Dancing with the Devil

DANCING WITH THE DEVIL A Dark Paranormal Romance

Audrey Godwin

EROTIC ROMANCE

Siren Publishing, Inc. www.SirenPublishing.com

A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK IMPRINT: Erotic Romance ABOUT THE E-BOOK VERSION: Your non-refundable purchase of this e-book allows you to one LEGAL copy for your own personal use. It is ILLEGAL to send your copy to someone who did not pay for it. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book. DANCING WITH THE DEVIL A Dark Paranormal Romance Copyright © 2008 by Audrey Godwin E-book ISBN: 1-60601-024-7 First E-book Publication: March 2008 Cover design by Jinger Heaston All cover art and logo copyright © 2008 by Siren Publishing, Inc. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. PUBLISHER Siren Publishing, Inc. www.SirenPublishing.com

DEDICATION The Chippendale Dancers were, at one time, rumored to be the most handsome in the world. The best of each of those gorgeous hunks live in Lance Weston’s character, making him the perfect devil. For that reason I’d like to dedicate this book to all those exotic male dancers out there who are dancing devils in their own right. Hey guys, if you’re ever approached by an old diva dressed in a floppy Greta Garbo hat and Joan Crawford pumps, beware! It could be another star of yesteryear who wants to make you her permanent plaything!

THANK YOU! Lorna Desmond’s character was based on two of the most beautiful and talented divas in film history, Gloria Swanson and Marlene Dietrich. When each star sputtered out of the cinema heaven, they left us with such wonderful cinematic classics as Sunset Boulevard, and The Blue Angel. These grand ladies contributed to that sparkling era of glamour and beauty that made Hollywood what it was before it died such a lonely and heartbreaking death! Ladies, I’m sorry that I had to make Lorna the villain. When I began this book, I intended for her to only be a minor character, but as she slowly took on each of your star-studded personalities, she had nowhere to go but—center stage! Thanks ladies for so many rich memories! This book is also for you!

DANCING WITH THE DEVIL A Dark Paranormal Romance

Audrey Godwin Copyright © 2008

Prologue His devil’s costume glittered blindingly in the stage lights. His loose hips revolved suggestively while his shifting feet kept time to the hot music. His wild, vulgar movements thrilled the women who watched, and he played to them with his sexy smile and slumberous eye contact. He was volatile! So absolutely gorgeous they couldn’t stay away, but recklessly reached into the simulated flames to intimately caress his cock. All at once his dance began heating up, the music throbbing, pumping, blasting, building rapidly toward a fevered pinnacle that never failed to rob women of their inhibitions. The fires that depicted Hell surged upward in a giant swoosh while he danced. The women screamed out their appreciation and excitement while feeling just a touch of fright at this wicked spectacle! It was almost time for him to begin undressing, so he danced closer to the edge, his luminous blue eyes peering lazily at the women who gazed up at him worshipfully. They presented themselves to him, to the young, virile body that danced untamed through the leaping flames, to the pulsing male power, the gorgeous face, the bold blue eyes, and the wild, devilish movements that turned them all from mere wantons to hot, burning sacrifices that lay willingly on the corrupt, primal altar of Lance Weston…the Devil.

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She stood watching as he continued to writhe wickedly across the stage. Her eyes followed his hands, as piece by piece, he undressed like the seasoned stripper he was, revealing strong, broad shoulders, a hairless rippling chest, and muscled abs. While watching the shameful display, the woman who stood draped in darkness could feel an erotic warmth gathering in the deepest part of her groin. But her arousal only fueled her belief that what writhed before her wasn’t a man in a devil’s costume, but the Prince of Darkness himself. In her demented state, every flame of fire that surged forward to give the act its authenticity was a flame licking upward from the bowels of Hell, convincing her that he was no ordinary man, but a devil—a mad, obscene, gorgeous devil who should be locked up! **** Finally the velvet curtain closed and Lance hurried off the stage. As he made his way to his dressing room he noticed that the backstage area seemed strangely vacant. He slowed, his head turning, his eyes darting toward the dark corners. It was an area that was usually full of chaos and clamor, but tonight he heard nothing but stealthy creaks and heavy silence. He looked around, uneasy. Where the hell was everyone? Why was the chaos and clamor of a busy night suddenly hushed? Just then he felt a slight chill from an imaginary breeze, a breeze that brought with it an icy finger that slowly moved up his spine. He jerked his head around when he heard a fleeting laugh, a group of excited voices lingering in the air. Trying to shake the gloomy thoughts from his mind, he continued to make his way through the disturbing shadows to his dressing room. When he slammed in, he stopped abruptly, seeing a room full of inky darkness lit only by the lights that surrounded the mirror at his station. What the hell was going on tonight?

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Everyone gone—and now this? He tried to turn his eyes away, but they seemed strangely drawn to the only lights in the room that cast an eerie glow. It was a scene perfectly staged, a scene he’d seen a thousand times in old movies. A door opens with no one on the other side. It’s an invitation to danger, a challenge, a dare. It was a slice of drama that had audiences sitting on the edge of their seats fifty years ago! But it still worked, and now it was calling to him, inviting him, daring him to sit down. He knew he could back out of the room and go out the front, but he had to get out of his costume, get his things and take off his make-up. He quickly reached over to the light switch and flipped it, but nothing happened. A slight unease rippled through him until it dawned on him that it was a gag. Of course! Someone was pulling the mother of all gags on him. Sure, that’s what it was, he thought as his eyes darted, searching the shadows for what? What was he looking for? A crowd of guys who were getting some kind of perverse thrill out of this? Or maybe some made-up monster from a B movie? A lunatic with round, glassy eyes and sharp teeth? Softly closing the door behind him, he walked over to his station. He stopped when he thought he heard movement, and looked around. Seeing nothing, he slowly inched down into his chair and sat there in a rigid pose for a few heartbeats with his eyes riveted to the deep darkness behind him. Finally a face as pale as death emerged. Stern, it was, almost like a ghost, and clean of any facial hair. He was dressed in some old chauffeur’s uniform complete with knee-high boots and a billed cap. It looked like an outfit that would have been worn in the forties. At first, Lance thought he must be imagining things, but when he realized the man was real, he jumped up, and with a quick turn, lunged toward the door. The old man moved quickly and surrounded him with his vise-like grip. Lance struggled until something sharp pricked his arm. Almost immediately he felt himself wilting, as if every joint in his body had turned to rubber. Even his lids, when he fought to keep them open, were heavy, and he saw only a blur of black eyes and grim lips stretched back against clenched teeth. Lance could feel the old man dragging him, but he couldn’t

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fight. And then strangely enough, as he was being carried out his eyes fluttered briefly at a red brightness that reminded him of blood. Like the beating of his heart, it blinked above the door that led into the alley. Stage Door Stage Door Stage Door All at once he was being jostled and shoved into a car. Later, after an endless stretch of slight rocking and bouncing, he felt someone’s hands all over him. They helped him out of the car, then up miles of stairs. He heard whispers all around him, then saw faces whirling above him. He tried to keep his eyes open, but his mind was muddled, he couldn’t think. In the midst of scraping feet, and the thrashing of his heart, suddenly he realized he was being laid out on a bed, his costume removed and his arms jerked upward and left there to hang. How many faces had he seen? Certainly more than one. He’d heard their voices, felt their hands pulling and jerking, but he still couldn’t keep his eyes open. All at once everything became quiet, the voices and the scraping footsteps fading until at last there was nothing except the nightmarish sound of a moaning wind outside a window. He imagined it to be the sound of a tormented ghost caught between worlds. He struggled and writhed, but was at last forced to surrender to a darkness that lurked just beyond. As he swam in its irresistible warmth he could feel it slowly enclose him, the darkness deep, the void wide. He took only one thought with him as he felt himself sinking into its fathomless depths. Was this all-consuming darkness only sleep, or was it—death? Later that same night High in the Hollywood Hills, a light glowed softly from a tower room where a man lay unconscious. Outside his room, creeping up a narrow winding staircase, a woman hovered against the wall as she climbed. A deep heat trembled in her groin as she thought of him, of his beauty. He was perfect in every way. Tall, so very tall, with swarthy skin and eyes that held

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promises within their blue slumberous glow. She could still hear the music he danced to drawing her like a siren song, an ancient song that that rose up from the deepest bowels of Hell! Finally she reached the top of the stairs where she hesitantly reached down and retrieved a key from her pocket. The quiet of the landing was heavy, making the sound of metal-on-metal like the crack of a gunshot. With a slight twist, it gently released, and she gave the knob a gentle turn and pushed slightly. The door gave way, opening to a room lit only by a low fire in the fireplace. When she saw him still sleeping she felt a stab of relief, and quickly slipped in through the narrow opening until she stood looking down at his wicked beauty. Shadows hung from the ceiling, enclosing the small room in intimacy, an intimacy that made her want to touch him, to smell him, to move her hands over his beautiful body until the pulsing ache between her legs demanded more. The errant thought excited her, causing her to put a hand on her stomach and close her eyes to try and still her pounding heart. After taking a deep, calming breath, she walked slowly toward him until she hovered over his sleeping body. Her trembling hand reached out, hesitantly at first, and moved slowly through his curling hair, searching his scalp for the Devil’s mark she knew should be there. When she didn’t find it, she looked just beyond his hairline for a slight protrusion of horns, but again she was disappointed. All at once she realized how near he was, and her eyes lowered, looking curiously at his face. He was breathtaking. His skin was swarthy, his lips full with a pillowy softness that invited a woman’s touch. His brows arched, his sideburns dropped down below his lobes to a curving point, and his thick-lashed eyes had an exotic look, tilting upward at the edge, ever-so-slightly. It all seemed to come together to give his sinfully handsome face an evil, roguish look. A manly scent, sensuous and exotic, drifted toward her, and her eyes closed in total rapture. She was so close. Her lips hovered slightly above his. It would be so easy to kiss him, but she couldn’t. Not this vile creature she knew to be Satan. Oh, he was tempting. Even in sleep, but she couldn’t. She just couldn’t! And then, as if they had a mind of their own, her hands began

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to move downward, lightly touching his perfect face, and then his neck, shoulders and chest, until she came to the scrap of cloth that covered his hips. Taking her time, she lifted the sheet and saw what lay beneath, and gasped! It was unbelievable! Magnificent! It lay there, surrounded by a nest of dark curls, not moving, yet she knew it held such power that it could steal her soul away. Dare she touch it? What if he awoke? No, it wasn’t possible. The sedative in the hypodermic was enough to make him sleep for hours, maybe days. She glanced up at his handsome face, almost expecting him to be looking at her with those electric blue eyes, but they were closed, his dark, feathery lashes fanned out along his high cheekbones. She was mesmerized by his good looks. Seeing him up close, having his bold and beautiful body within her reach was intoxicating. Her eyes wandered down again to his naked cock. She wanted to caress it, kiss it, take it in her mouth and taste it. But she didn’t dare. Oh, how she longed to satisfy the ache between her legs! Swirling, hot and red. Scorching! Burning! With these feelings roiling inside her, her eyes drifted to a close, and she heard the word she had lived by all her life. Action! Suddenly she was on a movie set. A grotto-like inferno was filled with a reddish hue, a cavernous area with marble floors, columned halls and soaring, jagged walls that pulsed as if alive. Red mist escaped through fissures in the rock, making the room illusory and dreamlike. The vast area must have been decorated by Satan himself because everything was done in undulating flames that rose and fell, as if keeping time to a hellish rhapsody. And there lying on his bed of flames was Lance Weston—Satan— Lucifer—the magnificent Prince of Darkness himself. Like the god he was, he lay back against the headboard, naked except for the thin sheet that covered his hips, one leg bent brazenly upward. His eyes were slumberous and held a blaze within their electric blue depth. Lorna’s eyes darted around the room. “W-What...where am I...why am I here?” Her eyes leapt back to him, at the fearful image of his magnificence, and felt impaled by his steady gaze.

