Not One Clue (20 page)

“I was for a time,” she said, and laughed. “Until I was cured.”

The guys laughed with her. I managed to look confused. It wasn’t that hard.

“Cured?”

“Acting is a brutal business,” she said. “The mad rush followed by hours of boredom drains body and mind of its natural vitality. Far better for me to work in the background, where I have time to hone my craft properly.”

“You do a beautiful job at
Queen,”
Ethan said.

“Well …” She shrugged. “I have excellent people to work with. Patricia, especially, has glorious hair.”

“Only made better by your care.”

“I
am
developing an excellent earth-based hair care …” she began, but suddenly her words were swept into a soundless abyss, because just then I spotted Adonis. He wasn’t wearing the usual tux. Instead, he had donned an open-necked poet’s shirt. Black jeans hung low on his hips. His skin was dark, his eyes as blue as God’s heaven. He glanced toward me. Our gazes met. His grin was sparkling white and a little wicked.

I believe I said something like, “Ugga,” and then he was sauntering toward me, big shoulders drawn back, all chest and smolder and beard stubble. The rest of the room seemed to fade to gray, evaporating into smoke until he stood before me like a mermaid’s wet dream.

“Hello,” he said, nodding toward my companions. For reasons unknown, their names had scattered like frightened poultry from my mind. It might have been the fact that Adonis had an accent. Or a chest. Or a smile that could light up the Getty Center.

“Sergio,” they said, and then he turned toward me.

“We’ve not met,” he said, and held out his hand. It was in that instant that I recognized him. Give him a loincloth and a hip brand and he was everyone’s favorite slave.

Morab.

20

What can I do to pleasure you, my queen?

—
Morab the man-slave, just
before Chrissy awoke

I
fumbled with my plate for a moment, wondered wildly who I was, what I was doing there, and if my underwear was on fire. “I’m …” I glanced at Kenny. “Fani.”

Our hands met. A little dab of sugar/fairy dust had somehow been sprinkled on my knuckles and subsequently smeared up against his pinky finger.

“Oh.” The word sounded oddly breathy from my lips.

“I … Sorry.”

“Not to worry,” he said, and sliding his fingers from mine, sucked the offending digit into his mouth. Swear to God, my own went dry. Every ounce of moisture drained from my head like water down a drain.

One of the other guys cleared his throat. “Well,” he said. “I seem to have become invisible.”

“Gay,” said the other, raising his hand.

I think the three of them eventually drifted away together. Or maybe they evaporated.

I knew I should feel badly about ignoring them, but seriously, I didn’t have a choice. It was like contemplating sauerkraut when you have cheesecake on your plate.

“Fani.” Sergio purred the name. “How is it that we’ve not met before?”

“I have been …” Foolish. What had I possibly been wasting my time on that I hadn’t met him? I mean, he was alive, in this universe. “Busy.”

He was staring at me, possibly waiting for me to continue. Possibly just giving me time to stare in return.

“With work,” I added, remembering belatedly that I was an actress … and—dear God in heaven—foreign.

“Ahh, on location?”

My mind was rattling around in my head like a walnut in a hamster ball. “Ahhh …
oui.”

“And where is it you’ve been?”

Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus
, I thought, and searched wildly for some remote locale we would not have to discuss in a million millennia. “Minsk?”

“Yes?” He looked thrilled. “I, too, have worked in Minsk. Ahh, I lost my heart to the Svisloch. And the Belarusian theaters. Have you yet visited the Bolshoi?”

Jesus God. I’d never been to Minsk. I’d be lucky as hell to find it on a map.
“Non
. I have been quite busy while in …” Holy crap, what country was Minsk in? Or
was
it a country? “Minsk. Though I do not have a large part in the film.”

He smiled and skimmed his gentian gaze down my now steaming body. “Well, I am certain with a figure such as yours that will not be true for long.
Sim?
”

I wondered vaguely if swooning had gone out of style. But maybe it was a moot point. The gown had been pretty tight to begin with—adding the dusted grape may have been more than my lungs could accommodate. “And what of you?” I asked. As if I didn’t know. As if he wasn’t featured in every dream where Rivera didn’t make an appearance.

