons in and tore clear through my jacket. By the time they got him off me, I was hysterical.

Alex returned to the bar, unloaded the empty glasses, and began giving the bartender another order. During the lull she wriggled her foot from side to side, willing the feeling back into her toes. She’d been on her feet all day, and she had at least four more hours to go.

When the tray was once again filled, she lifted it and moved purposefully through the crowd.

Matt Montrose stepped down from his Bronco and gave the keys to a parking attendant. Be sure and lock it, he said. There’s a fortune in photographic equipment in the back.

Insured, I hope, the attendant shot back.

Yeah. But I’ve grown fond of several of those cameras. They’ve been around the world and back with me. I’d hate to have to replace them.

Matt rubbed his shoulder, which had begun throbbing again. He walked with a slow, steady gait that revealed only a hint of a limp. As he climbed the stairs he studied the house. A familiar figure emerged from the front door.

Matt. How good to see you.

Hubert. He embraced the white-haired houseman affectionately. How are you?

Fine, Matt. The old man held him at arm’s length and gave him an appraising look. And from what I’ve been reading, so are you. Thank God. When we heard about that land mine in the Middle East, we all feared the worst. Especially your father. If it hadn’t been for Mrs. Montrose’s objections, I think he’d have flown there and stayed by your side until you were back on your feet.

I wish I could have spared him the anxiety. I’ve mended nicely, thanks to a lot of physical therapy. Things are going well for me, Hubert.

I never doubted that they would, Matt. From the time you were just a lad, I could see that you would go far.

The houseman studied Matt’s rugged profile as he turned to look over his parents’ house once more.

I always loved this place, Hubert. Do you remember when my father bought the house?

The old man nodded. As if it were yesterday. You were eight when your mother, God rest her, passed on. And I remember the day, two years later, when your father married Miss Elyse and brought her and her young son, Dirk, to live with us here.

Matt smiled. That’s almost twenty years ago, Hubert.

Right after your father had directed his first Academy Award-winning film, the old man said proudly. And look at him today. He’s still at the top of a highly competitive career.

Matt found himself smiling at the pride in the old man’s tone. In a town that could boast few loyalties, the affection of all Sydney Montrose’s associates was legend. And if that wasn’t record enough, the popular director had an even more impressive one: he and his wife Elyse had remained married, despite the difficulties of merging two families. In Hollywood, that was cause for celebration.

Your father will be delighted to see you, Matt. The old man squeezed his shoulder before turning away to greet another guest.

Almost reluctantly Matt went inside. He hadn’t wanted to come tonight. In fact, he’d been adamant about staying away. Only Elyse’s pleading could have changed his mind. She could be very persuasive. Their friends asked about him, she had said, and there would be influential people here who could benefit his career.

His career. The thought brought a frown. Until the accident, Matt Montrose had been highly regarded as a photojournalist. It was while he was doing a photo essay on the Middle East that his Jeep had hit a mine. His driver had died instantly. Matt had been luckier—or so they’d told him. At the time, with his shoulder almost severed and his leg ripped open from hip to ankle, he’d been in too much pain to be thankful that his life had been spared.

The photograph he’d managed to snap during the moment of impact had earned him the Pulitzer. Later, during his long recovery, he’d won the prestigious Raleigh Award for his portraits of street people. His pictures of the dark, seamy side of Hollywood had been featured in a sellout show for the past three months at the Avidson Gallery. It was whispered that it was only a matter of time before he turned his vision to the big screen. With his dark genius he would probably be an even finer director than his famous father.

No, it wasn’t glamour or prestige that brought Matt here tonight, nor a desire to see old friends. It was his father’s health. Elyse had confided that she was concerned about Sidney’s heart. She wanted Matt to persuade his father to drop out of his latest project and take a much needed rest. Elyse had known that there was one appeal Matt couldn’t resist, even if it meant enduring one of her parties; there wasn’t anything Matt wouldn’t do for his father.