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To pleasure me, he said. The sound of his voice was deep and smooth, causing an eagerness to rise within her, an eagerness as erratic as a summer storm. She wanted to run to him, to melt in his arms, but he still frightened her, and she felt herself resisting in order to protect her jolting heart. So she simply watched him, his maddening hint of arrogance, his glittering, mischievous eyes, his lopsided smile. Yes, he was Satan, she was sure of it. No mere mortal could be so handsome. The thought unsettled her. For the first time in her career she was unsure of herself. It had been so long since she’d been hailed as a goddess of the silver screen. How would he see her? Would she be beautiful enough for him? Would she please him? And then again, he had called for her hadn’t he? To share his bed? To—pleasure him? With slow, hesitant steps, she walked toward him. He reached out and touched the belt of her robe and pulled, revealing her nakedness. She gasped as the material fell lifeless to her side. Remove it, he said softly. Feeling compelled to submit to his awesome power, she could do nothing else, so she shrugged and the robe fell to her feet. She held her breath when she saw his gaze rake her body frankly, appraising it with lustful eyes. Like a prowling cat, he moved to the edge of his silken, blazing bed, pulled her forward and positioned her inside his thighs. Her eyes closed when he gently pressed his open, searching lips to her skin and traced a scorching trail along her stomach. Instinctively her body arched toward him seeking to satisfy the fire he had kindled within her. Her burning need grew, and with it, the desire to writhe lustfully, wantonly, to bury her fingers in his dark, curling hair. The closer his hot, searching tongue came to her center, the more her hips moved, anticipating an invasion—begging for an invasion! And then she felt it!

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He separated her moist, trembling folds and exposed her bud that seemed to be reaching out from a dripping, pulsing cunt. She tried to hold her raw emotions in check, but wantonly threw her head back and gave forth a deep moan. In seconds, endless spasms seized her as he sank his tongue deeper and deeper inside her, causing her to gasp in sweet agony. A wild, untamed tempest began to rise within her higher and higher. She could no sooner hold back the ocean tides than the scream that pushed its way into her throat. Her raw, wanton blood had turned to molten lava, causing her to wilt until she at last lay before him like a sacrifice on an altar of fire. He had wanted her to pleasure him, but instead he had pleasured her, bringing her into a swirling, red-hot ecstasy where lustful flames licked at her skin. She moved and stretched in this awesome state of bliss, loving his touch as he continued to stimulate her with his magic fingers. Finally he opened her legs, and a cock so large it robbed her of her breath touched her stomach. Instinctively she reached for it and strained her hips forward to meet it. It’s yours, he whispered close to her ear. Use it to delight yourself. Fuck it, lick it, eat it! His wicked words, his silken voice, made her cunt throb with desire. Unable to resist, she quickly pushed it inside her, immediately feeling the sensitive invasion. It caused her mouth to open in ecstatic exclamation, jerking her body as a stab of sizzling current arched through it. And then the thrust! She couldn’t control her outcry of delight! Feeling his welcome heaviness upon her, she arched her back, inviting him to feast upon her breasts while she opened wider. His hands, his lips, his heavy breath singed her in their quest to bring her higher into the stratosphere of carnal delight. She reached out, clinging to him, her cunt and the inside of her thighs so hot she felt she had turned to flame. Together they found the tempo that bound their bodies. Skin to skin, man to woman, he filled her world, her erotic world of fire and ecstasy. Short, quick breaths caught in her throat, and her movements became frenzied as she clung to him. The fire within her leapt so high she felt as if she were being hurtled beyond the point of no return. He devoured her with

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his open, hungry mouth, pressed and squeezed her with his hands. By this time his cock was unbelievably hard and long, and he filled her inch by flaming inch. She could feel his body moving, swaying, jerking to a carnal rhythm while he sought pleasure from kneading her breasts, her hips. The bed heaved and bumped, this beautiful devil orchestrating every movement. Both moved feverishly, dampness beading on them and forming rivulets of sweat that trailed down their trembling bodies. She clung, she rode, she moaned, grunted and cried out as he pulled her closer and rolled with her from one side to the other. Suddenly she was on top, looking like a hellion riding her muscled, untamed steed. She thrilled as his hands moved up her body to cup her breasts and delightfully tweak her nipples. It sent a spiral of desire into her center, causing her to pump harder and harder until she reached the edge. On fire, her wayward hands moved sensuously along her body and thighs, then up again until they lifted her hair in utter abandon. Just then her back arched and she shattered around him, her cunt grasping his cock as if it never wanted to let go. And yet the liquid flames refused to die. They continued to swirl inside her, climbing higher and higher into a series of wild orgasms that sent screams, one after the other, echoing throughout this netherworld called Hell. As her eyes closed in satisfaction, she knew she was his slave. Her body still craved his hands and ached for his touch. She wanted to devour him, take him so deep inside her that his length would reach her core. That’s when she knew the sacrifice was complete, that she was his now, all of her. Her body, her heart—her soul. She was still drifting in this foggy, mesmerizing dreamland when suddenly she thought she heard someone call out… Cut! Print! Her eyes flew open, the images on the dark screen of her mind gone! Her head jerked upward. Where was she? And then she turned and saw him. Still asleep. Still shackled. No he hadn’t made love to her. It was a dream! An erotic dream where he had taken her with all the frenzy of a tornado! She looked down,

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her robe loose around her. She could still feel the lingering strains of an orgasm, and lifted her hand from between her legs. My God, she’d been pleasuring herself! Masturbating like a common...! No! her mind shouted, No! But it was true! He hadn’t looked at her with his electric blue eyes, or touched her with amorous hands. And his cock, so beautiful and so perfect. It hadn’t even touched her! It was a dream. A dumb, stupid, erotic dream! For some reason she felt an icy fear stirring inside her. Why? Why was she frightened? She lunged forward, her anxious eyes turning first toward the window, then to the door. She listened. Something had woken her. Was it the wind, or was someone climbing the stairs? The sound came again. It seemed far away, as if it were coming from downstairs. Suddenly she knew. Someone was pounding at her front door! Who could it be at this hour? She looked down at her watch. Dear God, where had the time gone? She thought of Dagmar. She would still be asleep. Oh, God, she couldn’t have the noise wake Dagmar! She had to get out of there. If she were caught, how would she explain it? What excuse could she give for staying with him all night? Knowing she couldn’t dare be caught, she slowly pulled herself away from him, feeling a deep sense of shame. But then, as she looked at him, at the devilish charm, the perfect body, she couldn’t believe it was only a dream. It had seemed so real! Yes! It was real! It must have been! He may be asleep, but he was still the Devil, and he had somehow seduced her with an erotic dream! She was a mere woman against this specimen of perfect masculinity, this dark fantasy that had climbed up out of the bowels of Hell and lived in women’s dreams! To the naked eye, he might look like any gorgeous Greek god who walked along the street in the bright light of day, but he didn’t fool her. Like any devil, he liked the darkness, the wantonness that his perfect body greedily wrenched from a woman. He liked to seduce, then conquer! He lived it, breathed it, consumed it, reveled in it! It was his very existence! Even if she hadn’t seen him dance at the Lucifer Club and saw his name, Lance Weston listed on the program, she would have known.

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He didn’t fool her. She knew it wasn’t a dream! He had taken her to his silken lair in the center of Hell! She hadn’t imagined him touching her. He had actually done it! She had felt his hard, muscular body against hers, experienced his sumptuous sex appeal, the filthiness and vulgarity, the base, raw, crude sexual energy that could only radiate from him. No, there was no doubt in her mind. After all, who else could possibly possess the ruling, dynamic sexual force that made her, or any woman, want to throw herself at his feet? None but the Prince of Darkness himself. She had been there. She had seen the wild flames that licked hungrily at his torso. And the face, yes, it was written in the face that was too handsome to be mortal. In the deeply arched brows, the long, curving sideburns, and in the sultry look burning in his eyes just before he ripped off his sparkling, radiant costume. Yes, she knew in her blood, her soul, and in the deepest reaches of her womanhood that Lance Weston, the gorgeous creature that she had managed to snare while he was still garbed in his flaming red costume, was in reality—Satan.

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Chapter 1 Somewhere in the Hollywood Hills She ran, her breath heavy and labored. The dense foliage slapped against her body as she hurriedly pushed her way through it. Her pounding feet filled the night with the crisp breaking of dead leaves and twigs. She didn’t know where she was. Her eyes searched the darkness, but all she saw was the looming silhouettes of trees. She felt the burning scratches of gnarled limbs as they tore at her sweater. She was blinded by the dark night, but as she continued to run she finally saw what looked like the edge of the woods and a house just beyond. Relief surged through her as she stumbled along, finally reaching the backyard of an old English mansion. An old stone fence surrounded the structure. She circled the edge until she almost made it to the front and stood there silently, still gasping for air. Her eyes looked through the bars of the tall fence, searching for any sign of life. From what she could see, the main part of the house had a connecting tower looming mysteriously into the night sky, the highest part emerging over the surrounding palms and brush. The crown was made up of spires and turrets that gave way to a multi-leveled roof with recessed windows. Every light in the house was off except in the highest reaches of the tower where a single light glowed. All at once she gave a start as a long, lusty sound broke the silence and tumbled from the sky. The cold glow from the tower cast an eerie ambience as it stretched into the night causing an icy chill to dance along her spine. She forced her eyes away from the light, looking toward the dark street in front. She didn’t recognize it, but could see that it was the last house on this block. The looming old mansion seemed to have been pushed back from

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the rest of the neighborhood, the thin pale moon working hard to light the secluded nook. Across the way she saw a steep drop to a winding canyon road that was edged with scraggly palm trees and tall stalks of dry grass. Their skinny silhouettes waved eerily in the night wind. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to tell her that she had at last made it to civilization. Her eyes slid back toward the house with vines crawling up the side and saw a very ornate-looking carriage house on the opposite corner that seemed to be constructed in the same style. Suddenly a surge of weakness hit her, causing her to wilt a little. She needed help; somewhere to rest. It didn’t matter where. She dragged her feet forward, her steps slow, but determined, each movement causing her body to ache with pain. She kept her eyes anchored on the house with the tall tower and its one glowing light to keep herself going. To her it wasn’t simply a house at the end of a block in an exclusive neighborhood; it was a shelter in the storm—a haven. Her whole body screamed in pain when she finally reached the stone post and hung there, barely noticing that the gate was flamboyantly arched, and decorated with a single large L. Gaining strength, she moved, grasping one of the gate’s cold steel rods and gave a push. As if begrudging the girl entrance, it resisted her continued thrust, finally opening with an eerie squeak that must have sent every nocturnal creature skittering through the night. As she weakly gazed at the path before her a wave of dizziness hit her, making the yard, with its curving walkway undulate wickedly. She closed her eyes for a moment to gain her balance, and then opened them again. She knew it couldn’t be that far, but to her it seemed like miles. Miles over a dangerously moving earth while she forced herself to put one foot in front of the other. After hours it seemed, she finally got there, and even managed to climb the lone step before she fell against the door. Her arms, slim and delicate, seemed as heavy as anvils as she began pounding. The foyer light suddenly blazed on, and the door swung open. The light danced on a cluster of gold curls that edged from beneath a band of silk. She had dark eyes, the color of midnight, and a black beauty

