expression got serious. “So you heard about Nicky.”
She shot him a poisonous look and said nothing.
He studied her, eyebrows furrowed. “I wanted to break that to you gently.”
She took a sip of water to calm herself. “Nicky told me he would marry me the first day we met. I told him I’d never get married, but he didn’t believe me. Nobody believes me.”
“He’s a romantic.” Devin’s voice was dry. “Romantics believe what they’re saying when they say it. And they believe it just as much when they say the opposite a few days later.”
“He had rheumatic fever when he was a kid, and it damaged his heart.” Pagan took another sip of water, watching Devin’s face closely. He didn’t appear surprised, even though Nicky’s condition wasn’t public knowledge. “It makes him want to live every moment to the fullest. He doesn’t pussyfoot around. He jumps right in.”
“And you think he jumped into the first girl who looked like you and married her.” Devin considered the prospect. “Probably. He’s a fool.”
“I was his girlfriend for nearly a year,” Pagan said, not ready to forgive Devin yet for tracking her down. “What does that make me?”
“Young,” he replied.
“When you are so old and wise.” She eyed him, seated so comfortably across from her in his pricey suit with the sophisticated air of a man twice his age. He was awfully cagey, Devin Black. He must have a lot to hide.
Time to find out more about this so-called legal guardian of hers. She needed leverage if she was ever going to truly escape him. She made a wild guess, based on nothing more than instinct. “Coming from a rich family makes you pretentious, not more mature.”
He smiled skeptically. “Whereas growing up in Hollywood makes you down-to-earth?”
She waved aside this attempt to insult her, intent on wringing some kind of admission from him. “No studio pays press agents enough to have custom-made Savile Row suits,” she said. “Did your mother pick it out for you?”
His smile broadened. “Mother can’t be bothered with my suits. She’s too busy ruling her little kingdom of wealthy socialites.” He shrugged the elegant shoulders of his jacket. “You’re right, of course. I had no idea you were so observant.”
So his mother was still alive, and he referred to her as “Mother” rather than “Mom.” A distant, formal relationship then.
The waiter was approaching with their food. She moved her water glass aside. “And your father? Does he rule that tiny kingdom by her side? Or is he like my dad was—just happy to be on the team?”
Devin’s face went blank. The emptiness there was so profound, a chill ran down the back of her neck.
Then the waiter was at the table, putting down plates of rosy butterflied steak filets and snowy white mashed potatoes dolloped with chunks of golden butter.
Devin picked up his fork and knife, contemplating his food with anticipation, and the moment was gone.
“Looks good, doesn’t it?” He nodded at the waiter. “Thank you.”
He began cutting the steak, and she took up her own utensils, waiting for a response to her question. But he only made a small appreciative sound as he took a bite. “I always eat here if I’m stuck waiting for a flight,” he said. “Better than the Clipper Club.”
The warm rich smell wafting up from her plate was making her mouth water, so she cut into her steak. But she made a mental note: Devin didn’t like discussing his father. That relationship held some kind of secret pain for him, and knowing that, she’d gained a tiny victory. He knew so much about her, it was only fair that she find out more about him, and she resolved to dig further into this whole father issue of his when she could.
The filet melted between her teeth. She groaned involuntarily with pleasure. She hadn’t tasted anything so delicious in months.
“See?” Devin cut himself another neat piece. “Did you want sour cream for your potatoes?”
She had practically forgotten sour cream existed. “Oh, yes please!”
As he signaled the waiter, she realized that for a good five minutes she hadn’t thought about Nicky Raven and his new bride. Maybe that’s just how Devin Black had wanted it.
The Dior suit dress withstood the trip to Berlin without a wrinkle, but by the time they landed Pagan was very much looking forward to getting out of it and into a nice soft bed, faraway from everyone on earth, particularly Devin Black.
While on the plane, and with a showy flourish to demonstrate how she was ignoring him, Pagan had plunged into an article in Time about the Cold War.
She’d found herself caught up in the article in spite of herself. Nothing like the serious threat of nuclear war to grab your attention.
A defeated Germany had been divided into four parts after the Second World War, each part governed by a different Allied nation—the United States, England, France, and the Soviet Union. They’d similarly divided up the German capital, Berlin.
But the alliance soured fast after Soviet leader Joseph Stalin effectively took control of all the countries east of Germany, as well as a big chunk of Germany itself, now known as East Germany.
So the other three powers remained huddled in the three quarters of Berlin that had been given to them, surrounded on all sides by the new country of the German Democratic Republic, or East Germany as Westerners liked to call it.
The man now in charge of that country, Walter Ulbricht, had been tight with Stalin, and even more than the Soviets, maintained rigid control of every aspect of daily life—from the price of bread to what people could read and say.
Well, that was glum, restricting, and oddly familiar. Pagan’s biggest hit, Beach Bound Beverly, would never have been made in East Germany—too frivolous. Also, the East German government spied on its citizens all the time, so even if you managed to get your hands on something “decadent” like a Dior suit dress, you could never wear it out or the government would punish you.
This Walter Ulbricht guy sounded a lot like a balding, grumpy version of Mama.
Pagan giggled, then caught herself guiltily. Mama had been warm as well as firm, and Pagan loved her. The world had seemed to bow to Mama’s control. Pagan had been safe with her around, and Mama had taught her many useful ways in which to navigate the strange world of Hollywood. That was one of many reasons her suicide had cast Pagan so adrift.
But Mama had been a perfectionist—overseeing Pagan’s every word and gesture, grooming her meticulously for success, managing every tiny detail of her career. Pagan had barely been allowed to breathe out of her mother’s sight. As long as Pagan was perfect, the family would get to keep their fine house in the Hollywood Hills, and Mama would be happy. One mistake could ruin them.
All of that effort had paid off. Pagan had become a star. She hadn’t made any mistakes until Mama died. After that it had been the secret stashes of alcohol that soothed her anxieties instead of her mother’s firm hand on her shoulder.
Maybe