Seeing him, Elyse disengaged herself from the crowd and hurried forward. Matt. She studied him with a critical eye, noticing that he looked tired. Of course, he’d been looking haggard since the accident. I was afraid you wouldn’t come.

And miss one of your parties? You look wonderful, Elyse. He kissed her cheek.

At fifty-five Elyse Cochrain Montrose was still a strikingly beautiful woman who resisted all her friends’ attempts to persuade her to have a face-lift. Her blonde hair had been pulled back into a chignon. On her, it didn’t seem severe, but chic. Her face was carefully made up to hide the fine lines around the famous almond eyes; her dress was a swirl of black silk and lace that accentuated her slender figure.

How is Dad?

Your father’s in the library, talking business. Why don’t you mingle and I’ll drag him out to the land of the living.

Matt nodded and began threading his way through the crowd, pausing only long enough to shake hands, and exchange a few words. A few of the people were lifelong friends of his family, and Matt felt real pleasure at seeing them again, but many were simply here to be seen. They used any Hollywood party as an excuse to try to make the right contacts. And in this crowd, there were enough movers and shakers to cause an earthquake.

Stepping into the warm night air, he accepted a drink from the bartender, then turned to study the people milling around the pool.

It was then that he saw her.

Alex was standing near the edge of the pool, holding her tray while several couples helped themselves to drinks. She had long ago stopped listening to the stream of petty gossip, the litany of complaints. While she mechanically did her job, she thought about her little brother, Kip. It was obvious, even at the tender age of nine, that he had inherited their father’s artistic talent. His teachers all confirmed that he was way beyond his classmates. Talent like his deserved to be nurtured. That was why he attended special classes, where he would be exposed to the masters.

She and Nanna had agreed to tighten their belts in order to send him to the art classes. The insurance money from her father’s death was adequate to cover their education, but there was nothing left over for extras. Her mother, who had died of cancer shortly before her husband’s tragic accident, had been on the verge of becoming a singer of some acclaim, but she’d been forced to cut back on her club dates in order to raise Kip. And then, just as her career was being revitalized, the disease had struck.

As Nanna said, they were getting by. But just barely.

Lost in thought, Alex failed to notice the man who stood studying her.

Matt itched for his camera. She was stunning. Slender, but not frail; in fact, there was such strength in her. It was there in the way she carried herself, in the way she lifted her chin slightly, meeting every look, every word, head on. She wasn’t tall, no more than five feet six, yet she gave the illusion of height. Her legs were long, shapely. A dancer’s legs, he knew instinctively. He could imagine her studying ballet, lifting her arms in a graceful are, bending at the knees, spine straight, head high. The black uniform molded her body, displaying high, firm breasts and softly curving hips. The frilly white apron emphasized a tiny waist. His gaze slid downward, to the ridiculously high-heeled shoes. How did women balance in them? he wondered. Then his gaze moved to the cascade of mahogany waves that fell down her back. Fabulous hair, he thought. It gleamed red-gold in the flickering light of a hundred hurricane candles. This was how he’d like to photograph her, by candlelight.

She turned and for the first time glanced in his direction. He felt his hand tighten around his glass. God, she was more than beautiful; she was breathtaking. Not classically beautiful, he realized, but she had the sort of looks that command attention. Her face was small, oval, with high cheekbones. Her full lips were pursed into a sensual pout. As she took a step closer, the candlelight illuminated her face. Her skin was as pale and translucent as porcelain; her eyes were green, with little flecks of gold that caught and reflected the light. Star eyes. He felt as if he’d just taken a blow to the midsection.

For the space of a single heartbeat, Alex froze. Unlike the other guests, who outdid themselves to be noticed, the man watching her stood half in shadow, as if avoiding the bright lights. Though he didn’t move, she felt his touch as surely as if he’d actually reached out to her.

She heard two women discussing him. . . . almost superhuman. Any other man would have been killed by the blast. Too bad about the limp, although I think on him it’s sexy.

