Phoenix Falling (29 page)

"Maybe you should get out of the way and let Sarah take over," he suggested.

"Very zenlike. Can you be more specific?"

"You probably know Sarah inside out, but you're still not comfortable with her. I don't think you like her very much."

Rainey started to protest, then stopped. "You may be right. I love John Randall because his problems and struggle to heal touch universal chords, but so much of Sarah seems specific to her own restricted time and place. I have trouble getting into her because the world is so much different now."

"She's loyal and loving, and those qualities are as universal as Randall's. It's interesting that you can relate to his pain more easily than her virtues."

If Rainey were a cat, her fur would be bristling. "She's a young woman with potential who is trapped in a world that gives her almost no choices! This benefits Randall, but I still feel sorry for her."

"Much harder to live in a time where divorce was almost impossible. How fortunate you are to be able to walk away from an unsatisfactory marriage, unlike Sarah."

Recognizing that they were on thin ice, she made herself step aside and study her reaction, as if she were learning a new character. "Maybe Sarah's situation makes me think of the years when I lived with my grandparents and felt so powerless."

"I can see why that would get in your way, but remember, Sarah likes herself and her situation very well. One of the things that makes her special is that she's completely comfortable with her place in life. Because she's working from a secure center, she can offer Randall strength and stability."

"You've really thought a lot about her, haven't you?"

"Of course. She's the lifeline for my character, and I need to know why."

Kenzie had always been terrific at figuring out characters.

She'd missed the intense discussions they used to have. Especially since those talks often took place in bed. "Any suggestions for how to come to terms with Sarah?"

He frowned at the canopy overhead. "Why not put yourself back into the most secure time in your life, and work from there?"

"There
were
no secure times."

He laid a gentle hand on her bare midriff. "That's a drawback. You'll have to build her out of pure craftsmanship."

"A lot of help you are!"

He grinned. "Time for a return to Drama 101. What's Sarah's secret?"

A profound secret that the character would never reveal to anyone was often a key to the character's personality, and added depth and a sense of mystery. "You know, I've never thought of a secret for Sarah. A sign of my distance from her."

"Find one," he suggested. "Maybe then you'll connect with her."

What shameful secret might honest, naive Sarah Masterson be concealing?

The answer struck like a thunderbolt: Under that innocence, Sarah was deeply, physically passionate in a time and place where women were supposed to be demure, sexless "ladies." Sarah knew that about herself, and the realization shamed her.

She didn't love Randall just for his noble profile and heroic exploits, but for his virility and beautiful body. She'd instinctively recognized that he was a man who might match her in passion. That call of the blood gave an intensity to her love.

Even though their marriage hadn't yet been consummated, she believed to her marrow that they belonged together. And she didn't dare let anyone, even Randall, know about her wanton nature for fear they'd despise her.

Her pulse accelerated. "By George, I think I've got it. Sarah's secret."

"And it is...?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret."

"Maybe I can persuade you." He pounced, kissing and caressing and murmuring against her breast in a menacing growl, "Tell me her dark secret, or I'll drive you mad."

"I'll show you madness!" Laughing, she rolled him onto his back and pinned him to the bed with her hands and knees before nibbling her way down his body. The laughter bound them together as surely as passion, until levity vanished in hot urgency.

After total meltdown, she lay panting in his arms.
Don't think that soon this will be over. Think about the two whole weeks you have left.

After a luscious, lazy interval, Kenzie kissed her temple, then climbed from the bed and started to dress. "Time I crept back across the hallway."

Reluctantly she also rose and drew on her bathrobe. "I did some rewriting on a couple of your later scenes. I'll print out the pages and get them to you today." After he nodded, she asked, "With your dyslexia, is it hard to learn new dialogue?"

His hands froze on his belt buckle. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're dyslexic, aren't you? I've always assumed so."

He fastened the belt, the leather snapping like a weapon. "Why do you say that?"

"You have trouble with right and left, you reverse things, you don't read easily, and your spelling can be pretty creative." She regarded him uneasily. "Was I wrong to assume dyslexia, or is this one of those topics you really, really don't want to talk about?"

His expression became fractionally less taut. "Both. I thought I'd done rather a good job of concealing my difficulties. Does everyone know?"

"I doubt it. You compensate beautifully. I was just in a position to notice more." She'd noticed everything about him for more than three years.

He drifted to the window and stared out, shoving his hands into his back pockets. "I was quite hopeless as a child. Probably retarded. Certainly worthless."

The flat words chilled her. Though she'd figured out that he was dyslexic fairly early, she hadn't realized how profoundly the condition had affected his life. "England is a civilized country, and dyslexia has been well understood for years. Why weren't you diagnosed when you started school?"

He shrugged. "Britons aren't quite as keen on slapping labels on children. Plus, there were... other circumstances."

Such as having a very traditional family that didn't believe some children's brains were wired a little differently than others? No wonder he was surprisingly lacking in arrogance. He wasn't reserved and unassuming because he was "an English gentleman," but because it was difficult to develop arrogance after years of being treated as stupid. "I assume that eventually a good teacher figured out what was wrong."