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mark that sat daintily on a face full of cream. A blue terrycloth robe hung loose, one hand clutching it to a close at her waist. She seemed harried, as if she’d been running. “What—What is this?” the woman’s deep voice demanded, “Who…?” “I…I…” All at once, the girl’s eyes slowly closed as she fell at the woman’s feet. **** Drifting somewhere in a warm darkness, the girl became aware of a soft melody whirling through her brain. She could feel a comfortable softness beneath her, and detected the musky odors of smoke and perfume in the air. Her eyes slowly fluttered open and darted curiously around the room. Aside from the comfortable, overstuffed furniture, she saw an impressive array of memorabilia that seemed as if they’d been plucked from an era long past. Beyond a grand piano there were posters of old movies on one wall, and another with film clips and dated movie magazine covers. Scattered on the large mantle were several standing photographs of a woman dressed in a costume that was considered risqué for that time. There was something very familiar about the woman in the photos, especially the ones where she was featured as a glamorous movie queen dressed in furs, jewelry, long gloves and sparkling gowns. Her slumberous eyes were lined, her lids smoky, and she held a ridiculously long cigarette holder. As the girl gazed at them, she felt a kind of déjà vu, and knew that whoever the woman was she must have burned up the screen in her day, possibly winning many of the Oscars and assorted awards that also littered her mantle. Her eyes shifted, following the music that was playing from an old-fashioned turntable. It was a soft love song, and for some reason she knew the sound was indicative of the old seventy-eight records. She looked down to discover herself lying on a couch, covered by a large throw with a sparkling picture of the Hollywood sign spread out along its perch in the Hills. She turned with a start when she heard a low, husky voice. “You seem interested in my…trinkets. Well, I…used to be an actress.”

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Used to be an actress. The words sounded haunted, hollow, as if the woman was remembering her glorious past. Just then she saw her abruptly stand, her movements dramatic and overstated as she paced, taking angry puffs from her cigarette. “Used to be, you understand until I got—Until the industry changed.” She took another puff, and emitted another scratchy, impatient bluster of smoke. “The bastards,” she continued. “It all started when they began giving me mother roles.” She snorted, walked to a mirror and looked into it while stroking her face and neck. “Imagine! Who would believe me as anyone’s mother?” Walking back, she leaned over the girl, her mouth twisting in a nasty smirk. “Well, I put a stop to it. I quit! I was still as beautiful and glamorous as any of those young starlets, and I could act circles around any one of them!” The girl tried to swallow the fear in her throat. “Y-yes…I’m s-sure.” “Lorna Desmond,” she said, thrusting her chin high, her voice deep and full of conceit. “That’s who I am. Maybe you remember me?” After an awkward silence, she said, “No, I guess not.” Her eyes searched the girl’s face. “Too young, apparently. The whole fucking world is too damned young!” After a deep inhale of the French cigarette’s pungent smoke, she asked, “So, what’s your name?” “I…” the girl began, but no name formed in her blank, hollow mind. “Oh, God,” the girl whispered under her breath. She looked up at the woman with tears brimming in her eyes. “What’s wrong?” “I don’t know. I can’t…rem—” She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t tell the woman that she couldn’t remember her own name. She searched her mind again, looking down at herself as if searching for some kind of identity. But she found no purse, wallet, or anything that might trigger her memory. Lorna frowned. “You don’t remember? Is that what you’re saying? Why don’t you remember?” “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I found myself at the side of the road with someone chasing me. I was scratched up, sore. I must have ducked into the woods.”

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Lorna was silent for a few moments, then threw her a wintry glare. “I think you’re lying, and I want to know right now what in hell you were doing on my doorstep.” “Please,” the girl begged as she urged herself forward from the couch. “I’m not lying, I…I swear. I was being chased, that’s all I know.” The girl closed her eyes, lowered her head and rubbed her forehead. “I can’t remember anything else. All I know is, I found myself on a dark canyon road. Tall trees, no cars. I just knew I had to get away from…from someone. I don’t know how I got there, why I was there, or why I was afraid of him. I don’t even know what…what year it is…or the date!” Lorna scowled down at the girl, her cold, indifferent gaze raking over the bloody scratches she came in with and said, “It’s November, 1988. A miserable month—a miserable year. The fifties,” she said softly, almost smiling. “Now that was a decade.” For a moment she found herself in the past again, but was immediately pulled back when she heard the girl clear her throat. She quickly looked down at her with an arrogant glare. “These are the Hollywood Hills,” she continued. “There are many canyon roads around here. You could have been on any one. You’ll stay here tonight, then tomorrow we’ll figure out what to do with you.” She gestured toward the staircase. “There’s a room at the bottom of the tower. You’ll sleep there. You might find something in the chest to sleep in.” She turned to leave, but was stopped by the girl’s next words. “But I have wounds—” the girl began, looking horrified, “—you aren’t going to treat them?” Lorna hesitated a moment, then turned and looked at the poor, pitiful lost waif as if she was a bug that had crawled out from under the sink. “I don’t treat wounds. I am an actress. I’m not a nurse, or a doctor, and I don’t have a maternal instinct anywhere in me! And since I don’t intend to wake up my housekeeper at this hour you will have to take care of yourself, do you understand? There is no one here to coddle you. You will find soap, towels, and anything else you might need to make yourself comfortable, but I simply will not be bothered. After all, I am Lorna Desmond, star of stage, screen…” She cut her eyes down at the TV she never watched, and added,

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“The small screen is for peasants. It can’t begin to do my beauty justice as the wide screen can.” With that, she exited the room in a wide, dramatic sweep. The moment she reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused when she heard the girl’s timid voice. “I’ve seen your movies on the late show,” she lied. “You were a wonderful actress.” “Were?” she said with a cutting voice as she turned and looked back at the girl. “I still am!” Saying nothing more, she whirled around and walked toward the stairs where she stopped suddenly and furtively cut her eyes upward. She let them linger for a moment, and then with a dramatic swish of her robe, she disappeared behind the darkness of the staircase. With Lorna gone the girl suddenly felt the vast emptiness of the room wrap itself around her. The cold, unfriendly atmosphere, and her loss of memory made her feel forsaken, discarded. She tried to keep her feelings in tact, but finally found herself submerged in self-pity. The feeling brought with it a flood of tears, causing her to bury her face in her hands and cry. She’d never felt so frightened. While dabbing at her tears, the tinny sound of each musical note that drifted up from the old record sounded haunting. Like her, it seemed small and lost in the cavernous room. Finally, knowing she had to do something to help herself, she tried standing, but her body doubled over when a stabbing pain speared through it. She gave in to the pain for a moment and considered staying on the couch, but she longed to get out of her bloody clothes and into a bath, if possible. She tried again, grimacing at the pain, but continued to stand, hoping nothing was broken. She slowly made her way upstairs, looking around in a dim hallway for the door to her room. By the time she found it she was so exhausted she was tempted to do nothing but fall on the bed and lose herself in blessed oblivion. But she couldn’t. Her wounds were extensive and needed to be treated, so she drew herself a bath. Once in the tub, she examined herself. She didn’t know how she’d gotten the wounds. They weren’t bruises such as you might get in a beating, but bloody scratches as if she’d fallen. The devastating experience, whatever it had been, she simply couldn’t remember. The only thing she did

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remember was finding herself lying on the side of a road bleeding and sore. How she got there, she didn’t know. In her mind’s eye, she saw a dark face advance on her, and in spite of her sore body she jumped up and ducked into the dark woods. She didn’t see him coming after her, but heard him thrashing behind her through the brush. She could almost see his dark profile, hear his wheezing breath. He was close—so close. **** Lorna busily paced around her room, preparing for her nighttime beauty ritual. She settled down at her dresser and leaned forward, looking into a mirror, her intense eyes searching for lines and wrinkles. Slowly, memories of glittering premieres, handsome leading men, and spotlights trained on her, filled her mind. Strange, she thought. She was a movie icon thirty years ago—her face on countless movie screens across the country, on the covers of movie magazines galore, but today she was nothing, no one. She had graced the beds of every one of her leading men who were not able to step away from their onscreen heroes. As a result, she’d been with everyone from Don Juan to Wyatt Earp. But after all the sparkling dialogue had been said, after all the fake smiles, the insincere words and the playacting, the lights always came on and revealed them to be nothing more than flesh and blood who, like her, nervously counted the years, the gray hair and the wrinkles that slowly lined their faces. Yes, she missed it. It might have been as plastic as hell, but she wished she had it back again! She groaned. Who knew she would come to this? Stuck away in this decrepit old mansion in the Hollywood Hills with no one around but a smart-assed cook, a love sick chauffeur, and a horse. What the hell did she need with a horse? She had bought him when having horses was all the rage. He was nothing more than a status symbol. Now she was stuck with his

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feeding and stable charges. She hadn’t made a movie in so long, the world thought she was dead—and in some ways she was. So dead that she might as well hang a funeral wreath on her front door. A living corpse, that’s what she was. She might be moving, speaking, and breathing, but there was no one now to listen. No one to hang onto her every word. No one to idolize her. She looked once again at her famous face, putting on the snobbish sneer she had perfected. It was still magical to her, but to others it meant nothing. The glamour had gone out of it. Today it was simply a frown full of anger, regret and resentment. But she still had her clothes, and they were expensive. She didn’t buy off the rack. The designers of today didn’t understand her taste, so she had them made by a special designer. She would hang on to her glamour as long as she could, even though glamour as she once knew it was definitely dead. God, she almost felt sorry for the actresses of today. They were poor stupid wretches who didn’t even style their hair. Instead they let it hang limp and lifeless. While flipping through a magazine she’d seen the picture of a young star with her hair in a ponytail. A ponytail for God’s sake! And her clothes looked as if they hung on a skeleton. No more voluptuous breasts, full shining lips and sultry eyes. Yes, today glamour was in its grave! She was outmoded, old, yesteryear’s sweetheart. An actress in her prime who hadn’t made a movie in decades while that young woman was highly sought after—Hollywood’s sick idea of glamour! With a sigh, she capped her cold cream jar and pushed it away. Just because she wasn’t acting anymore wasn’t any reason she should neglect herself. After all, who knew what the future held? She might yet get another chance to flit across the screen, sending millions of poor, sappy moviegoers a smile, a flutter of her thick lashes, a purse of her exquisite lips. She looked closely at the skin she pampered with the most expensive oily goop she could find. No one could say she didn’t work hard to keep the years at bay. She reached into a little refrigerator and pulled out a plate of cucumber slices that were ice cold. While the cucumbers lay on her closed lids, she thought of tomorrow morning and wondered if Dagmar had replenished the ice cubes in her little

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refrigerator. The old witch had her orders, and would pay dearly if she hadn’t. She couldn’t tolerate careless servants, or beginning her day without her usual beauty ritual of plunging her face into a sink full of ice cubes—the best thing possible for tightening the pores. She must keep her skin as soft as a rose petal, as wrinkle-free as a young girl. After all, she did it for her fans. Where had the time gone, she asked herself as a memory of her golden days on the screen fluttered across her lids. She smiled, allowing her old movies, one by one, to unfurl in her mind. The minutes ticked by slowly as she saw herself surrounded by spotlights, and pursued by the handsomest men in Hollywood. The cucumbers, gradually growing warm and soft, fell from her face. **** The next morning as Lorna sat down at the dining room table she could hear Dagmar banging the pots and pans around in the kitchen. She could tell the old woman was angry about having two more people to cook for. Well, let her be angry, Lorna thought. She works for me, and she’ll do what I tell her! Suddenly she saw the swinging door open, and Dagmar leaning down to put a doorstop there to hold it. Impatience etched her face. “Dagmar, please. You know how I detest hearing that radio first thing in the morning. You play it so loudly it’s a wonder my eardrums aren’t shattered by now. Close the door, please, and let me eat my breakfast in peace.” Dagmar lifted her old body, looked at Lorna and wagged her head. “So Miss Uppity here wants to eat in peace! Well, I ain’t about to suffocate jus’ so’s you can sit there like a queen on her throne. It’s hot in there. After all, I got two more to cook for now, since you done—” Lorna’s eyes widened in shock. “Dagmar, we will not discuss—” “Why not? Ain’t nobody here but us. Just for the record, I don’t like gettin’ up and findin’ out that I have two more hungry mouths to feed.” She walked toward Lorna while wiping her hands on her apron. “’Sides, jus’ cause we don’t talk about it don’t mean he ain’t up there, dead to the world.

