“Damn it!”

The train of Margo’s dress caught in the hinge of the small gate at the end of the pebbled path that led to the Chateau Marmont pool. Irritated, she crouched to the ground, gingerly attempting to disentangle it without damaging the delicate cloth. In the dim light, her hand slipped and the sharp edge of the hinge sliced the soft flesh of her hand, leaving behind a thin stripe of bright blood. “Damn, damn, damn!”

This whole ordeal was really Jimmy’s fault, Margo thought as she applied pressure to her palm with her thumb. It was terribly ungentlemanly of him. The least he could have done after she’d gone to all the trouble of arranging the car herself was wait for her outside, or at least in the lobby. She had asked Arthur to fetch him, but the chauffeur had shaken his head.

“They won’t let me in the Chateau, miss,” he had said. “Not up in any guest rooms, that is.”

“But that’s ridiculous!”

Arthur had let out a bitter laugh. “Maybe so. But it ain’t gonna change this evening, and nothing you can say is going to make a fool’s worth of difference.” So instead, here she was, bleeding and having to chase down Jimmy as if she were his mother. He’s going to get an earful from me in the car, she thought angrily. That’s for sure.

Bungalow seven was on the far end of the kidney-shaped pool, nestled behind a small private grove of fragrant flowering bushes. Margo knocked gently on the door. There was no answer. Impatiently, she jiggled the knob, and to her surprise, the door swung open.

Margo knew it was horribly rude to just barge into someone’s house like this. But Jimmy was expecting her, and Pasadena was at least forty-five minutes away. If they didn’t hit the road soon, they were going to be unforgivably late.

The front sitting room was empty but showed clear signs of habitation: an overflowing ashtray, a couple of half-consumed glasses of watery Scotch on the coffee table. A record, having finished, spun silently on the phonograph.

“Jimmy?” she called. “It’s me, Margo.” There was no answer, but she heard an unmistakable scuttling sound coming from the back of the bungalow, as if someone was trying to move around without being heard. “Jimmy, come on, I know you’re in there.”

There was no answer, only a hissing noise, like someone trying to talk without being heard, coming from a closed door that she assumed led to the bedroom.

She was just about to try the knob when the door opened a crack and Jimmy’s head popped out. “Margo!” Holding the door firmly in front of him, he flashed her a queasy attempt at his famous smile. “What are you … what are you doing here?”

His face was damp and his hair disheveled, as if he’d just been for a run. God, Margo thought, he isn’t even dressed yet. By the time he’d taken a shower and put on a dinner jacket, they’d have practically missed Doris’s entire party. “We have a date.” Margo glowered. “You’re supposed to take me to Pasadena tonight, remember?”

“Of course I do!” Jimmy said, a bit too quickly to be convincing. He isn’t really that good an actor, Margo thought. “Good old Pasadena, I can’t wait! It’s just … um … I’m in the middle of something … in here, so be an angel and wait in the sitting room, won’t you, darling? Or out by the pool, that’s much nicer. I’ll be out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Margo held her injured hand in front of Jimmy’s face. “I’m bleeding,” she snapped. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom and clean up.”

“But I’m not dressed,” Jimmy protested desperately.

“I don’t care!” Margo could have strangled him. “I cut myself on a rusty hinge. It needs to be cleaned right away or it will get infected.”

“Go back to the main building, then. The bathroom attendant will help you, and I’ll meet you in the lobby for a drink before we go.”

Margo’s hand was starting to throb. “This is ridiculous. I’m going to bleed all over my dress. Just let me in!”

“No!” Jimmy shouted.

Suddenly, it hit Margo like a flash. The two half-drunk glasses of Scotch, the spinning record. Jimmy hadn’t been expecting her at all. He’s got someone in there, she thought furiously. Probably some chorus girl. And Gabby knew. That was why she’d told Margo to come to the Chateau. So she could catch them red-handed. “Let me in, Jimmy!”

“Margo, no, please!”

She seized the side of the door. Jimmy wedged his body against the jamb, trying in vain to hold her back.

The door swung open, and so did Margo’s jaw.

Jimmy had someone in there, all right. Lying bare-chested in the king-sized bed, entangled sexily in the musky sheets. Only it wasn’t a girl.

It was a boy.

“It’s … You …” Margo tried to speak, but her tongue was in knots. Tongue-tied, she thought. Now she knew what it really meant.

The boy stared at her from the bed, calmly smoking a cigarette with long, languorous drags. The edge of the sheet was tucked below his smooth, olive-skinned chest. He’s a handsome boy, Margo thought, in spite of her shock. A very handsome boy.

“Margo,” Jimmy said. “Go into the sitting room. Please.”