"Yes. Luckily, intensive work can do a great deal to compensate for learning disabilities. But it doesn't cure them, of course."

Nor did it eliminate the years of shame he'd suffered. Looking for a silver lining, she said, "It's probably helped your acting. You have a phenomenal memory, not to mention perfect pitch for accents. And your discipline. You're about the best prepared actor I've ever met, and I suspect that was another way of compensating."

He nodded, still staring out the window. "It's amazing how clever one can become at hiding one's flaws."

"Dyslexia isn't that big a deal, Kenzie. I've had several friends with varying degrees of dyslexia. I sometimes scramble things myself. It seems to go with creativity, which you certainly have in spades."

"I'm glad it's no big deal to you," he said quietly.

But it obviously was to him. "Okay, subject closed. I won't mention it again."

"I'd appreciate that." He turned from the window. "I'd also prefer this didn't become common knowledge."

She tried to make a joke of it. "Telling the tabloids that Kenzie Scott went to bed with three women and an Angora goat would be news. A learning disability wouldn't interest anyone.

"If you're telling tales to tabloids, go with the orgy. It would be less uncomfortable." He left the room, closing the door behind him with unnerving care.

She tightened her robe around her, feeling depressed. Whoever had convinced Kenzie he was a worthless child deserved to be shot—and despite her pacifist leanings, she'd be happy to load the gun.

* * *

Kenzie's call wasn't until after lunch, so he showered and ate—the night with Rainey had done wonders for his appetite—then drove to Morchard House and walked through the gardens to the labyrinth. It had helped him before, maybe it would today.

Discovering that Rainey had recognized his dyslexia made him feel like a turtle whose shell had been ripped off. Intellectually, he knew his reaction was foolish. Learning disabilities were not uncommon. Many well-known people had gone public with their own struggles.

But he'd never wanted to be a spokesman for a cause, nor could he be detached about a condition that had shaped his childhood with the harsh finality of an ax. Even with Rainey, he'd felt gut-level fear when his weakness was casually mentioned.

If he'd had a normally designed brain, his childhood would almost certainly not have been the Dickensian horror that he'd barely survived. But his brain wasn't normal, and as a child he hadn't known how to conceal that. Thoroughly convinced of his worthlessness, he'd never looked for a way out, because it hadn't occurred to him that escape was possible. Mutely he'd done what he was told, and been dragged into an abyss that left him irrevocably scarred.

Movies and radio had saved him. Though he didn't master the written word until years later, as a boy he'd loved listening to beautiful language. He'd been nine when he first heard a Shakespearean play performed on the radio. The rich, seductive power of
The Tempest
had taken him away from what he was doing, and what was being done to him.

While language was wonderful, the combination of word and image in the movies had been pure magic. Film had taken him to new worlds, created sanctuaries in his mind where he could withdraw from the sordid reality of his life.

He'd been very lucky to receive patient, intensive instruction while he was still young enough to benefit by it, but reading was still too much work to do for pleasure. He envied Rainey's ability to become totally lost in a good book. His undeserved reputation for being literate and well-read was a result of the countless audio books he'd listened to during the boring intervals of filming or while he was exercising.

He'd plunged into acting without fully realizing how much reading would be required. Hundreds of screenplays were sent to his office every year. More than most actors, he had to rely on other people to screen potential scripts for him. Once or twice, his manager and assistants had passed on a role that he later wished he'd taken, but overall the system worked well, except when he had to make a decision quickly.

That had happened with
The Centurion
. He certainly should have read it before agreeing to take the role, but he'd been busy, Rainey had explained the story, and he'd come to rely on her judgment about screenplays while they were married. So he'd agreed when he shouldn't have, and had only himself to blame.

He still wasn't sure whether or not he regretted being part of this movie. The night with Rainey had improved his mood.
The Centurion
meant time with her while having the safety net of a definite cutoff point. Of course he could endure two more weeks as John Randall.

But then he remembered how crazed he'd felt on Randall's wedding night, and wondered.

He reached the end of the labyrinth. Pivoting, he started through again in the opposite direction. Maybe he should have one of these built at Cibola, since the effect was definitely calming.

It appealed to his sense of irony to know that he and his wife would be having an affair. The situation was pure drawing-room comedy, as long as he didn't think of how soon she would cease to be his wife. Neither of them had pushed to make the divorce go through quickly. In fact, he hadn't pushed at all, merely told his lawyer not to oppose the suit, and to respond to Rainey's lawyer as needed. But divorce wasn't difficult in California, and in another few weeks, this one would be final.

Rainey would be free. And he'd be alone.

Chapter 22

"Cut." Rainey set down her flower basket with a sigh. "Definitely don't print."

Greg frowned at the section of garden where they'd been shooting. "We should adjust the lighting."

"Go ahead. Maybe a break will be good for my nerves." Rainey smiled ruefully at the woman acting opposite her, Dame Judith Hawick. One of the British theater's most revered actresses, she'd agreed to play the small but vital role of Sarah's mother. Rainey had always admired the older woman immensely, which was probably why she was so nervous that she'd blown their first scene together four times running.