As the two women continued talking, Alex regarded him. He was tall, well over six feet, with a trim, athletic build. The perfectly tailored charcoal jacket did nothing to camouflage the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms. He had the aura of a man who was comfortable with himself, yet his lean face, with its craggy, almost hawklike features, set him apart from the tanned, perfect profiles of those who earned their living from their looks. There was nothing manicured about this man. Though his jacket was cashmere and his shoes fine leather, he would look equally at home in jeans and a faded shirt. Shaggy dark hair in need of a trim curled softly at his collar. It was obvious he’d grown up in the lap of luxury and was comfortable with its trappings, but there was a spareness to him that revealed a rugged, fiercely independent nature.

Feeling the hypnotic pull of his gaze, she smiled tremulously and approached him.

Would you like me to freshen your drink?

Her voice was low, sultry. The kind of voice that would touch a man with the simplest phrase, and whisper over his senses.

Yes. Thanks. As he handed her his glass, his fingers brushed hers. He was surprised by the rush of heat he felt. Scotch. Rocks.

Curling his hand into a fist, Matt watched her walk away. The bow of her apron moved with each step, emphasizing the sway of her hips. He was sweating. What the hell was the matter with him? Must be the pain medication.

His ability to dissect people was both a blessing and a curse. It was what elevated his craft to the level of art and set him apart from other photographers. Still, sometimes he resented the way his mind worked. He couldn’t simply enjoy the sight of a pretty woman; he had to crawl inside her mind and determine what put the look of pain or the spark of laughter in her eyes.

He’d seen her hands. Small, with long tapered fingers. A musician’s hands. The nails were small ovals, without polish. But he’d noticed the cuticles as well. Bitten and worried until they were ragged. A calm surface, he decided—with a hell of a storm brewing underneath.

He forced himself to look away, to study the faces in the crowd, but within minutes he was watching her again as she began threading her way through the guests, dispensing drinks, with a smile fixed on her face. And then she was heading his way, and the only full glass left on the tray was his. He uncurled his fingers and ordered himself to relax.

Here you are. She handed him his drink.

Thanks.

Enjoy. She turned away.

Miss.

Alex half turned, waiting.

Matt could see Elyse making her way around the pool with his father in tow. Though they would no doubt be stopped several times before they reached his side, he knew that once they did they would monopolize his time.

What’s your name?

Alex. Alexandra Corday. She waited uneasily. The manager of the catering firm was looking her way. If he thought she was ignoring the other guests, he’d be angry.

Alexandra. He deliberately chose her full name. It suited her. He saw Elyse swooping closer. I’ve been watching you, Alexandra. You do a good job.

She gave him a distracted smile while keeping an eye on the manager.

Thanks.

In about ten minutes I’d like you to bring me another one of these, he said, just as Elyse caught his arm.

Nodding, Alex turned away, heading for the bar. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. She might be tired, but she was far from dead. She hadn’t imagined the magnetism; it was real. In this whole house filled with handsome, dynamic men, he was the only one who had managed to affect her like this. He had the most compelling eyes she’d ever seen. She’d been almost unable to turn away from him.

Alex gave the bartender her order and glanced at her watch, then back at the shadowed area where the man was standing with the hosts, Sidney and Elyse Montrose.

Ten minutes. She’d remember.

2

The red Ferrari roared up the driveway and ground to a screeching halt just an inch away from the silver Rolls. A parking attendant shot to attention with a startled glance, hurrying over as the driver uncoiled himself from the car.

Dirk Montrose strolled up the steps of his parents house feeling extremely pleased with himself. On the flight from England he’d had to make a difficult choice: the accommodating stewardess or Deedee, the leggy blonde across the aisle. He’d decided to go for the blonde, and she turned out to be a model and sometime porno actress who rented a place in Malibu. They’d been together for four days now, and he was getting a little bored with her. This party was the perfect excuse to cut loose. He hadn’t bothered to leave a forwarding address. He really wasn’t interested in hearing from Deedee. After all, he’d paid his dues. He’d given her as much fun as she’d given him.

