Legacy of Lies (14 page)

While the plane sped closer and closer to Los Angeles, Zach remained awake. Indulging himself in the pure pleasure of watching Alex undetected, he wished for the impossible. As the plane made its inevitable approach into LAX, the change in engine speed roused Alex from her light slumber. She escaped to the lavatory, dragged a brush through her tangled hair, splashed cold water on her face,
took several deep breaths and reminded herself that as wonderful as her romantic interlude with Zach had been, it was time to return to the real world.

Reality was Los Angeles, with its smog and soaring property prices, traffic jams and escalating crime. Reality was Zach returning to his Century City offices. Reality was her continuing her work for Sophie.

Reality was Zach's marriage.

And his wife.

They stood face-to-face, close enough to touch, but not daring to as the bustling early-morning crowd in the terminal surged around them.

Although Zach didn't want to let Alex get away, he couldn't escape the unpalatable fact that he was married. And while he suspected Alex might be willing to meet him for the occasional rendezvous, he could not play with her emotions that way.

Divorce was, of course, an option. But the last time he'd suggested it to Miranda, she'd lost her temper, become hysterical and taken an overdose of Valium. She hadn't taken enough to kill herself, the doctor had assured Zach.

But she had achieved her objective. She'd scared the hell out of her husband.

Looking back on that fateful day when he'd first met Miranda Lord Baptista Smythe, Zach knew he'd been foolishly led with his hormones and not his heart. Or his brain.

And now, the price for the unbridled lust he'd once felt for the woman who was now his wife, for better or for worse, would be to live with the bad bargain he'd made.

“You know, this is a small town, really,” he said. “Perhaps we'll run into one another.”

“Perhaps.” The sheen of moisture in Alex's eyes belied her falsely bright tone.

They both knew it would not happen. They could not
allow it to happen. Because the chemistry between them was too potent to allow them to remain merely friends.

Alex was putting on such a goddamn good show of being cheerful and brave. Zach thought this would all be a helluva lot easier if she'd break down and cry. Or shout.

Forsaking all others. The vow he'd willingly taken felt as heavy and burdensome as Jacob Marley's chains.

Unable to resist, he touched her cheek. “Goodbye, Alexandra.”

The tender touch threatened to be her undoing. “Goodbye, Zach.”

As her eyes filled with hot, frustrated tears, Alex turned and walked away, the heels of her suede boots clicking a rapid staccato on the tile floor.

Zach stood there, his fists shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks, his heart aching. He desperately wanted to call her back, but knew it would only hurt her more if he did.

D
eciding she was a disaster just waiting to happen when it came to romance, Alex threw herself back into the one thing she could control in her life—safe, soothing work.

When she wasn't hard at work, she ran along the packed sand, mile after mile, until her physical pain equaled her emotional pain. And then she ran farther still, until the ocean breeze dried her salty tears and she was too exhausted to dwell on what might have been if she'd only met Zach during that brief window of time when they'd both been in Paris. Before he'd married Miranda.

The first episode of “Blue Bayou” proved a blockbuster hit, outscoring even “The Cosby Show” in the overnight ratings.

The media, unsurprisingly, panned the glitzy soap opera. One particularly harsh critic declared that Americans possessed a limitless desire to identify with the upper classes. That being the case, he'd gone on sarcastically, it was no wonder they'd all tuned in to watch a show where the characters, who changed clothes between the appetizer and soup course, appeared to be the classiest people on television.

Undeterred by the strident criticism, Sophie laughed all the way to the bank.

“Blue Bayou” quickly became not only America's number-one television show, but was also watched by citizens of seventy other countries, including Iceland, Japan and Bangladesh.

And, as Sophie had predicted, Alex's designs made her a rising star in Tinseltown. Even critics who hated the program couldn't resist a positive mention of the dazzling wardrobe.

Her imaginative costuming expressed the basic conflict around which the steamy nighttime drama revolved. Typically the wicked ex-wife would strike a blow with a black crepe cocktail dress trimmed with rhinestones along a plunging neckline, while the saintly current wife would counter with a pink peplum jacket accented by thin silver piping.

Across town the exotic dancer/mistress would go shopping in a sequined blue baseball jacket over a ribbed red silk tank top and tight white shorts.

And every week, without fail, the studio mail room was flooded with letters from fans wanting to know where they could buy those ultraglamorous Hollywood fashions for themselves.

To Sophie's delight and Alex's surprise, Alex was nominated for a coveted Emmy for television costuming. As she dressed for the awards program, Alex said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever fickle fates or gods had led Sophie to Debord's salon that long-ago day.

