Glitter Baby (4 page)

The knowledge that she was pregnant with Flynn’s child finally hit her the morning she couldn’t force herself to get dressed. For two days she lay in her rickety bed, staring at the stained ceiling, trying to comprehend what had happened. She remembered horrified whispers about Indianapolis girls who’d gone too far, rumors of shotgun weddings or, even worse, no weddings at all. But those were girls from the wrong side of the tracks, not Dr. Britton’s daughter, Edna Cornelia. Girls like her got married first and then had babies. To do it the other way around was unimaginable.

She thought about trying to contact Flynn, but she didn’t know how to locate him. Besides, she couldn’t imagine him helping her. And then she thought about Alexi Savagar.

It took her two days to locate him. He was staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel. She left a message.

Miss Britton will be waiting for Mr. Savagar in the Polo Lounge this evening at five o’clock.

The late February afternoon was cool, and she dressed carefully in a butterscotch velvet suit and a white nylon blouse that hinted at the lacy detail of her slip beneath. She wore pearl button earrings and a string of cultured pearls she’d received for her sixteenth birthday because her parents didn’t want to bother with a party. Her hat was a butterscotch tam, jaunty and carefree perched on the side of her head. With the addition of proper white cotton gloves and slightly improper needle-pointed heels, she was ready for the drive to Schwab’s, where she left her battered Studebaker and called a taxi to deliver her to the elegant porte-cochere that marked the entrance of the Beverly Hills Hotel.

Flynn had taken her to the Polo Lounge several times, but she still felt a thrill as she stepped inside. She gave the maître d’ Alexi’s name, and followed him to a curved banquette facing the door, priority seating in the most famous cocktail lounge in the country. Even though she didn’t like martinis, she ordered one because it was sophisticated, and she wanted Alexi to see her with it.

While she waited for him, she tried to calm herself by studying the other patrons. Van Heflin sat with a tiny blonde. She spotted Greer Garson and Ethel Merman at separate tables, and, across the room, one of the studio executives she had met when she was with Flynn. A page dressed in a brass-buttoned jacket came through. “Call for Mis-tuh Heflin. Call for Mis-tuh Heflin.” Van Heflin lifted his hand, and a pink telephone appeared at his table.

As she toyed with the long, cool stem of her glass, she tried not to notice that her hands were trembling. Alexi wouldn’t arrive at five o’clock. She’d damaged his pride the last time they were together. But would he come at all? She couldn’t imagine what she’d do if he didn’t.

Gregory Peck and his new French wife, Veronique, arrived. Veronique was a former newspaperwoman, dark-haired and beautiful, and envy coiled inside Belinda. Veronique’s famous husband gave her a private smile and said something only she could hear. Veronique laughed and placed her hand over his, the gesture tender and proprietary. In that instant Belinda hated Veronique Peck as she had never hated another human being.

At six o’clock Alexi walked into the Polo Lounge. He paused in the doorway to exchange a few words with the maître d’ before he moved toward her banquette. He was dressed in a pearl-gray silk suit, immaculate as always, and several people greeted him as he passed their tables. She had forgotten how much attention Alexi attracted. Flynn had said it was because Alexi had the uncanny ability to turn old money into new.

He slid wordlessly into the banquette, bringing with him the expensive scent of his cologne. His expression was unfathomable, and a small shiver slid down her spine.

“Château Haut-Brion, 1952,” he said to the waiter. He gestured toward her half-finished martini. “Take that away. Mademoiselle will have wine with me.”

As the waiter disappeared, Alexi lifted her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. She tried not to think about the last time they were together when his kiss hadn’t been gentle at all.

“You seem nervous,
ma chère
.”

The small collection of cells relentlessly multiplying inside her made doubts impossible, and she lifted her shoulders in a casual shrug. “It’s been a long time. I—I missed you.” Her sense of injustice sprang to the surface. “How could you go off like that? Without calling me or anything.”

He looked amused. “You needed time to think,
chérie.
To see how you liked being alone.”

“I didn’t like it at all,” she retorted.

“I didn’t think you would.” He studied her as if she’d been mounted between glass slides and pushed under a microscope. “Tell me what you learned during your time of introspection.”

“I learned that I’ve grown to depend on you,” she replied carefully. “Everything fell apart after you left, and you weren’t around to help me put it back together. I guess I’m not as independent as I thought.”

The waiter appeared with the wine. Alexi took a sip, gave a distracted nod, and waited until they were alone before returning his attention to her. She told him what had taken place in the past month: her failure to capture the interest of a single producer, the fact that her parents would no longer support her. She told him all her miseries except the most important one.