He shrugged. “I have been on location also.”

“Yes? For a film?”

“A series. It is called
Amazon Queen.”

I leaned away and widened my eyes. “You joke!”

“I do not. I am Morab,” he said, and grinned as he hooked a thumb into his jeans. “Would you care to see my brand?”

“Yes.”

His dark brows rose. “Truly?”

I gave myself a mental shake and followed it with a hard slap. What the hell was wrong with me? I was a known actress. Fani. Or something like that. “I mean to say …
oui
, I recognize you now. You are one of the man-slaves, are you not?”

“I am so flattered that you have seen my work,” he said, and removed his thumb from his jeans.

I didn’t even cry.

He shrugged, still grinning. “The scripts … they are not so wonderful. But there are many fans and I am hoping …” He gave me a lopsided grin. He looked as tasty as a Fudgesicle. “I am hoping what we all hope.
Sim?”
he said, and laughed at himself.

“To be discovered,” I guessed.

“I know … it is not likely.”

With his looks? Was he kidding? I’d pay full box office price just to watch him blink. Who needs a damned script? Put him in his loincloth … or not. An image of him naked zipped like a naughty Tinkerbell through my mind, but I shook my head and focused on the subject at hand. Opportunity was knocking.

“And what of Ruocco?” I asked, remembering Elaine had said he seemed too accepting of her success. “It is said she is not the easy one to work with.”

“Elaine?” he said.

I nibbled on a celery stick. “That is her true name?”

“Some call her Brainy Laney.”

I scowled. “Brainy?”

“It means … ahh …
inteligente
. Smart.”

“Ahh, this is American humor, yes? Because she is not smart?”

“I, too, thought there must be something wrong with her when we first met, but …” He shrugged.

“Well,” I said, not giving up, “I have seen her act.”

He eyed me skeptically, reminding me that on more than one occasion men had seemed willing to sacrifice their lives for Laney’s honor. Sacrificing mine would maybe be no sacrifice at all. I waited, breath held, for him to stab me with my own skewer, but he only sighed.

“For a while I, too, was envious. I thought … why not me? You know? But she is a good person. Everyone … they adore her.”

Now we were getting somewhere. “Everyone?”

“Well …” He leaned closer. He smelled like sea foam and orgasms. Try concentrating with those scents titillating your olfactory system. “There is a rumor.”

“Oh?”

“I do not think anyone is to know this.”

Just tell me, goddamnit
, I thought, and made a crossing-my-heart motion.

“Last spring the whole of the cast got a raise in pay. Some say it is because of Elaine. That she asked for less so that each of us could receive the more.”

Oh, Laney
, I thought.
Have I taught you nothing?
“And this you believe?”

“It is something she might do.”

“Where did you hear this rumor?”

He shrugged, snagged a nearby broccoli floret, and popped it into his mouth. “Even Ghazi is wild for her, and he is the Muslim.”

“Ghazi?”

“The master of props. It is said that he is a prince and has two wives already. But perhaps his God does not care if he adds a nice Christian girl to his collection.”

My ears pricked up. “He hopes to marry her?”

He smiled. “He would have to join me and … how do they say … the remainder of the club.”

I felt my heart crack a little but tried to be strong. The show’s viewership was off the charts. The fact that most men watched it with the volume off didn’t make Laney any less appealing.

“Everyone, they adore her,” he repeated.

“That can’t be true,” I argued, and he scowled.

“Why do you say this?” he asked, and suddenly he almost seemed menacing.

I resisted taking a step back. “No reason,” I said.

He stared at me a moment, then shook his head. “I apologize,” he said. “I have been somewhat worried for her of late.”

“For
her
? Why? She has got what each one of us wants.
Oui?”

“That is how it would seem, is it not?”

“I am wrong?”

He shook his head. “You have not seen the man she is to marry?”

As a matter a fact, I had. There was a reason I cried myself to sleep every night.
“Non.”