Numbly, she did as he said and sat down on the sofa as Jimmy closed the door behind her. From the bedroom, she heard a buzz of slurry whispers, but she couldn’t make out the words. Jimmy will come out in a minute, she thought dazedly. What on earth am I supposed to do then? Orange Grove Academy for Young Ladies had prided itself on preparing its students for any possible social situation, but the proper mode of decorum for when one had just discovered an unclothed boy in one’s pretend boyfriend’s bed had been conspicuously absent from the curriculum. With her uninjured hand, she carefully arranged the folds of her gown so it draped more gracefully over the sofa. Whatever was about to happen, she thought, she’d feel better facing it in an unwrinkled dress.

Jimmy emerged from the bedroom in his bare feet, dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt open at the neck. His damp hair was combed back slickly from his face. Wordlessly, he went to the bar and poured out two stiff drinks.

“Here,” he said flatly, handing Margo the glass of Scotch.

“Jimmy …”

“Drink it.” Even his voice had changed. Gone was the cheerful, mugging Jimmy she had heard “aw shucks” his way through so many interviews and public dates over the past several weeks. This Jimmy sounded terse, matter-of-fact, almost dangerous. Awfully ironic, Margo thought, that this of all possible situations seemed to have transformed silly, tap-dancing Jimmy into Humphrey Bogart. Funny, she mused, I actually like him better this way.

“Drink,” Jimmy repeated. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

She tossed the liquor down her throat in a single swallow, wincing at the burn.

“Good girl,” Jimmy said. He refilled both drinks. “Again.” He waited to speak until they’d drained their drinks for the second time. “Now tell me what you’re doing here.”

“It was Gabby.” Margo felt dizzy, as if a warm, spreading light were shining directly into her eyes. “Gabby said—”

“What? What did she say?”

“She told me you said to come here. To pick you up,” Margo said helplessly. “She must have … she must have known you’d be …” She didn’t quite have the words to go on.

“It certainly looks that way,” Jimmy said grimly. He poured himself another drink and held out the bottle to Margo. She shook her head. “She must have overheard me making arrangements with Roderigo on the phone today.”

Roderigo. It was shocking, somehow, knowing the handsome boy’s name. Margo wondered if he was listening to them through the door. “You mean … Gabby … knows about …”

“I don’t know what she knows and what she doesn’t. She probably thought it was a dame I was meeting. Maybe not. Gabby may act like a little kid, but she’s been around show people her whole life. She’s not exactly an innocent flower when it comes to this sort of thing.”

“But why? Why would she do such a thing?”

“Oh, I’m sure she had her reasons. Maybe she was bored and wanted a laugh. Maybe she was jealous, or maybe she figured it’d scare you off and she’d inherit me. Who knows what’s going through that pill-crazed little mind of hers right now?”

“Gabby’s in love with you,” Margo said suddenly, although she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to defend her faithless friend.

“No.” The ghost of a smile played across the shadow of Jimmy’s face. “Gabby Preston is in love with the idea of me, or more accurately, the idea of herself with me. She wants to be America’s Sweetheart, part of an iconic couple. As far as she’s concerned, this”—he gestured toward the closed bedroom door—“is no barrier to entry.” He swallowed his drink. “Don’t be sore at Gabby, Margo. However selfish her reasons, in a way it’s rather a relief you found out. Not the ideal situation, perhaps, but at least you didn’t have to hear it from someone else.”

“Someone else? What do you mean, someone else?”

Jimmy let out a short bark of a laugh. “Oh, come on, Margo. You don’t think it’s just by chance the powers that be oh-so-patiently nurtured our young romance into being, do you? And just after your little tête-a-tête with Dane Forrest too? One star, one ascendant: nasty gossip dogging both. Put them together and it cancels out the scandal. Publicity 101.”

“If you don’t like what they’re saying, change the conversation,” Margo said quietly.

“The oldest trick in the book. And as an added bonus, with a guy like me they wouldn’t have to worry about you getting into trouble. In the family way, I mean.” Jimmy smiled at her, with what looked like real kindness this time. “Poor little Margo. I bet you didn’t know this kind of thing even existed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Margo said defensively, although she couldn’t help thinking what her father might make of this. Nervously, she fingered the gold-and-pearl pin she’d fastened at the last moment to the strap of her evening dress. It had made her feel better when she was dressing, to think she was going back to Pasadena with a little piece of it still with her; now she was just glad she had something to do with her hands. For the first time, she understood why so many people took up smoking. “I just … well, I just didn’t think I’d ever … you know, meet one in person.”

Jimmy chuckled. “I’ll bet my bottom dollar that you’ve already met about a hundred of them. Show business is crawling with us ‘artistic types,’ I’m afraid.”

“But isn’t it awfully …” Margo searched for the right word. “Unhealthy, I guess?”

Jimmy’s smile faded. “I suppose the next thing you’re going to tell me is that I’m going to hell.”

“No! I don’t think that’s for anyone to say!” Margo didn’t know what to say. She supposed she ought to disapprove, or be angry at having been deceived, but Jimmy had never made a secret of the fact that their relationship was more business than pleasure. And what really was so wrong about a man wanting to be with a man, or a woman to be with a woman? She remembered the vague, sinking feeling of entrapment she’d always felt whenever her mother began talking excitedly about her future marriage prospects. The way she felt her heart cracking in two when Mr. Karp had told her she could no longer hope for Dane. How much worse must that be for someone like Jimmy? To feel that not just one person but all of society would never allow you to be with the one you loved? The whole thing seemed about as senseless as keeping Arthur out of the stupid lobby of the hotel. “I just … well, maybe you just haven’t met the right girl,” she finished lamely.