Television might not be couture. But from the cold dead ashes of that lost dream, like a legendary phoenix, another had risen. One Alex had already determined was a lot more fun.

 

While Alex sat with her nerves in a tangle amid so many of Tinseltown's glitterati—albeit in the back of the auditorium with the rest of the technical nominees—Eleanor Lord was in the den of her Santa Barbara home, watching the live television broadcast with Clara Kowalski.

Although Clara had yet to contact the nanny, or anyone else on the other side for that matter, Eleanor enjoyed her company and refused to give up hope that someday they would learn the truth about her granddaughter's disappearance.

But tonight Eleanor's mind was not focused on Anna. It was centered, as was so often the case, on business. She never missed an Emmy or Oscar presentation; inevitably, knockoffs of the actresses' evening dresses would begin appearing in the stores almost as soon as the broadcast was over. And Eleanor knew from past experience that customers from Seattle to Miami would expect to find them in their local Lord's.

“Damn,” she muttered as Jane Curtin received the Emmy for lead actress in a comedy.

“I like ‘Kate and Allie,'” Clara offered.

“It's a nice enough program. And the woman's a fine actress,” Eleanor agreed. “But she isn't exactly a fashion celebrity. This isn't going to help sales at all.”

Her irritation increased as the awards show progressed. This was definitely turning out not to be a year for glamour, she thought dejectedly, when Tyne Daly won an award for her role as detective in the popular “Cagney and Lacey.”

It was during the costume category that Eleanor perked up. On a personal level, she and Clara never missed an episode of “Blue Bayou” as a retailing executive, she was hoping the dazzling costuming worn on the show would encourage designers to instill more glamour into their dis
tressingly predictable ready-to-wear lines. Anything to bring more women into the stores.

“Clara!” Eleanor pressed her hand against her heart, which had trebled its beat as she watched the young woman going up on stage to accept her award. “Look!”

“Isn't that the most gorgeous dress you've ever seen!” Clara agreed enthusiastically, taking in the gown that was even more special and exciting than the evening's festivities. The fire-engine red silk mousseline, adorned with several trompe l'oeil necklaces of glittering Austrian crystal beads, fell in a long fluid column to the floor.

“Not the dress!” Eleanor snapped, earning a surprised and injured look from her friend. “The girl, dammit! Look at that girl!”

“She's lovely. And slender enough to get away with such a figure-revealing dress. I wonder if she's wearing anything underneath it,” Clara mused. “I can't see any panty lines.”

“The hell with panty lines,” Eleanor said impatiently. “It's her, Clara. It's my Anna!”

“It can't be!”

“Look at the portrait,” Eleanor insisted. “Alexandra Lyons could be me at her age.” Clara's gaze went from Eleanor to the television, to the portrait above the fireplace of Eleanor, painted as a young bride, then back to Eleanor. “Perhaps there's a resemblance,” she conceded. “But—”

“It's Anna! I know it is.” Eleanor picked up the desk phone and dialed the familiar Los Angeles number.

“Do you have the television on?” she demanded, dispensing with any polite greeting when the male voice answered.

“Not at the moment,” Zach said. “Miranda's in town, and she's throwing a dinner party for a bunch of Los An
geles anglophiles and expatriated British nobility who claim to be ‘languishing away' in lotusland. Why?”

“Because I've seen Anna.”

He sighed. “On TV?” Zach half expected to hear Eleanor claim that her missing granddaughter had just popped up as a guest star on “St. Elsewhere.”

“On the Emmy broadcast. She just won an award. She's going by the name Alexandra Lyons.”

The name rang an instantaneous and painful bell. Hardly a day went by that Zach didn't find himself thinking about Alex with regret. “You're kidding.”

“You know I would never kid about a thing like this.” Anna's image had faded from the screen, replaced by a car commercial. “It's her, Zachary!”

“Eleanor,” Zach said patiently, “that's impossible. I met Alexandra Lyons in New Orleans.”

“You never told me that.”

“There was nothing to tell.” That wasn't true, but his feelings for Alex were no one's business but his own.

“It's her, Zachary,” Eleanor repeated stubbornly.

“I'll tell you what,” he suggested, “if you promise to calm down, I'll look into it first thing in the morning.”

“I want you to check it out now.”

“Short of going downtown and crashing the awards ceremony, which will be over by the time I arrive, there isn't a helluva lot I can do tonight,” he pointed out reasonably. “But I promise to call the studio as soon as the switchboard opens in the morning. All right?”

“No, it's not all right. But I suppose it'll have to do,” Eleanor grumbled.