“I see,” he said. “So much to have happened in such a
short time. Are there any more disasters you need to lay at my feet?”

She swallowed hard. “No, nothing else. But I’m out of money, and I need you to help me make some decisions.”

“Why don’t you go to your former lover? Surely he’ll help you. I’m certain he’ll rush to your side on his white charger, sword flashing, slaying your villains. Why don’t you go to Flynn, Belinda?”

She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep her tongue in check. Alexi didn’t understand Flynn—he never had—but she couldn’t say that. Somehow she needed to ease his bitterness, even if it meant lying. “Those days at the Garden…They were like nothing that had ever happened to me. I mixed the two of you together in my mind. I made myself believe all my feelings were coming from Flynn, but after you left, I realized they were coming from you.” She’d rehearsed exactly what she needed to say. “I need help, and I don’t know where else to turn.”

“I see.”

But he didn’t see, not at all. She began pleating her napkin to avoid looking at him. “I—I’m out of money, and I can’t go back to Indianapolis. I—I’d like you to give me a loan—just for a year or so until I get the studios to notice me.” She took a sip of the wine she didn’t want. With Alexi’s money, she could go away, find someplace where no one knew her, and have her baby.

He didn’t say anything, and her nervousness grew. “I don’t know where else to turn. I’ll die if I have to go back to Indianapolis. I know I will.”

“Death before Indianapolis.” His voice carried a note of amusement. “How childishly poetic, and how like you, my sweet Belinda. But if I loan you this money, what would I receive in return?”

The page brushed by their table, brass buttons glinting. “Call for Mis-tuh Peck. Call for Mis-tuh Peck.”

“Whatever you want,” Belinda said.

The moment she spoke, she knew she’d made a horrible mistake.

“I see.” The words were a hiss. “You’re selling yourself again. Tell me, Belinda, what sets you apart from those overdressed young women the maître d’ is turning away at the door? What sets you apart from the whores?”

Her eyes clouded at the injustice of his attack. He wasn’t going to help her. What had made her think he would? She stood and snatched up her purse so she could get away before she humiliated herself by committing the unpardonable sin of crying in the public glare of the Polo Lounge. But before she could move, Alexi caught her arm and pulled her gently back into her seat. “I’m sorry,
chérie.
Once again I have hurt you. But if you keep throwing these knives at me, sooner or later you must expect me to bleed.”

She bent her head to hide the tears spilling down her cheeks. One of them made a dark smear on the skirt of her butterscotch suit. “Maybe you can take from someone without giving anything in return, but I can’t.” She fumbled with the clasp of her purse, trying to open it to get a handkerchief. “If that makes me a whore in your eyes, then I wish I’d never come to you for help.”

“Don’t cry,
chérie.
You make me feel like a monster.” A handkerchief, folded into a precise rectangle, dropped in front of her.

She closed her hand around it, lowered her head, and dabbed at her eyes. She made the motion as inconspicuous as possible, terrified that Van Heflin might be watching her, or the tiny blonde with him, or Veronique Peck. But when she raised her head, no one seemed to have noticed her at all.

Alexi leaned into the banquette and regarded her intently. “Everything is simple for you, isn’t it?” His voice grew husky. “Will you put away your fantasies,
chérie
? Will you give me your adoration?”

He made it seem so simple, but it wasn’t. He fascinated her. He even excited her, and she loved the way people looked at her when they were together. But his face had
never been magnified on a silver screen until it was big enough for all the world to see.

He pulled a cigarette from a silver case. She thought his fingers trembled on the lighter, but the flame held steady. “I will help you,
chérie
, even though I know I shouldn’t. When I have finished my business here, we will go to Washington and be married in the French embassy.”

“Married?” She couldn’t believe she’d heard him right. “You’re not going to marry me.”

The harsh lines around his mouth softened, and his eyes filled with emotion. “Am I not,
chérie
? I want you, not as my mistress but as my wife. Foolish of me,
non
?”

“But I already told you—”

“
Ça suffit!
Do not make your offer again.”

Frightened by his intensity, she drew back from him.

“As a businessman, I never gamble foolishly, and there are no guarantees with you, are there,
chérie
?” He traced the stem of his wineglass with his finger. “
Hélas
, I am also a Russian. A film career is not what you want, although you don’t understand that yet. In Paris you will take your place as my wife. It will be a new life for you. Unfamiliar, but I will guide you, and you will become the talk of the city—Alexi Savagar’s child bride.” He smiled. “You will love the attention.”