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And that gal—” Dagmar pointed toward the tower. “Where do she fit into all this?” “None of your business!” Lorna hissed, then watched as the outspoken cook looked at her with knowing eyes. Disgust filled her as she watched Dagmar rub her hands, back and front, against her ugly body. Why she kept that disgusting maid around was a mystery to her. Dagmar was raw, undisciplined. She had a time-worn face, and reminded Lorna of a frontier woman who was constantly cutting wood, cooking, or hauling water to clean the floors. Her manners were atrocious. When she wiped her hands, instead of lifting her apron and using it, she rubbed them against her body, lifting her dress, exposing her ragged slip, or the tops of her ratty hose. She had been the maid, the cook, and anything else Lorna needed for years, even back when the old star was still on the screen. She was bold, not intimidated by Lorna at all. She said what she thought, and didn’t seem to care if her attitude, or any of the things she said would get her fired. She seemed to enjoy taunting her, and bringing up sensitive subjects. She may ask herself the question constantly, but they both knew why she didn’t fire her. It was because the woman knew too much. She’d performed too many ugly deeds, and knew too many secrets for Lorna to let her wander about spouting them like a demented fountain. “At least turn the damned thing down! Can you do that much?” The two of them glared at each other until Dagmar finally flipped her filthy skirt and stomped out. When Lorna heard the volume go down, she sighed with relief. She was just beginning to enjoy the soft drone of voices when the cup of coffee she was lifting to her lips suddenly stopped in mid air. Shania Hunter, daughter of movie mogul Ross Hunter has been reported missing. She was said to have been spending a weekend with friends in the Hollywood Hills. The friends say she seemed restless and left right after dinner the previous night with a young man who told the reporters the last time he saw her was when he left her at her father’s beach house. When questioned, Hunter says he did not see her that night, and suggested that she might have been kidnapped since she was excited about entering college in

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the fall, and would not have left the area of her own accord. He assures the media that he is prepared to pay a substantial reward to anyone that can give him any clue as to where his daughter might be. She is a petite redhead with green eyes, and the night she left she was wearing white shorts and a pink half-sweater. If anyone out there has seen her, or knows of her whereabouts, please call your local precinct. On a similar note the wellknown actress Candace Hart is still missing. She was last seen… Lorna, almost in shock, lowered her cup slowly, hitting the saucer with a loud clatter. My God! she thought, as her mind whirled crazily. The girl I found on my doorstep was the daughter of movie mogul Ross Hunter! She couldn’t believe it! She repeated it to herself over and over again until she finally pushed herself away from the table and stood up. Looking around, she didn’t know what to do first until she saw the phone. She could call him. She could say the words that would bring her empty life to an end, and in doing so, receive his everlasting gratitude. Ross, darling, I found your daughter on my doorstep. She was hurt, and I nursed her back to health. Since she had no memory of that night, I had no idea who she was until I heard the broadcast. Lorna, what can I do for you? I’ll give you anything you want. Money. Thousands will be yours…Millions. No, Ross. I only want one thing—to be under contract again. I want to make movies. Close-ups, Ross, I must have close-ups that will reveal my beauty to the whole world. Of course! Why has it taken me so long to see that your beauty still shines as brightly as it ever did? I’ll arrange it immediately! Lorna pressed her hand against her mouth, a vague smile of astonishment on her face. What an opportunity! An opportunity that landed right on her doorstep! She turned away from the table and rushed to a mirror. Her gaze raked the face that shone with cold cream while one trembling hand reached up to smooth it, caress it, then finger the curls that edged from beneath the black bandana. Yes, I’ll be on the screen again. I’ll sign autographs, eat at the legendary Pink Palace. They’ll adore me,

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worship me. All at once she hurried out to the foyer, looking every bit the movie star as the loose fabric of her elegant robe streamed behind. Dramatically reaching out, she grabbed the tall, ornate post of the sprawling staircase, the look of wonder still on her face. She hesitated as she gazed up the steep steps toward the landing. She felt herself trembling. She carefully lifted one leg, her foot falling quietly on the first step. And then the second. Keeping her eyes on Shania’s door, she came closer and closer until she stood before it, then opened it softly. The girl was sleeping. Lorna stood silently for a moment, then reached into the pocket of her robe and took out her cigarette holder. In the other pocket, she extracted a cigarette and secured it snugly. When the cigarette was lit, and the smoke hung grey and misty from the low ceiling, she drew close to the girl to watch her. Her red hair lay across the pillow like long, leaping flames, and her lush, red lips glistened. Her young face seemed to form a heart. Her cheeks were dimpled and her brows thin and highly arched. Lorna couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy at the girl’s beauty. She was ripe and ready for life, just beginning on her journey into the excitement of what the world had to offer. Did she realize what she had? Did she know how very beautiful she was? Probably not. You never knew when you were young. It was when you got old that you realized what had slipped through your fingers. Still admiring the girl’s dewy youth, Lorna’s eyes lowered, looking at the trim line of her silky curves. She wanted to touch her, slide her old woman’s hand down the moist young body and feel, just once more, what a young body felt like. And then her eyes anchored on her firm, jutting breasts. She knew from memory how they would feel. Firm yet soft, and smooth. A sweet heaviness to them that would send a delicious tingle through some man’s hands when he caressed them. She couldn’t stand the sight, so she turned away and looked toward the window. She paced slowly toward it, her robe dragging the floor behind her. In only seconds, she heard the girl’s slight movements and turned just in time to see her eyes flutter open.

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“Good morning, Shania.” Her voice was deep and throaty, the famous rasp like smooth whisky. Lorna made no move, her eyes boring into the girl. How would she react to the name? Would it trigger something inside her? Cause an avalanche of memories to return? Would she run out, realizing who she was? Lorna knew she was taking an awful chance, but she had to know how bad the girl’s memory loss was, how long she could keep her here while she devised a plan to blackmail her father. He was the answer to Lorna’s prayers. The only man in the world who could give back to her the things she so badly needed. Her career—her youth—her life.

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Chapter 2 The moment the girl realized that Lorna was in the room she began to feel uncomfortable. She remembered the woman’s rudeness the night before and sat up slowly, resting her back against the headboard. While keeping her eyes on the old actress she nervously reached up and raked her fingers through her hair, and modestly pulled the covers up over the nightie. “Shania?” she said timidly. “Is that my name?” “For the time being,” Lorna answered in her usual haughty manner. “After all, we have to call you something.” “And you picked Shania? Why not Jane, Sue, or Mary? Shania seems a bit exotic. Certainly not something you’d pick right out of the blue.” Giving the old woman a cutting look, she said, “It’s a good thing someone wrote your dialogue for you.” “Why you little...what do you mean speaking to me in such a way?” “I give as good as I get!” Shania retorted. “I appreciate the bed for the night, but don’t worry, I’ll be leaving today.” She cast Lorna an angry look that glittered like chunks of green ice, then flipped the covers back and made a move to get out of bed. She came to a sudden stop, a grimace etching her face. A shrewd smirk played on Lorna’s lips. “Still sore, are you? Well, I suppose you’ll have to stay in bed today.” “I told you, I’m leaving!” “My dear, you can hardly move. Besides, a few days rest won’t hurt you. When you begin feeling better we’ll discuss your predicament.” She turned and swiftly walked toward the door and grasped the doorknob to open it. And then, as if a thought had suddenly crossed her mind, she halted

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and looked back. “I imagine you’re hungry. I’ll send Dagmar up with a tray.” “Dagmar?” The girl chuckled at the odd name. “These names you keep spouting get stranger by the minute. What the hell is a Dagmar?” “For your information, Dagmar is a who, not a what! She’s my cook. Outspoken as hell, a pain in the ass sometimes, but loyal.” “I didn’t mean to...” Shania stopped suddenly. No, she couldn’t show weakness, not to this witch. She would surely take it and use it against her. “Toast,” she ordered, “no butter. And coffee. Juice if you have it—orange.” Lorna glared at Shania with fire in her eyes. “What in hell do you think I am, one of those big-haired creatures who writes down every word you say on a sickly green pad?” With ice in her voice, she spoke with a hiss. “I am not a waitress, I am a star! The sooner you realize that, the better we will get along! Now, as I said, I’ll send Dagmar up. She can see to your needs, whatever they may be. It’s why she’s here, after all!” With that, she flounced out of the room, leaving Shania staring after her. Later, when Shania had sunk into a dozing state, the sound of a slight noise caused her lids to fly open. She looked at the woman in her room for a long moment, noticing that she was unkempt and shabby, her body pudgy in places. Since one leg was slightly shorter than the other, her bulk lurched from side to side when she walked. Her hair, peppered through with light streaks, was a frizzy mess. The bulk of it was pulled back in a bun at her nape, but coiling springs of coarse hair slipped out and tangled about her face. “Hello,” Shania said softly. “You must be Dagmar.” Dagmar looked around, and the girl gasped. The woman’s face was badly misshapen, and terribly freckled. The expression she had in her glittery black eyes made an icy chill dance up the girl’s spine. “Yessum, I hope I didn’t wake you.” Shania’s brows raised in surprise when she heard Dagmar speak. Her voice was scratchy and rough, and she talked with a black cadence to her speech even though she appeared to be white. “No, I wasn’t asleep, just

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resting.” She saw the old woman hesitating, and said, “You can put the tray anywhere.” “No ma’am, the missus done tol’ me to be sho’ you stayed in bed. She don’t want you movin’ aroun’, nohow.” “All right,” Shania said, sitting up, then smoothing the cover over her lap. “Right here, then.” When Dagmar came closer, Shania noticed that there were certain aspects of her appearance that suggested an African American descent. She knew then, that Dagmar must be of mixed blood, and the frizzy hair that looked as if it had blonde streaks running through it had undoubtedly come from one of her white ancestors. “I snuck you up some nice strawberries,” Dagmar said as if she were sharing a secret. “I hope you ain’t allergic. For supper—uh, dinner—” She chuckled, putting her scrawny fingers over her mouth. “The missus don’t like me to say supper, says I sound like a hick. Anyway, tonight I was gonna fix a strawberry tart, but I thought maybe you’d like a few with yo’ breakfast.” She cut her eyes toward Shania, and looked closely at her. “My, ain’t you pretty? Your hair shines like streaks of fire and copper.” She looked down at the girl’s lush body. “Pretty little nightie you wearin’ too.” “Oh...” Shania began, “I...well...I found this in the chest. I hope it’s all right.” “Gotta sleep in somethin’, I guess.” Dagmar murmured as her eyes shifted to the items on Shania’s tray. “Now you better eat up ‘fore it all gets cold. And don’t worry ‘bout them strawberries, they’s plenty, so enjoy yo’self.” “Thank you, Dagmar, you’re very kind.” The woman seemed embarrassed by the compliment, and slowly lurched toward the door. “If’en you need me, you can just pull on that bell cord. It goes all the way down to the kitchen, which is where I spend most of my time.” Shania looked around to where Dagmar was pointing. “A bell cord. Yes, I see it.” Turning back to Dagmar, she said, “I can’t believe something as ancient as a bell cord is still in use today.”