“Margo, I’m a movie star,” Jimmy said. “I could have any girl on the planet if I wanted. The problem is, I don’t.” Finishing his Scotch, he calmly poured himself another. “But look, I have to say, you’re taking this all very well. Like I said, it’s a relief.”

“For me too.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Jimmy said. “And anyway, there’s no reason why we can’t carry on as before.”

“What?” Margo shook her head. “How can we do that?”

Jimmy came to sit beside her on the couch. “Darling, look. Ninety percent of Hollywood romances are just business anyway, whether the parties go to bed together or not. And we’re doing good business. We’ve got a public profile. We’ve got fans. There’s no need to derail all that. We might as well keep it up. If you want, we can even get married.”

Married? “Why would I want to do that?”

“The studio would like it, for one. Karp’s made that abundantly clear. It would keep the gossip columnists from breathing down my neck for a while. As for you, well, you could move off the lot, have some space, some privacy. I’m building a big house in Malibu, and I’ve got another one in Beverly Hills. Both of them could use a woman’s touch. And I’d make it worth your while, financially, that is. My lawyers can renegotiate your contract after The Nine Days’ Queen comes out, see that on your next picture Karp gives you what you’re worth. And Hollywood’s been good to me over the years. I’ll gladly supplement your salary with a generous allowance. And if there should ever come a time when we agree to … well, dissolve our arrangement, I’ll see that you’re well taken care of. In return for your discretion, of course.”

“Of course,” Margo said mechanically. She could hardly believe this was happening. Our arrangement. Your discretion. A desert breeze was drifting through the open window. Suddenly, she felt very cold.

As if he could read her mind, Jimmy reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “Look, I know it’s not exactly the proposal that every girl dreams of. And none of this has to be decided now. But believe it or not, I’m fond of you, duchess. I know I haven’t always shown it.…” His eyes wandered toward the closed bedroom door. “But we could be good friends for each other, if you’d like to try. And in the meantime, I’d be more than happy to let you pursue whatever interests you had on the side. Believe me, I’ll be a hell of a lot easier to get around than Larry Julius, that’s for sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dane Forrest?” Jimmy raised his eyebrows mischievously, and for a moment he looked like his old self. “God knows he’d be a lousy husband. But as a part-time lover? It’s the role he was born to play.”

Margo forced herself to put that thought to the side. Future clandestine meetings with Dane Forrest were the last thing she could think about right now, especially after that scene on the set today. If she started thinking about the mystery of Dane Forrest, not to mention Diana, she might never stop. “I still don’t see what’s in it for you,” she said stubbornly.

“For me? I thought I told you.” Jimmy looked surprised. “I get to keep the thing I love.”

“Roderigo?”

Jimmy chuckled. “Touché.”

“No, I mean, wouldn’t you rather let people know who you really are?”

“But they already do.”

“Jimmy, I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” Jimmy said intently. “Because before I am anything else in the world, before I’m a son or a friend, or a brother or a lover, I am a performer. It is the first, last, and only thing I am.”

“But it can’t—”

“Listen to me, Margo.” He leaned in very close to her. His boyish face was as grave as a judge’s. “Some people are in the business for the cash. I’m not going to name names, but they get addicted to the lifestyle, the luxury, the fame. I don’t care about all that.”

“Neither do I, Ji—”

“It’s different for you,” Jimmy interrupted. “You grew up with money. You don’t care about it because you can’t imagine a world where it doesn’t exist. But my father was a hobo. We used to ride the rails, he and I, and I started singing and dancing so people would throw pennies at us, or pieces of bread. And it turned out I was good at it. Really good. Better than anyone else in the world.”

Jimmy’s face had taken on an almost beatific glow. He looked like one of the angels singing in the painting above the altar in the chapel at Orange Grove. “I dance dances that are created by geniuses, like Tully Toynbee,” he said. “I sing songs written by Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, the Gershwins, Dorothy Fields: the greatest poets of the modern age. I bring joy to millions of people who have nothing else to be happy about. Men who’ve been out of work so long they don’t feel like men anymore. Women who don’t know how they’re going to put dinner on the table every night. People everywhere, living under the thumb of poverty and oppression. They need me, Margo. There’s nothing in the world I wouldn’t sacrifice to keep giving that to them. Nothing I wouldn’t hide.” He put down his glass. “If you want to be a star, a real star, you have to be willing to give up everything else. Everything. And anyone who says otherwise doesn’t belong in Hollywood.”

Reaching out to Jimmy, Margo stroked his damp cheek. Smoothing her dress, she stood from the couch and walked to the door. “Then I guess I’d better go back where I belong.”