Her mind raced. She couldn’t imagine herself as Alexi’s wife, always under the scrutiny of those strange, slanted eyes. Alexi was rich and important, famous in his world. He’d said she’d be the talk of Paris. But she couldn’t give up her dreams of being a star.

“I don’t know, Alexi. I haven’t thought—”

The planes of his face grew harsh. She felt him withdraw. If she refused him now—if she hesitated for even a moment—his pride would never allow him to forgive her again. She had only this one chance.

“Yes!” Her laughter was high-pitched and strained. The baby! She had to tell him about the baby. “Yes. Yes, of course, Alexi. I’ll marry you. I want to marry you.”

For a moment he didn’t move, and then he lifted her hand to his mouth. With a smile, he turned her wrist and covered the pulse that beat there with his lips. She ignored the pounding of her heart, the fearful rush of blood that asked her what she’d done.

He ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon. “To the end of fantasy.” He lifted his glass.

She licked her dry lips. “To us.”

At the next banquette, Veronique Peck’s soft laughter chimed like a string of silver bells.

To Belinda’s surprise,
her wedding night didn’t occur until the night of her wedding, a week after her meeting with Alexi in the Polo Lounge. They were married in the French embassy in Washington and left immediately after the ceremony to honeymoon at the ambassador’s summer home.

Belinda’s nervousness grew as she stepped from the ambassador’s tub and dried herself with a thick, nutmeg-brown towel. She hadn’t told Alexi about the baby. If she was lucky and the baby small, he might believe the child was his, born prematurely. If he didn’t believe it, then he’d probably divorce her, but the baby would still have his name, and she wouldn’t have to live with the stigma of being an unwed mother. She could go back to California and start all over again, but this time with Alexi’s money.

Every day she saw surprising new evidence of the depth of Alexi’s feelings, not only in the gifts he lavished on her, but in his patience with her silly mistakes as she entered his world. Nothing she did made him angry. The thought brought her comfort.

She gazed at the dress box wrapped in silver paper sitting on the basin. He wanted her to wear what was inside
for her wedding night. She hoped it was a peignoir set, black and lacy like something Kim Novak would own.

But when she opened the dress box, she nearly cried with disappointment. The long white cotton garment nestled in the cloud of tissue paper looked more like a child’s nightgown than the peignoir of her fantasies. Although the fabric was sheer and fine, the high neck had the barest edging of lace while a row of pink bows held the bodice modestly closed. As she pulled the garment from its box, something fell at her feet. She leaned over and picked up matching white cotton underpants with little ruffs of lace at the leg openings. She remembered Alexi’s pride and the fact that she wasn’t coming to him as a virgin.

It was past midnight when she entered the elegant jade-green bedroom. The brocade drapes had been drawn, and the polished teak furniture glowed in the warm light filtering through the cream silk lampshades. The room couldn’t have been more different from the wonderfully tawdry interior of the Spanish bungalow at the Garden of Allah. Alexi wore a pale gold dressing gown. With his small eyes and dark, thinning hair, he could only play a villain on screen. But a powerful villain. He gazed at her until the room’s silence grew oppressive. Finally he spoke. “You’re wearing lipstick,
chérie
?”

“Is something wrong?”

He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his dressing gown. “Come near the light.” She padded across the carpet on bare feet instead of the high-heeled black satin mules of her imagination. He took her chin in his hand and gently wiped at her mouth with his white linen handkerchief. “No lipstick in the bedroom,
mon amour.
You are beautiful enough without it.” Stepping back, he slowly raked his eyes over her body and stopped at her scarlet-painted toenails. “Sit on the bed.”

She did as he asked. He rummaged through her cosmetic case until he found a bottle of nail polish remover. He knelt before her and began removing the polish from each of her
toes with his handkerchief. When he was done, he lightly bit her instep, then touched it with his tongue. “Are you wearing the panties I gave you?”

Embarrassed, she dropped her eyes to the collar of his dressing gown and nodded.

“
Bon.
You are my sweet bride, then, come to please me. You are shy, inexperienced, a little frightened perhaps. That is as it should be.”

She
was
frightened. His soft words, the virginal nightgown…He was treating her as if she were an innocent, but that wouldn’t erase her time with Flynn. The memory of the night Alexi had assaulted her wormed its way into her thoughts. She shook it off. He’d been jealous of Flynn, but now she was his wife, and he would never hurt her.

He rose and held out his hand. “Come to me,
chérie.
I’ve waited so long to make love to you.”