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“For the important things the missus uses state-of-the-art, but little touches like the bell cord she hangs onto. She likes livin’ in the past. Bad for anybody, if’en you ask me—” Dagmar turned and lurched toward the door, then at the last minute turned back. “But nobody asked me.” Shania chuckled at Dagmar’s sarcastic mutterings. She suspected that the old woman was just a little on the brittle side, and watched as she backed out of the door, then closed it. **** Turning, Dagmar hobbled down the hall until she arrived at the head of the stairs. She hesitated for a quick second, surprised to see Lorna in the foyer. Dagmar knew by their conversation earlier that she was in a fine fit today. Well, that was okay with her. That dried up old prune didn’t bother her none. She’d have herself a good time diggin’ into that white, powdered flesh. Hanging onto the baluster because of her short leg, Dagmar descended slowly. She kept her eyes on Lorna who was looking into the hall mirror, adjusting her hat. “How is she?” came the voice that floated up the stairway. “She’s fine,” Dagmar answered. “Likes strawberries. She’s a pretty one—and young.” “I suppose,” Lorna said indifferently. Dagmar’s eyes had a glint of mischief in them. “A gal like that sho’ could outshine you on the screen, wouldn’t you say? All that red hair. And them eyes. Near to dazzlin’, they are.” Lorna cut her eyes over at Dagmar. “You’re trying to get me riled up, you old hag, but it won’t work.” “Pity she can’t stay a while.” Lorna whirled around. “Of course she’s staying. The poor thing’s been hurt. She’ll have to stay until…” “Until?” “Until she gets better, of course. Besides, I’m tired of looking at your sour old face day after day. She’ll entertain me for a while.”

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“That’s a lie and you know it. You got it in yo’ head to keep her here.” Dagmar cocked her head and narrowed her eyes at Lorna. “I don’t know why yet, but I’ll find out.” Lorna shrugged slightly. “It would be cruel to turn her out. She doesn’t even know who she is.” “You mean that little gal done gone and lost her memory?” Dagmar whooped with laughter, then gave Lorna an impish look. “That makes it kinda easy fer you, don’t it? But what I wanna know is, what you gonna do when it comes back? How you gonna keep her here if’en she don’t wanna stay? When it do, you gonna lock her up, like—” Her words finally pierced Lorna’s superiority, and Lorna paled. She quickly turned her head and stabbed Dagmar with her midnight eyes. “Not another word, do you hear? Have you fed him?” The old woman laughed wickedly, a gleam in her eyes. “Ain’t woke up yet. Have to admit he’s a handsome devil.” She hesitated, then cut her eyes around, her voice sounding unassuming as her sharp words pierced Lorna’s heart. “I can’t wait to bathe him again. When I handle that big ol’ cock o’ his, it begins to get stiff. Oh my how that would feel inside…” “Shut your foul mouth,” Lorna hissed, her eyes darting around the foyer as if someone might be listening. “If you can’t bathe him without molesting the poor man, then I’ll have to do it.” “Do what? Bathe him, or molest him?” Dagmar could see the guilty look on Lorna’s face. “Or have you already?” Lorna’s face paled. “D-Don’t be ridiculous!” she said, her voice trembling. “The man...” “Man?” Dagmar repeated. “Seems like I ‘member you callin’ him the Devil. And you was right. When I pulled that sheet away I come near to creamin’ my britches. Nobody but the Devil could look that good without his clothes on.” Dagmar’s eyes dropped, seeing Lorna pull on her elbowlength gloves with angry, abrupt movements. “You dressed awful fancy to be settin’ around the house all day.” Lorna’s superiority suddenly returned. “I’m dressed this way because I’m going out.”

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“Yeah? I gots to know what time—” “Is that any of your business?” “Well,” the old woman began, then shrugged, “I was just thinkin’ of lu—” “I can’t see that anything I do is any concern of yours! I’ll be back, when I’m back.” She stretched out her arm and flicked her ashes on the floor. “Clean that up.” The old woman eyed the ash on the floor, then looked up at Lorna. “Sho’ yo will. Do anything you’ve a mind to,” she said, then watched as Lorna flounced off to her room. As she lurched toward the kitchen for her broom and dust pan, she mumbled, “That woman and her high horse don’t bother to tell me nothin’. I may be able to read printin’ but don’t spect me to read yo’ mind, you misable old…” **** “The very idea of that witch asking me where I’m going,” Lorna mumbled as she swept angrily around her room making preparations to leave. She shoved several things into her purse as she continued. “Maybe I’m having an affair with Valentino’s ghost; maybe I’m having a talk with my agent; maybe Monarch has asked for my presence on the lot—” All at once she hesitated, then slid her cunning eyes up toward the tower room. “Maybe I’m going to talk with Ross about his daughter. After all, I’m still allowed past the gate. Whatever I’m doing, I don’t see that it’s any business of that—that—domestic.” Lorna hurried out of the house wearing an ivory-colored outfit that was all the rage in the forties, a ridiculous feathered hat, and her famous cigarette holder engraved with her own autograph. She kept it with her at all times. It had become her trademark. ****

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Costumed starlets, VIPs, superstars with big names and scantily clad pin-ups lined the edge of the promenade when Lorna’s long, custom-built, ornately chromed Rolls Royce drove onto the Monarch lot. When all eyes turned her way, she waved as if she were in a passing parade, sure those curious eyes and murmuring lips were in awe of a star of her caliber. Their heads leaned together, their voices whispering. “Who is she?” someone whispered from the crowd. “Lorna Desmond, the old movie star. You know, the one that lives up in the Hills?” “My God, I thought she was dead!” “Look at that old car, and the chauffeur. Solemn-faced old coot wouldn’t smile if his life depended on it.” “Would you, if you had to drive her through the lot?” came someone’s cutting remark. “Get a load of that outfit,” a young man said, chuckling. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” “It has a certain style,” came the droll voice of a busy wardrobe man with costumes draped across his arms. He continued to eye Lorna’s outfit with a cocked head and a “Mmmm” or two. “I seem to remember hearing that she was a child star back in the— what? Forties? Fifties? I don’t think anyone knows for sure.” “Go ahead, make fun if you must,” came a voice that drew their attention away from the actress for a moment. What they saw was a bearded old man who had just come off a set. He was dressed in a western outfit, and still had stage dust clinging to him. Nodding toward Lorna, he said, “She was really something at one time. Discovered in a school play, grew up on the Monarch lot. A beautiful child star who went on to become a glamorous actress. There was a time when she could write her own ticket. Today she’s shunned, laughed at, ignored. Nobody respects an old performer, no matter how good they once were. After they’ve passed their prime—” He gave a slight shrug. “—they’re forgotten. She could still act today if she’d just swallow a little of her pride, give up her hold on the past.” His eyes stared at them with a glimmer of moisture in them. “Like I have.”

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“How do you know all that?” one of the gawkers asked. “Because I was just like her. Someone who couldn’t believe the world could go on without them. Someone who would do anything to see their name on a Monarch contract again.” He looked around at the young performers who had gathered around him. “Would you believe I was the leading man in one of her pictures? I’ve got three Oscars on my mantel. Now I’m doing bit parts to stay alive.” He looked at the crowd with sorrowful eyes. “Don’t be too hard on her. You’ll wake up one day and find your youth gone. When that happens, I hope you’ll remember this day.” “But, who are you?” The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Ever heard of Dorian Tremaine?” Seeing that horrible blankness in their eyes, he smiled and said, “No, I didn’t think so.” With that, he turned and slowly melted into the shadows of the studio he’d emerged from, another fading star in the cinema heaven—who had seen glamour die. **** Lorna felt admired, even revered as her chauffeur drove her around the lot. Some acquaintances simply waved as she passed, but many stopped the car to talk to her. They treated her with respect, complimenting her appearance while inviting her to the set where she watched several scenes of a movie being shot. It was always a well-known fact that she was present. Not only because they gave her a place of prominence, but her style of dress, her elegant stature, and her all-consuming glamour turned heads, and elicited looks of awe. Lorna didn’t know why she wasn’t making movies today. She was clearly the most beautiful, and most talented actress around. Couldn’t they see? Were they all blind? Just then she caught the eye of the director while he was talking to the sound supervisor. They were whispering and casting furtive glances her way. She smiled at them, then lifted her hand and wiggled her fingers. When she saw them nod their heads, she lowered her eyes like a young coquette.

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**** “My God,” Kell muttered, while raking his fingers through his hair, and turning his face away. “She’s flirting. I’m surprised she remembers how.” After a few moments of ignoring her he turned back and tried to smile and nod when she blew him a kiss. “It’s downright embarrassing to see her act like a little whore. She was a big star in her day. Where the hell is her pride?” When he’d had enough of Lorna’s brazen behavior, he turned his back to her and glared at the sound supervisor. “Michael, why in hell did you bring her in here?” “But Ross said…” “I know about Ross and his ridiculous orders, but I’m trying to make a movie here. I don’t have time for this crap.” “Kell, she’s not doing anything. Can’t we—” “Michael, you know as well as I do that every time she visits, she creates a scene. Can’t we stop this?” “Kell, would it hurt you to let me finish a sentence? Hey, I’m sorry, but I agree with Ross. She would die without this attention. So we run a little behind schedule. It’s not that often that she visits the set.” “This movie is already costing millions. Any delay at all is money out of our pockets. Get the woman out, I don’t care what Ross says. He’s not the director on this picture.” “But she’s Lor—” Kell grabbed Michael, his arm winding around his neck as he whispered in his ear. “I don’t give a fuck who she is—or was. If she wants to invest in the film, fine. If not, she goes. Now, please take care of it, Michael. I’m counting on you. Oh, and Michael,” He tightened his hold, his voice raspy and threatening. “About finishing a sentence? I’ll let you finish one when you say something worth listening to.” After adjusting his clothes, Michael said, “All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