After reassuring her yet again, Zach hung up, wondering as he did so if Eleanor's obsession would ever fade. After placing a call to Averill and asking the doctor to run by the house and check on the elderly woman, Zach returned
to the gilt-trimmed and mirrored dining room, wishing for a party featuring a steaming pot of spicy crayfish, some equally spicy zydeco music and a sweet-smelling, sexy strawberry blonde to hold in his arms.

All night long.

 

Two weeks later, Zach was in Santa Barbara, sipping a Scotch as Eleanor read the portfolio the private detective had compiled.

“Alex Lyons was born in Raleigh, North Carolina,” he revealed. “Her mother's name was Irene Lyons. Her father was listed as ‘unknown' on her birth certificate. It was, by the way, a double birth. She had a fraternal twin brother. David Lyons died in his teens. A drunk driver hit his car late one night.”

“How tragic.”

“Isn't it?” Zach remembered the pain on Alex's face when she'd told him about her twin's death. “The brother is the key. Even if Irene Lyons was in on Anna's kidnapping, she couldn't have pulled a boy child the same age out of the air.”

Eleanor waved his words away. “Perhaps she already had a son of her own. Perhaps she always wanted a daughter, so she took my Anna.”

Zach bit back his frustration and struggled for patience. “The birth certificates for both children list them as twins.”

“Birth certificates can be forged.”

Zach's jaw tightened as he recalled the debacle with the blackjack dealer. It was happening all over again. “True. But there's no reason to believe these were. Or that she's Anna.”

“There's one way to find out for sure.”

“You're not going to tell her what you suspect?”

“No. Believe it or not, Zachary, even this old dog can
learn a few new tricks. I'm not going to tip my hand. At least not yet.”

Zach's relief was short-lived.

“You know,” Eleanor mused aloud, “it's been a long time since I had a party.”

“I suppose Alexandra Lyons's name is at the top of the invitation list.”

Eleanor smiled for the first time since Zach had arrived with the dossier. “Of course.”

As he left the estate, though he knew it was wrong, Zach found himself looking forward to seeing Alexandra Lyons again. Oh, there was no way he believed she would ultimately prove to be Anna Lord. But perhaps, he told himself during the drive back to L.A., now that fate was about to throw them together again, he'd discover that his usually faultless memory had merely exaggerated Alexandra's charms.

Perhaps she was nothing more than a romantic, moonlit bayou fantasy.

The hell she was.

 

“I don't understand you,” Sophie complained. “Eleanor Lord is one of the most influential people in the state. Hell, probably the entire country. To be invited to one of her soirees is a coup.”

“I know that,” Alex mumbled, running her fingernail along the gilt edge of the invitation.

“And it's for a good cause.”

“I know that, too.” But couldn't she just skip the fund-raising party and write out a generous check to the Save the Beaches Foundation?

“So what's the problem?”

Even as Alex continued to vacillate over the next two days, she knew that the real reason for her indecision could
be spelled out in two words: Zachary Deveraux. She wanted to see him again, if for no other reason than to prove to herself that the chemistry she remembered was nothing more than the product of a dazzling, crazy Mardi Gras night and a steamy, mystical bayou day.

But another part of her was afraid of what would happen if she did attend the party and discovered that the emotional bond they shared during those long hours together turned out to be real.

It had taken her a long time to expunge Zach from her mind; sometimes entire days went by when she managed not to think of him, yet all she'd have to do was drive past a Lord's store and all those bittersweet memories would come flooding back.

As for the long, lonely nighttime hours, although she'd throw herself off the top of the “Blue Bayou” billboard towering over Sunset Strip before admitting it, the truth was that Zachary Deveraux continued to play a starring role in far too many of her erotic dreams.

Reminding herself that her mother had brought her up to take risks, after several sleepless nights and anxiety-filled days, during which Sophie nagged incessantly, Alex finally decided to accept Eleanor Lord's invitation.

Uncharacteristically, she dithered over her dress for days, trying on and discarding everything in her closet before moving on to the show's wardrobe department. Claiming it heightened the program's visibility, Sophie enouraged the “Blue Bayou” cast to borrow clothing for personal appearances. She'd made the same offer to Alex, who'd never seriously considered doing so until now.

But even these glamorous gowns weren't quite right. Because Alex wanted something new. Something that was all hers. Something that would knock Zachary Deveraux's socks off.

She stayed up for three nights, draping and stitching, ripping and restitching. The night of the party, as she ran her bath, she tossed in colorful crystals and scented oil from Victoria's Secret into the hot water with the careless abandonment of a teenager preparing for the senior prom.

Which was exactly how she felt, Alex admitted, as she soaked in the perfumed water, sipping a glass of preparty champagne to soothe her tangled nerves.