Alexi eased her onto the bed. When she was lying down, he brushed his mouth over her lips. She told herself to imagine he was Flynn. “Put your arms around me,
chérie
,” he murmured. “I am your husband now.”

She did as he asked, and as his face drew near, she tried to pretend, but Flynn had seldom kissed her and never with Alexi’s intensity. “You kiss like a child.” Alexi’s lips moved against hers. “Open your mouth for me. Be gracious with your tongue.”

Cautiously she parted her lips. This was Flynn kissing her. Flynn’s mouth covering hers. But the great star’s face refused to take shape.

Her body grew lax and warm. She pulled Alexi closer, her tongue growing bold in his mouth. She moaned softly when he moved away from her. “Open your eyes, Belinda. You must watch me make love to you.” Cool air brushed her skin as he tugged on the bows holding the nightgown together and separated the bodice. “Watch my hands on your breasts,
chérie.
”

She opened her eyes to the burning intensity of his gaze, the searing eyes that could pierce flesh and bone to uncover
even the smallest seed of deception. Panic mixed with her excitement. She tried to pull the nightgown back together.

He chuckled, the sound deep and low in his throat, and she realized he’d mistaken her fear for shyness. Before she could stop him, he peeled the nightgown over her hips. She lay on the bed, clad only in the lace-trimmed cotton underpants. He grasped her arms and placed them at her sides. “Let me look.” His hands moved to her breasts, handling them gently, tracing light, feathery circles until her nipples hardened into tiny bells. He touched each tip. “I’m going to suckle you,” he whispered.

Waves of heat shot through her as his head dipped. He drew her nipple into his mouth, sculpting it with his tongue and then drawing on it as if he were taking his nourishment. Excitement spread through her body like a betrayal, burning hotter and fiercer as he began stroking the insides of her thighs. His fingers moved beneath the lacy leg band of the panties just as Billy Greenway’s had done so many lifetimes ago, and then slid inside her with a practiced touch so different from the awkward fumbles of her past.

“You’re tight,” he whispered, withdrawing from her. He pulled the underpants down over her hips, separated her legs, and began doing something to her with his mouth that was so forbidden, so thrilling, she couldn’t believe it was happening. At first she fought against it, but her resistance was no match for his skill. He took control of her body, and she surrendered to him. She cried out as he brought her to an orgasm so exquisite she felt as if she were shattering into a thousand pieces.

After it was over, he lay beside her. What he had done was dirty, and she couldn’t bear to look at him.

“That has never happened to you before, has it?” She heard the satisfaction in his voice and turned her back to him. “What a dear little prude you are, ashamed of yourself for enjoying something so natural.” He leaned over to kiss her, but she turned her head away. Nothing would make her kiss a mouth that had been where his had.

He laughed, imprisoned her head between his palms, and brought his lips to hers. “See how sweet you are.” Only then did he desert her long enough to open his dressing gown and let it fall to the floor. His body was lean and swarthy, covered in dark hair, and fully aroused. “Now I will explore you for my pleasure,” he said.

He touched every part of her, leaving the mark of Alexi Savagar behind and once again setting her afire with desire. When he finally entered her, she wrapped her legs around him and dug her fingers into his buttocks and silently begged him to go faster. Just before his orgasm, he muttered thickly in her ear, “You are mine, Belinda. I am going to give you the world.”

In the morning there was a smear of blood on the sheet from a long, thin scratch he’d made on her hip.

Paris was everything Belinda had imagined, and Alexi took her to all the places tourists adore. At the top of the Eiffel Tower exactly an hour before sunset, he kissed her until she thought her body would float. They sailed a toy boat in the
bassin
at the Luxembourg Gardens and wandered through Versailles in a thunderstorm. In the Louvre he found a deserted corner where he felt her breasts to see if they were as plump as those of the Renaissance Madonnas. He showed her the Seine at dawn near the Pont St.-Michel when the newborn sun struck the windows of the old buildings and set the city on fire. They visited Montmartre at night, and the wicked, smoky cafés of Pigalle, where he titillated her with whispered sex talk that left her breathless. They dined on trout and truffles in the Bois de Boulogne beneath chandeliers that hung from the chestnut trees, and they sipped Château Lafite in a café where tulips bloomed in the window. As each day passed, Alexi’s step grew lighter and his laugh easier until he almost seemed like a boy again.