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What were they saying? Lorna wondered, while she furtively watched them through slanting eyes. Were they discussing offering her a new contract? Well, she wouldn’t put her signature on anything that didn’t allow her to play the roles that she’d been created to play. Cleopatra, Delilah, Scarlett O’Hara. Yes, the flirtatious Scarlett O’Hara. The heavy epic pictures, that’s what she liked. Just then her eyes happened to shift to an unfinished set and she became immediately mesmerized. There she saw a wide, flowing staircase that reached high into nothingness, but as her eyes followed it upward, she didn’t see empty space, she saw the inside of a southern mansion. Shining blonde wood, and intricately carved, large, round columns. She could see herself standing at the head of the stairs, thousands—no, millions of eyes watching her. Without thinking, she stepped down out of the high director’s chair they had provided for her and began walking toward the unfinished set. At last arriving at the staircase, her gloved hand reached out and rubbed the baluster lovingly. She looked upward, then slowly began ascending, one step at a time. **** From across the room, Michael halted his steps and watched wide-eyed as the fading film star slowly climbed the staircase. Just then, Kell stepped up behind him and whispered, “What the fuck is she doing?” The two men watched spellbound as she continued to climb, the prop shaking dangerously beneath her feet, with nothing at the top but air. The treacherous structure was ready to collapse beneath her weight. “My God, she’s going to kill herself! Get over there and get her down, Michael, before she falls.” “But I can’t. The structure’s too weak. It would never hold both of us.” “Then yell!” Kell said, hurrying around Michael. “Lor—”

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Michael quickly clamped his hand over Kell’s mouth. “What the hell are you doing? You’ll startle her.” “We can’t jus—” Suddenly an idea came to Kell. “Stay back, Michael, I know just how to handle it.” Kell walked slowly toward her. With his eyes anchored on her ascending form, Kell reached out and flipped a switch, then reached up and maneuvered the glittering spotlight to surround her. **** Lorna halted at once, only one more step between her and death. The spotlight that embraced her felt warm to her skin. She immediately heard Kell’s voice, and tumbled deeper into her imaginary world. “Lorna, the time is 1862. The war is raging, but it hasn’t reached this far south yet. The plantation is your home, and the ball is being given to say goodbye to all the young men who are leaving for battle.” She recognized it as a scene from Blazing Dawn, so she turned, looked down and saw a movie set crowded with people. But the director wasn’t Kell, it was Huston. He wore a beret, boots, and was speaking to her through a megaphone. Her eyes settled on each of the upturned faces. Everyone was looking up at her, worshipping her. She was the center of attention, the star. She smiled her most dazzling smile as she listened to the director call to her from the crowded floor. “The people you see are your guests, admirers. But the one you love is not among them. Show me disappointment on your lovely face.” Following the director’s instructions, a frown etched her face, and a gloved hand lightly touched her forehead in a dramatic fashion as if she were going to faint. “And then suddenly you see him.” Kell called. “He’s going out on the veranda with another woman.” Lorna could feel the tension mounting. “Now, Lorna, this is your big scene. Begin to descend the stairs slowly, a look of pure hatred on your face. You must show him that your emotions

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will not be toyed with, that you won’t tolerate his unfaithfulness. Keep your eyes on him as you descend each step, one by one. As you near the bottom, your steps hesitate when you see him take her in his arms. Black rage contorts your face. The crowd parts when they see you draw a pistol from within the folds of your hooped skirt. With the look of rage still on your face, you lift the gun, point, and fire!” In Lorna’s mind, she felt the gun in her hand, heard a blast, then the director’s voice. “Cut! Wonderful, Lorna!” When Lorna came to herself, she was standing motionless, her hand still outstretched, holding the imaginary weapon. She was confused for a moment as she looked around at the shadowy studio. There were curious eyes everywhere. Crazy. They all thought she was crazy. She could see it in their eyes! Where were her fans, her admirers? And then all at once she knew. It had happened again. She had gone back to her days before the camera, seeing things as they were during the golden days of beauty and glamour. Days when lips were red, hair was curled, and heels were high. Now, the stage was dark, and the present crowded in upon her, the present that told her she was old, out of date, a has-been. No! she cried inside herself. Don’t go! Please don’t go! In her misery she reached out toward the golden days of yesteryear, toward the glittering glamour, the beautiful faces as they sped across her memory, and tried to grab it, all of it. But the rush of time escaped her, searing her hands like a hot blade. The shock made her unsteady on her feet. Michael rushed up to her and put his arms around her swaying figure. “Michael,” Kell muttered, the single acknowledgement reminding the sound supervisor of what he had to do. When he saw Michael nod secretly he glanced toward Lorna, the anger in his eyes piercing her. It made her think of blood, hot trickling blood. Blood? The thought brought the searing pain back and she lifted her hands, seeing tiny cuts made by her fingernails. She realized that, in trying to keep the past around her, her nails had bitten into her palms. “Are you okay, Lorna? Need water—anything?”

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“I’m just fine,” she spat out angrily while covering the blood with a handkerchief, “so quit fidgeting about.” “What in hell were you doing up there? You know the rules as well as I do about unfinished sets.” “I said I was all right.” She glanced toward the receding figure of the director, hearing his footsteps as they echoed in the darkness. “Where is Kell going? You were having quite an intense discussion before. Did it have something to do with me?” “Yes, actually it did.” Lorna’s head jerked up, her eyes wide with hope. “He was wondering if you’d like to invest in the picture.” Sudden anger burst inside her. “Invest?” She turned her head toward the set, her eyes narrowing with hate as she looked at it. “In that thing? Don’t be ridiculous!” Turning back, she cast him a nasty smile. “Needs money, does he? Well, he won’t get it from me. The answer to his problem is decent casting. The dialogue stinks and the actors have no imagination. They don’t know how to sell a scene! A good actor can take bad dialogue and make it sing!” Her heavily made-up eyes pleaded with Michael. “Michael you’ve been around a long time. You know I could do wonders with this part. Why won’t Kell cast me in the leading role instead of that baby he’s probably had on his casting couch a thousand times?” “Lorna, an old—a trooper of your experience should know that it’s too late in the picture to make changes of that nature.” “Then take me to Ross. He’ll listen.” “Oh, well, Lorna, you know how Ross is. His schedule is filled with meetings. You remember how it was. Nothing’s changed. You need an appointment to say good morning.” “He’ll see me,” she said, sounding almost desperate. “Tell him I have news of his daughter.” Michael smiled. “Hey, you’re looking great these days.” Lorna’s urgent look vanished when she realized he hadn’t heard a word she had said. “Yes, well,” she began, her arm pushing against Michael as

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she moved past him, “I must be getting back. Have Kell call me when he comes to his senses.” Michael didn’t reply. He just watched as the fading film star walked away, her aging form being swallowed up in the darkness of the set, her outdated stiletto heels clicking eerily. That night at the Lucifer Club “Where the hell is Lance?” the stage manager roared out as he elbowed his way through the backstage chaos that was routine at this time of night. He understood the clamor, the rush to get CDs into the sound booth, last minute instructions being yelled out over the loud music, lighting being checked, and special effects being tested, but it didn’t help when he was looking for his star. His head jerked around, his eyes searching for the conspicuous red devil costume, but he didn’t see it. He saw a vampire, complete with fangs and red-lined cape, and even a werewolf who, under a shimmering full moon and manufactured fog, stalked the ladies until it was time to ultimately slink out of his hairy costume to reveal a strikingly handsome dancer, but no red devil. While the other dancers pushed past him, unsympathetic to his dilemma, it occurred to him that Lance must still be in the dressing room. He looked down at his watch. “God, the bastard had better get cracking.” He pushed and shoved his way through the crowd until he found the pale green, battered old door. Not wasting a moment, he opened it and stuck his head inside. As expected, it was complete bedlam among the dancers, some costumed, others wrapped in towels. He could hear the showers going, the clatter of combs, brushes, the smell of stage make-up along with laughter and teasing voices. His gaze jumped around, looking at the lighted mirrors lined up against the walls that reflected the hurried movements. His gaze quickly raked across each handsome face as he yelled over the heavy drone of voices, “Lance! You in here?” “Haven’t seen him, Shotsy.” one dancer yelled, then grinned. “What’s the matter, lose your meal ticket?”

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“Fuck you!” Shotsy returned while pushing his way in among all the exotic costumes. Feeling time pressing in, he looked down at his watch again. “My God, he goes on in fifteen minutes.” He lifted his eyes again, looking, but not seeing him. “Hell fire, Lance, where the blazes are you?” All at once his palms squeezed into fists. “If I find out that bastard’s laying out because of some woman—” “Maybe you should go on yourself,” the dancer known as Blondie teased. “You miserable—” Shotsy muttered, looking at the jungle of broad shoulders and narrow hips. “If I was a few years younger, I’d put all you creeps to shame.” He turned just then and caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror and cringed at his deeply lined face and gray hair that spiked out in all directions. “Okay, so all of us can’t look like a movie star.” Just then he spotted Adam of the Garden of Eden act dressing to leave and quickly moved toward him with a proposition in mind. Approaching him, he asked, very blasé, “Your act over?” “You know it is, you old coot.” “Yeah,” Shotsy mumbled while looking the dancer over. “Heavy date? Some little cutie waitin’ somewhere for you?” “What the hell are you lookin’ at?” “Nothin’, I just—hey, Adam, you’re about Lance’s size, aren’t you? You’d fit into his costume, wouldn’t you?” “What’re you gettin’ at, old man?” Shotsy shrugged. “Simple. I gotta fill the star spot.” The old man looked at him with curious eyes. “A lot of women’ll be disappointed if they don’t get to see the star. How about it?” “Me? You want me to do the star’s spot?” With a slight shrug, Shotsy said, “Yeah, sure.” His eyes cut toward him, his tangled brows lifting in hope. “Be a big opportunity for you.” “I don’t know. Why me?” He glanced around at the others. “Almost anyone here could–” “Yeah, I know, but you got something special, Adam. Just like Lance, you’re hot. The ladies like you.” He gave Adam an angled look, his eyes

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intense and sharp. “So, how about it? You up for one more show tonight before you meet your little cutie? Sure would be something to brag about.” He moved closer and whispered in Adam’s ear, “Could be it’d make her hot enough to do almost anything.” Heat burned in Adam’s eyes. “I don’t know; maybe I could,” he said. Then meeting Shotsy’s angled look with a crooked glance of his own, he spoke with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Star pay?” “Yeah, all right, star pay,” Shotsy groused, annoyed that everything seemed to be about money. He looked at Adam’s handsome face, waiting. When his patience finally ran out, he yelled, “Come on, kid, what’s it gonna be? You gonna do it, or should I get on with my nervous breakdown?” The dancer shrugged. “Yeah, okay.” “Fine. You have less than ten minutes to get into costume and out on that stage.” On the outside, Adam appeared calm, but inside he was jumping up and down. The star’s spot! He’d been waiting for this chance, and now here it was, right in his lap. When Shotsy left and Adam began scratching through Lance’s costumes, all his hopes suddenly deflated. It was missing! The friggin’ costume was missing! Where was it? He couldn’t be wearing it, surely. And then a thought occurred to him. The bastard! So that’s why he hadn’t shown up at Whitey’s last night. He’d had a date and must’ve taken it with him to wear for some hot little number in bed! It happened sometimes. A fringe benefit of the job. But that was last night. What about tonight? Lance was almost never out. Sure, he knew one of the other dancers could go on in his place if need be, but he wouldn’t let it happen, not the star spot. Besides, he wasn’t one to leave Shotsy in a lurch. With quick movements he rummaged through Lance’s other costumes. They were old, some needed repair, but there wasn’t time. He finally found one that might work, but it wasn’t nearly as sexy as the one Lance wore. It would have to do in the lurch, so he quickly put it on and looked at himself in the mirror. Just then Shotsy came in. “What the hell are you doin’ in that thing? Get his new one.”