Dirk knew that if he didn’t bother to mention when he’d left Europe, his family would assume he’d just flown home today to be with them. That would please his mother. It never occurred to Dirk that he was being dishonest. He’d convinced himself that it was an act of kindness to allow his parents to think they were the most important people in his life. After all, wasn’t he the most important person in theirs?

Hello, Dirk. Hubert’s voice held none of the affection he’d showered on Matt. We weren’t expecting you.

Thought I’d surprise Mother.

She’ll be pleased. The old man cleared his throat. We thought you were still in Europe.

Did we? Sarcasm sharpened Dirk’s tone. He’d always disliked the old busybody who thought of the Montrose family as his own. All through his growing-up years, Dirk had resented the houseman, who had seen it as an obligation to report every little infraction of the rules. Old fart, Dirk thought. Ought to be pensioned off to a nursing home.

Don’t you think you’d better earn your keep and see to the guests, Hubert?

The old man took a step back, then spun on his heel, leaving Dirk alone.

He stood in the foyer for long minutes, listening to the clink of glasses, the sound of voices, the occasional trill of laughter. Home. And yet, not home. It was an odd sensation. He’d been six when his mother had married Sidney Montrose and moved into this fine big house. To cement the relationship, Sidney had adopted Dirk so that he would have the same last name as his own son, Matt. From then on, this life of luxury was the only life Dirk had known.

But four years at Berkeley and three years abroad had taught him that there was even more luxury to be had. One summer he and a group of friends had cruised the South Pacific, docking whenever they chose, picking up women with unbelievable ease. It had been an endless party. Another summer he’d lived with a somewhat older actress in her villa at Nice. She’d introduced him to more pleasures than he’d ever dreamed of. By the age of twenty-seven, Dirk Montrose had tried every liquor, every pill, every drug known to man, and a few that were still unknown. There had been so many women, he’d lost count. His personal rule: if you know where to look for it, there’s a party every day of your life. There were a lot of pleasures in this world, and Dirk intended to experience them all.

Studying the faces of the people in the dining room, he made his way to the bar and quickly downed two double scotches before picking up a third drink and crossing to the French doors leading to the pool.

Dirk. Dirk Montrose. A pretty dark-haired young woman came toward him, pressing herself close as her lips brushed his cheek. You devil. Your mother didn’t even tell me you’d be here tonight.

She didn’t know, Karen. It’s a surprise.

The girl’s eyes lit with a pleasure. You mean you just got in tonight?

Dirk nodded. Just off the plane from London. The lie came easily to him. Hell, no one would ever be the wiser.

I hope I’m going to see you sometime. You know where I live. She dropped a possessive hand on his arm.

Dirk bent his head, pressing his lips to her ear. Believe me, I haven’t forgotten. I’ll call you.

Promise? She swatted at him playfully as he walked away.

Karen wasn’t the only one whose eyes followed Dirk as he made his way among the clusters of old friends. Several other women watched his progress with obvious interest. With his perfect features enhanced by a deep tan and his sun-kissed hair curling softly around the collar of an open-necked shirt, he was the image of the California golden boy.

Dirk. I don’t believe it. His mother flew into his arms and hugged him, long and hard. Then she drew back to study his handsome face. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?

I wanted to surprise you. With one arm around his mother’s shoulders, he extended his right hand to his father.

Looks like you’ve had plenty of sun. Sidney squeezed his hand.

South of France. Had to say good-bye to some friends. He turned to Matt. I’m surprised to see you here. I thought these Hollywood parties weren’t thing.

They aren’t. Matt shook Dirk’s hand, noting the bloodshot eyes that all the eyedrops in the world couldn’t make clear. Are you home for good?

Dirk shrugged, looking down at his mother, still snuggled against his shoulder. That depends.

On what? Matt found himself wondering what had brought Dirk home this time. Money troubles, most likely. With Dirk, there