At night, he sealed them away in the great bedroom of his gray stone mansion on the Rue de la Bienfaisance and
took her again and again until her body ceased to exist separate from his. She began to resent the demands of the job that stole him away from her each morning. Mornings left her with too much time to think about the baby she was carrying. Flynn’s baby. The baby Alexi didn’t know existed.

Life on the Rue de la Bienfaisance without Alexi was nearly unbearable. She hadn’t been prepared for the grandeur of the gray stone mansion with its salons and apartments and dining room that could seat fifty. At first she’d been giddy at the idea of living amid so much splendor, but the huge house quickly oppressed her. She felt small and defenseless as she stood on the red and green veined marble in the oval foyer and surveyed the gruesome tapestries of martyrdom and crucifixion hanging on the walls. In the main salon, allegorical figures clad in capes and armor battled giant serpents on the ceiling. Friezes stretched over the heavily draped windows; pilasters flanked them. And all of it was ruled by Alexi’s mother, Solange Savagar.

Solange was tall and thin, with dyed black hair cut close to her head, a large nose, and papery wrinkles. Each morning at ten o’clock she dressed in one of an endless number of white wool suits designed for her by Norell before the war, slipped on her rubies, and took her place on a Louis Quinze chair at the center of the main salon, where she began her daily rule over the house and its inhabitants. The possibility that Belinda, the unforgivably young American who had somehow managed to bewitch her son, would take Solange’s place was unthinkable. The mansion on the Rue de la Bienfaisance was Solange’s domain alone.

Alexi made it clear that his mother was to be respected, but Solange made companionship impossible. She refused to speak English except to criticize, and she took delight in laying out each
gaucherie
Belinda committed for Alexi’s later inspection. Every evening at seven o’clock they gathered in the main salon, where Solange would sip white ver
mouth and smoke one lipstick-tipped Gauloise after another while she chattered at her son in staccato French.

Alexi kissed away Belinda’s complaints. “My mother is a bitter old woman who has lost much. This house is all the kingdom she has left.” His kisses strayed to her breasts. “Humor her,
chérie.
For my sake.”

And then, abruptly, everything changed.

One night in mid April, six weeks after their wedding, she decided to surprise Alexi by modeling a transparent black negligee she’d bought that afternoon. As she pirouetted next to the bed, his face grew pale and he stalked from the room. She waited in the dark, angry with herself for not realizing how much he’d hate seeing her in anything but the simple white gowns he selected. The hours dragged by and he didn’t return. By morning, she’d exhausted herself with her tears.

The next night she went to her mother-in-law. “Alexi has disappeared. I want to know where he is.”

An ancient ruby on Solange’s twisted finger winked like an evil eye. “My son tells me only what he wishes me to know.”

He returned two weeks later. Belinda stood on the marble staircase in a Balmain dress that was too tight at the waist and watched him hand his briefcase to the butler. He seemed to have aged ten years. When he saw her, his mouth curled in the cynical twist she hadn’t witnessed since they’d first met. “My dear wife. You look beautiful as always.”

The next few days confused her. He treated her with deference in public, but in private he tormented her with his lovemaking. He abandoned tenderness for conquest and kept her poised on the brink of fulfillment for so long that her pleasure crossed the boundary into pain. During the last week of April, he announced that they were going on a trip but wouldn’t tell her where.

He drove the 1933 Hispano-Suiza from his antique car collection with utter concentration. She was glad to be
spared the effort of making conversation. Out the window, the land near Paris gradually gave way to the bare, chalky hillsides of Champagne. She couldn’t make herself relax. She was nearly four months pregnant, and the effort of deceiving him was sapping her strength. She pretended to have menstrual periods that never came, secretly adjusted the buttons on the waists of her new skirts, and plotted to keep her naked body away from the light. She did everything she could to postpone the time when she’d be forced to tell him about the baby.

As the vineyards turned lavender in the lengthening afternoon shadows, they reached Burgundy. Their inn had a red-tiled roof and charming pots of geraniums in the windows, but she was too tired to enjoy the simple, well-cooked meal that was set before them.

The next day Alexi drove her out into the Burgundian countryside. They ate a silent picnic lunch on a hilltop covered with wildflowers, dining on a
potée
filled with fresh chervil, tarragon, and chives that Alexi had purchased in the neighboring village. They ate it with bread crusted in poppy seeds, a runny Saint Nectaire cheese, and a raw young country wine. Belinda picked at her food, then tied her cardigan around her shoulders and walked along the hilltop to escape Alexi’s oppressive silence.

“Enjoying the view, my sweet?” She hadn’t heard him come up behind her, and she jumped as he put his hands on her shoulders.