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“I can’t! He must still be wearing it. The others are no good. It’s this, or I go out there naked.” Shotsy rubbed his face impatiently. “Well, I guess it don’t matter none nohow. You won’t have it on that long.” Then with a quick, impatient wave of his arm to hurry Adam along, he urged, “All right, get out there; you’re on.” Watching Adam run out, Shotsy ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, wondering where Lance was, and swearing to make the bastard pay. Meanwhile, onstage, a velvet curtain the color of rich wine slowly opened. Beyond were leaping, licking, simulated flames, and the set was a grotto with shimmering walls. A thunderous applause began, but slowly died when the women realized that the devil who sat upon the gold, ornate throne—wasn’t Lance. **** Lorna was out of sorts as she sat at the large dining table alone. Her chair was tall, regal, like a throne. The room was rich-looking—made up of dark, imported wood intricately twisted and curled into a snake-like design. The indirect lighting made lace-like patterns on the rich, burgundy carpet, and burgundy fabric covered half the paneled walls that rose high into the vaulted ceiling. It had a dark beauty that was breathtaking. Her eyes dropped then, and looked at the shiny table of dark wood. It went on for miles with no one at it but her. Her gaze traveled down the polished wood seeing no other place settings, only a centerpiece on a vast table that seemed to get lost in the shadows. In her mind she saw the same ghosts she’d seen for years. Famous faces laughing, talking, drinking, clinking glasses, making toasts. Where were they now? Dead, some of them. Others were still in pictures doing bit parts, parts that she refused to do, and would until the end of her days. She looked up when she saw Dagmar come in and put the plate before her. She stared at the woman. Old, deformed, ugly. These were the kinds of people she had around her. She had nothing to show for her life, but ghosts and freaks!

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It’s Monarch’s fault, she thought when she couldn’t get the events of this afternoon out of her mind. They’d ended her career too soon, giving her roles that hid her in the background. She thought again of Ross Hunter. Kell Stewart wasn’t anybody. Ross could make it happen. He could give the orders to cast her in a picture, and Kell would do it. He’d have to. And here, in her own house, was the lovely pawn who could make it happen if she dared use her. Suddenly the lights flickered, and she looked up. “What’s wrong with the lights?” “Wind, I ‘spect,” Dagmar muttered, standing beside Lorna. “You know how it gets up in these hills when the Santa Ana winds start kickin’ up.” Lorna glanced down at what was on her plate, then looked up at Dagmar. “You know I don’t like mushrooms!” She pushed the plate away angrily. “Get it away from me!” “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with mushrooms!” Dagmar said with a frown. She watched Lorna get up from the table and wander into the parlor. “Where ya goin’?” she said with a whining voice, and a frown on her face. “Yo’ supp— dinner is gonna get cold.” When Lorna ignored her, she looked down at the food, picked up one of the sliced mushrooms and put it in her mouth. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” she groused, loud enough for Lorna to hear. Then slipping into the seat Lorna had vacated, she began to dig in. “Can’t let this food go to waste. You don’t want it, that’s fine. I happens to like mushrooms.” All at once a rogue wind whipped around the house, and Lorna ran to a window and looked outside. It wasn’t just the Santa Ana wind, it was the Red Wind—the devil’s breath whistling down the canyons. When it came, it blew in from the desert like a dry cough. She listened to the eerie sounds of the creaks and rattles, and trembled. God, how she hated these hills. Being alone in the house made the sounds even worse. Then her eyes traveled upward toward the tower. It suddenly occurred to her that it was too quiet. She whirled around, seeing Dagmar wander in from the dining room while still eating from the plate. “Where’s Shania, you pathetic old dishrag? Did you let her leave?” “I ain’t got nothin’ to do with what that white gal does.”

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Lorna crossed the room, and reached for Dagmar, grabbing the front of her tattered old dress. “If she’s gone, I’ll have your hide, you witch!” “Hey! Watch it, okay?” she said, almost spilling the food from the plate. Setting it down on a table nearby, she wrenched Lorna’s grasping hands from her tired old dress. “She ain’t gone, okay? She’s up there, jus’ where you put her.” With pursing lips, and glittering, mischievous eyes, she cocked her head and said, “She’s that big man’s daughter, ain’t she?” Seeing Lorna’s surprised look, Dagmar snorted, then shook her head in amusement. “It may take me a while, but I always knows what goes on in that crazy ol’ mind o’ yourn. When he finds out you been keepin’ her here, he won’t be puttin’ you in no movie, he’ll kill yo’ white ass. That’s a powerful man you foolin’ with there. I’d think twice ‘fo’ I fooled with him.” “Watch your tongue, you old bat,” Lorna spewed, “lest I cut it out with a butcher knife!” Just as the threatening words were said, another rogue wind whipped up and the house moaned and stretched. When the lights flickered, Dagmar looked up at Lorna with a mad gleam in her eyes. “You know well as I do, when that little gal’s memory comes back, you, me, and all the devils in Hell ain’t gonna be able to keep her here! ‘Specially when she finds out—” “Finds out what, you old witch!” Lorna hissed as she turned and advanced on Dagmar. Dagmar’s low and ominous voice matched the look of evil in her eyes. “When that little gal finds out who she is, she’ll have her daddy on you in two shakes. And when she finds out what you got hid in that tower room—” The blood drained from Lorna’s face. “Keep her out!” “Ain’t gonna,” Dagmar said stubbornly. “The way you been bringin’ people into this house, I needs help. Know you ain’t about to hire no one, so when she gets up and about, I’ll put her to work. Ain’t got nowhere to go no ways.” “Put her to work like a common d-domestic?” Lorna stammered. “Long as she don’t know who she is, why not? Ain’t tellin’ her no lies, neither. You wanna keep her in the dark, you think up your own excuse as to why that devil’s here.”

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Lorna felt a swirl of desperation smothering her. “You—you have to help, Dagmar, like you always do.” “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t,” Dagmar said stubbornly. “You won’t be sorry,” Lorna said, a hint of worry in her voice. “You’ll be rewarded like always.” “I jus’ wanna know one thing. When her memory comes back you gonna lock her up like you locked him up?” The old woman cackled at the look of fear on Lorna’s face. “How many more you gonna bring into this house?” All at once she began dancing a little jig, casting gleeful eyes toward Lorna. “They check in, but they don’t check out! Talk about a captive audience—” “Stop!” Lorna bellowed, her face dark with hellish madness. “You just do what you’re told. I’ll handle our two guests.” Her eyes narrowed to a fine point as she continued. “And if I find you’ve told anyone….” “But she’s the daughter of….” “So what?” “So what? Woman, you know, so what. That movie man’s gonna string you up to the nearest tree when he finds out you been keepin’ his daughter here! And as for that man bein’ the Devil—he ain’t nothin’ but a man!” Lorna pressed a fist to her forehead in torment. “It’s a trick, a trick, I tell you. If you’d seen him at The Lucifer Club the other night, you’d know what he is! He’s the Devil! Satan!” “You’re crazy as a bedbug. Why’d you go to that place anyway?” “I heard—things.” “Things?” “About the dancers there. They’re supposed to be the handsomest in the country. I guess I just wanted to see…” Suddenly she looked at Dagmar, who was trying to hide her laughter behind her hand. “What the hell am I doing telling you anything? It’s none of your business why I was there.” “Okay, so you wanted to see, but what in the blue fuckin’ hell makes you think he’s the Devil?”

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“Because…everything…his act…his dark looks…his eyes. They looked…and his body! Fire shimmered every time he moved. I don’t know. He just is. I know it!” “So what? It sho’ ain’t no reason to lock him up like he was some kinda criminal.” Dagmar paced around Lorna, her glittering eyes stabbing her like knives. “Jus’ like you did that girl,” she rasped loudly. “But she isn’t locked up,” Lorna said, whirling around, her eyes following Dagmar. “No, but she’s in the tower, and ain’t fit to get around. It’s the same thing. Almost the same, anyway, ‘cause if she tried to leave—” “She can’t leave! She can’t! Not now! Not when I’m so close!” “One o’ these days, yo’ backside’s gonna burn, white woman.” All at once a threatening look came into Lorna’s eyes. “If anyone finds out, I’ll burn your—what the hell are you? Black? White?” Dagmar cocked her head at Lorna, her eyes shooting fire. “I’d advise you not to go there, white woman. I knows voodoo, and I knows Black Magic…” “You knows nothing! You’re a poor pitiful soul caught between heaven and Hell. When your mother saw the creature she’d produced, she left you squalling in a garbage dump.” Lorna’s gaze raked down the old woman’s deformed body with a look of disgust. “You’re a spawn of the Devil! A frizzy-haired black baby with a short leg! No one wanted you then, and no one wants you now!” Dagmar’s face drained of blood. “You’re a demon! You—you’re a—ddemon straight from—” “Before you let that loose tongue of yours start rattling around in your head again, think about who you’re dealing with! I put food in your mouth and clothes on your back. If it weren’t for me, you’d starve, and you know it!” Her eyes narrowed on the deformed old woman, and her raspy voice became softly threatening. “You wouldn’t want me to turn you out into the street, now would you?” “If I get turned out, you ain’t seen a loose tongue like—” “I’ll solve that problem with a butcher knife, witch!”

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Dagmar gasped, then grabbed at her throat. Hearing nothing more from Dagmar, she continued. “That’s better.” Her evil eyes shifted toward the plate Dagmar had been eating from. She quickly picked it up and brutally pushed it into Dagmar’s sagging bosom. “Get those dirty dishes washed and the kitchen cleaned up. And never serve me mushrooms again!” **** Dagmar looked down at the plate of mushrooms, hearing the words echo through her head over and over again. Such simple words. Nothing sinister about them, until they came out of Lorna’s mouth, and then— —never serve me mushrooms again! Dagmar stumbled backward when Lorna pushed her out of the way. She watched as Lorna hurried past the parlor door and reached out for the elaborate column that marked the beginning of the stairway. The second floor landing had four bedrooms in addition to the two tower rooms. At the bottom of the tower the steps were narrow and twisting, and the gathering shadows hung low. She followed Lorna’s eyes as she looked upward into the constricted, winding stairway. The darkness was so deep it gave her a chill. There were only four narrow steps that ended at the first tower room where Shania was staying, and from that small landing, the steps continued upward, winding around the stone wall, reaching higher into the tower and ending where he was staying. The rooms were uniquely round with curved windows, flagstone floors, and low-beamed ceilings. Just right for a guest— or a dirty secret.