“The man … he looks like …” He shook his head, exasperated. “A chimpanzee with bad hair.”

Thank you! I was beginning to think I was the only one who saw the resemblance. “Perhaps he is very nice,” I said, and almost—
almost
—felt a niggle of defensiveness.

He took a drink from his flute. “There is none so nice as
that,”
he said.

“Is he here now?” I asked, keeping the conversation flowing.

“I do not believe Elaine is to come this night.”

“And what of Ghazi?” I asked, glancing about, but at that moment someone spoke from near my elbow.

“Sergio,” she said, and I jumped, already paling as I pivoted wide-eyed, to find Laney within spitting distance. She glanced at me, smiled vaguely, and turned back toward her man-slave. Ethan Engles was at her side, looking happy as a clam just to be in the same universe. “It’s great to see you.”

“My queen!” he said, and leaning in, kissed her on both cheeks. It was like watching birds of paradise mate, but she pulled away after a moment, only holding his hands, looking completely nonplussed. She was wearing blue jeans. She’d left her tawny hair loose to fall over her frayed T-shirt, immediately making every woman in the room feel underdressed. But none of that mattered, because my head was spinning. Was it possible she hadn’t recognized me?

“I did not think you planned to come this night,” Sergio said.

“I didn’t,” she admitted. “I’ve been crazy busy with wedding plans. But I wanted to pop in for a minute to wish everyone well.” She turned toward me then.

“That
is an amazing dress.”

I gave her a sick look and tried to think of something to say, but she only smiled.

“And it looks great on you,” she added.

I shot my attention to Morab. His brows were somewhere in his hairline.

“Do you two know each other?” Ethan asked.

“I …” I began, and ran out of words. Laney just stood there, smiling benignly.

“Patricia Ruocco,” she said finally, and offered her hand.

“Fani,” I breathed, not daring to try the last name, and Ethan laughed. “You should have seen her with Pitt.”

I glanced at him, guessed his misconception, and ran with it.

“You are the Amazon Queen.” I managed inadvertently to sound breathless, but in that moment I saw wicked recognition gleam in Laney’s eyes. What the hell had I been thinking? Laney would probably still be able to out-think me postmortem. I gave a mental sigh. “I very much enjoy your show,” I said, and wanted, rather badly, to hide under the buffet table. But I could hardly give up the accent now.

She smiled. “And I’m always amazed at your talents.”

Sergio glanced from Laney to me, then lit up like a Greek god in a bonfire. “Ahh yes,” he said, beaming at me. “You were in Morel’s film. The one with Liam Neeson.”

Laney was frowning, but then she brightened. “Of course,” she said. “The prostitute.”

I gave her a look.

“A very well-cast movie,” she said. “But I’m even more impressed with your current role.”

“Current role?” Ethan asked.

“Fani is working in Minsk,” Sergio said.

Oh, dear God!

“Minsk,” Laney repeated. “I didn’t hear about that one. I’ve always wanted to go there. I hear it’s beautiful. But how do you feel about the Belarus Democracy Act, Fani?”

I resisted gritting my teeth at her. “I did not have a great deal of time while there,” I said.

“Busy, were you?” She said the word kind of funny, as if she might burst out laughing at any moment.

“Quite,” I said.

“Film or television?”

“Television.”

“HBO?”

“Lifetime,” I said.

“Who’s the producer?”

So she wanted to play. I tightened my grip on my overloaded plate and lobbed back a name I’d heard bandied about at such parties. “Terrence Riglio.”

“The director?”

“Madeline Futone.”

She raised one brow a tiny amount. “How about the set designer?”

“François,” I said, remembering the good friend I kept in my bed-stand drawer. “François Desmarais,” I said.

“Really? I thought he was dead.”

“He’s not,” I said.

She did laugh now. Sergio was looking puzzled. But Ethan was just tripping along. “What’s Riglio like to work with? I heard he can be kind of an ass.”

In for a penny, I thought. “He is like the Hulk Incredible when he is angry.”

“So he’s a monster?” Laney asked.

“Oui,”
I said.