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Chapter 3 The room was hostile, full of hanging shadows. The only sound in the hushed silence was that of softly crackling fire and a high wind whipping around the tower. Lance’s eyes opened slowly, then suddenly sharpened at what he saw. He felt something pulling at his wrists and looked upward, finding his hands shackled above his head. He yanked at them, and grimaced at the raw, searing pain. His head jerked around in panic, his gaze piercing the dark, sloping shadows that stood like sentinels, staring, making his skin crawl. He could see that the space was a curious combination of roughly-hewn rock and smooth, dull wood. The beamed ceiling was low and dark, and the shining silken threads of hovering cobwebs danced to a cool breeze that managed to seep through the cracks and crevices. The room had an odd circular shape and the floor was made of tarnished flagstones, broken in some places, and chipped. Heat radiated out of a small, stone fireplace nestled snugly in the wall, the embers burning low. When he heard the subtle sound of gnawing rats, and creaks and rattles, he knew. It was the house, the nightmare house he thought existed only in his dreams. Now that he knew it was real, quick and disturbing thoughts filled his mind while chills danced heavily down his spine. Shafts of gloomy early-morning light streamed through the odd-shaped window, giving very little relief to the sinister shadows that hung from the ceiling. Except for the low, crackling fire, and the occasional moan of the Santa Ana blowing through the canyons, he was surrounded by a deep hush, heavy and crushing. He’d been here—God, how long? How many hours, days had he drifted in and out of consciousness? He looked down at himself and saw he was

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naked. He glanced around the room, seeing his costume that someone had thrown aside. The sight of the gaudy red material triggered his memory, and he knew he’d been abducted, but he didn’t know why. He jumped when he heard the wind blow hard against the tower, the keening sound giving him chills as it made every small crack in the old house into a nightmarish instrument that played ominous tunes, tunes that were harsh, unforgiving, ghostlike. At night, the sound invaded his sleep, giving him horror-filled dreams. And even now, with the bleak light streaming into the room, they made his heart hammer and thrash, and caused his pulse to pound erratically in his ears. His anxious gaze darted to the door when he heard something outside. Uneven, scraping footsteps. He knew it was her. The grizzle-headed old woman who crooned over him while bathing him. She looked like a hag right out of Hell, and she peered at him with her black, witch’s eyes. He looked down to make sure the sheet covered him. He faintly remembered the brazen old crone coming into his room with a wash pan full of water and a rag. She went about, softly humming a tune while lifting the tattered cloth that covered his cock, not realizing he was awake. During his bath when she handled his large member, she caressed it as if it were made of gold. The thought of it would have sickened him if his stomach hadn’t growled with the need for food. How long had it been since he’d eaten? He watched as the door opened and the old face peered around it, wearing a mask of madness. She was balancing a tray in her hands. At the sight of her he began struggling against the bonds that held his hands. “Where am I?” he bellowed. “And why am I confined?” “And a good morning to you, too, sir,” the gritty voice said. “Brung yo’ breakfast.” “But why am I here?” he demanded. “The last thing I remember is struggling with a sinister old man in something that looked like a rather shabby chauffeur’s costume.” “You need to calm down. Ain’t good for you to get so riled up.” “But why the handcuffs?” he yelled, clattering the metal bracelets that surrounded his wrists.

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“Orders from—” “Orders? From who?” He urged forward as much as he could, watching every move she made. “Don’t matter,” she hissed, her ugly, misshapen face resembling a black wind from Hell. “I was tol’ what to do and I done it.” “Can you tell me what day it is? Can you a least tell me that?” “I ‘spose. It’s Tuesday, the ninth. Not that it matters a whole hell of a lot. Time jus’ comes and goes in this place.” “Tuesday,” he mumbled. “The last thing I remember was Sunday night, dancing, the dark room, lights.” His eyes darted back to her. “That’s two days I’ve been asleep? Knocked out? Unconscious? Almost two goddamned days? Why?” he shouted. “Why would someone want to abduct me and keep me out for two days?” His eyes pleaded with her. “You know! I know you do. Tell me, please. What’s going on here?” “No use askin’ me,” Dagmar mumbled, “I jus’ works here.” He wrestled with the cold metal against his wrists. “Dammit! Unlock me now!” “Now you jus’ shut yo’ fool mouth cause I can’t do that.” Lance forced his anger down, realizing that making demands would get him nowhere. Instead, he angled a look at her that was dark and calculating. “Look,” he said, his voice soft. “I’m sorry I got angry, but surely you can understand. Can’t you just tell me what’s going on around here?” “No, I can’t. Don’t matter none no way,” she said, cutting into him with her dark, beady eyes. “I got my orders, and that’s that.” “Who is it? Who’s holding me captive? And—w-why?” His gaze followed hers as she cast a furtive look over at the devil’s costume lying crumpled up against the wall. She knew; it was written in her face. She knew, but wasn’t talking. Dagmar’s gaze quickly slipped away from the costume, and said, “I can’t tell you nothin’ so don’t ask.” “But I’m not a criminal, or dangerous for God’s sake.” He rattled the steel cuffs. “Get me out of them! Please!”

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Dagmar looked at his handsome face, at the bold, electric blue eyes, the thick, sooty lashes, the deep arch of his brows, the dark, curly hair, and the mouth that was full and lush. He looked human enough to her, but to the missus he was Satan…Lucifer…Beelzebub. Evil personified. But she was insane! “Eat yo’ breakfast,” she grumbled, reaching up and unlocking only one hand so he could use his hand. “But I can’t exist like this! You’ve shackled my hands, locked me in. Why?” “I ain’t shackled nobody!” she growled. “Then who?” “Can’t say,” she said, “and don’t you try gettin’ it out o’ me!” “If I’m going to be your prisoner, at least let me move about the room. I need to wash, take care of my personal needs.” “Ain’t strong enough,” she said, her eyes creeping over his body until they arrived at the muscles that built up his arms. She lowered her eyes quickly, not wanting to be caught looking at him. “Prob’ly still got some o’ that stuff, whatever it was, inside you.” Stealing a glance at his wellproportioned legs, her eyes moved slightly to the sheet that covered his hips, remembering what was beneath. “You a runner?” she asked, her voice growing husky. “Yes…yes, I am. I’m in good shape—take care of myself.” Dagmar reached out and stretched the skin below his eyes, looking into them. She could smell his enticing scent, feel the warmth radiating from his body. “I don’t know. I can tell you is still sho ‘nuf weak.” “No, no, I’m feeling fine, but my wrists are getting raw from the handcuffs. Won’t you please…” He hesitated. “Look, if I suddenly become weak I have sense enough to lie down and rest. I’m just asking for a little consideration.” The old woman could see that his wrists were almost bleeding. His request wasn’t unreasonable, and he must be near to poppin’ to get to that

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bathroom. Her old eyes stabbed at him, and her gravelly voice dug deep into her throat. “If you’re thinkin’ how easy it’d be to jump a weak old woman, I’d advise you to think again. I know the Black Arts, and I can hex you quicker’n a hungry wolf can rip out your throat.” She patted both pockets of her apron, and her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “I got me a pistol in one pocket and a needle in the other, and if’en that ain’t enough—” She pulled the collar of her dress back to reveal a red amulet. “—I got this! All I got to do is press it and Klaus will come runnin’, so I wouldn’t be gettin’ no funny notions, ‘cause I won’t hesitate to use one or t’other on you. When I get through with you, you’ll either be asleep—or dead.” “Yes,” he nodded anxiously, then rattled the cuffs. “I understand. Now, please!” Dagmar hesitantly moved toward his shackled hand. “First time you try anything funny, and you live through it, the cuffs go on again.” “Fair enough.” His gaze followed her hands as they reached up to unlock the cuffs from the other hand. As soon as it was free, he jerked it down and cradled his scarred wrist close to his body. “By the way,” he said in an effort to be friendly, “my name is Lance—Lance Weston.” “I know who you is,” she muttered, watching him shake his hands as if to bring blood back into them. “Ain’t never seen you dance, but I hear…” Her words halted. She was talking too much. Can’t get friendly with this one, she thought, taking note that even a scowl couldn’t mar his good looks. She couldn’t blame the missus for thinkin’ what she did. He seemed almost too handsome to be human and had a smooth-talkin’ British accent and a rich soundin’ name. Them English was dangerous, smart. And why not? He come from the land where Queens, Kings, and Princes lived and ruled. Well, she’d have to watch him, stay one step ahead of him. His eyes glanced around, then looked upward at the beamed ceiling. “The way the wind blows, I feel high up. Is this an attic, or—” “You ask too many questions.” She indicated to the tray. “Eat before it gets cold.” “Well then—” he asked, picking up a fork, “—may I ask who you are?”

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She hesitated, her hand making a sly movement into her pocket. Feeling the hypodermic, she grasped it. “Name’s Dagmar.” “Dagmar,” he repeated, chewing his food. “Unusual name, Dagmar. Dagmar—what?” “Ain’t got no last name,” she said with an ill-tempered rasp. “But that’s ridiculous. Surely…” “Ain’t never had one,” she said, her snappish words interrupting his. “My ma deposited me on a trash heap, and that was that. I been scratchin’ for food and a roof over my head ever since.” “But surely someone must have—I mean a tiny babe can’t—” “Oh, someone found me, all right.” Her old eyes glittered like shards of glass as they looked boldly into his. “He liked the feel of a babe’s velvety skin along his cock.” “My God, you mean he—” “Until I was old enough to run away. I never belonged to no one after that. Lived in subway tunnels, vacant houses.” A shine of evil glowed in her eyes. “Even graveyards.” “But your name, how…?” Shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth, he mumbled while chewing. “This creature, he must have…” Dagmar snorted. “Didn’t care enough. ‘Hey you, kid!’ was all I ever heard come outta his foul mouth.” “But there must have been someone—” “Wasn’t no one but me,” Dagmar said while looking back into the past. “I was beggin’ pennies outside a movie house. Tweren’t no bigger’n a minute, but the bright colors of the movie posters purely thrilled me, so I walked around lookin’ at ‘em. One of ‘em had a name printed on it—a real special name. My eyes stopped the minute I saw it.” Dagmar. The memory was so crisp and clear in her mind, it might have been yesterday. “The woman I saw on that poster was beautiful. Blonde. You know, real blonde. She was dressed in a white fur stole and a white satin dress that hugged her figure. Glamorous, real glamorous. A woman like that couldn’t

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have no other name but Dagmar—” Her words stopped abruptly when her eyes shifted and saw the man watching her closely. Her face flushed with embarrassment. “It…it was Dagmar something. French, it was. Hard to pronounce. Anyway, I liked it, so I called myself that.” “Apparently you could read. Someone must have sent you to school, or taught you.” “Must have, but I don’t remember. You see my mind has lots of shadows livin’ in it. Things I don’t remember—” She shrugged. “—never will. Just as well,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Probably things I shoved out ‘cause I couldn’t stand ‘em. Least ways that’s what them head doctors’d say if’en I ever went to one.” “My God, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can—” All at once a flame of fire lit up Dagmar’s eyes. “Now you listen to me,” she hissed. “Don’t be sweet talkin’ me, mister. You don’t give a rat’s ass who I am, or where I come from. I got my orders, and I intend to see they get done. Nothin’ you say or do can change my mind, cause that woman down there is a whole hell of a lot scarier to me than you are! If they’s a devil in this house, it’s her!” “Woman,” Lance repeated softly, his devilish eyes anchoring on Dagmar. “I knew it must be a woman. I remember the smell. Powder, rings on her fingers.” His eyes became suddenly harsh. “Who is she? And what’s her reason for keeping me here?” Dagmar felt a spear of sudden fear. Should she have let that out? She wasn’t thinking. She had to be careful, careful of bein’ caught off guard. Oh, he was a slick one, all right. If she wasn’t careful, he’d have her spewin’ like an angry volcano. “Okay, so I said somethin’ I should’na…lot o’ things maybe, but it won’t happen again.” She indicated toward the tray. “Now you finish that up, or I’ll take it out and you won’t get nothin’ else.” While he ate, Dagmar backed away slowly. He was loose now, nothin’ to keep him from rushing her. She fingered the hypodermic in her pocket. “I’ll come back for the tray,” she said nervously, “but don’t forget what I said. Long as you act right, you can stay loose. But you start gettin’ funny notions…”

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When he turned his eyes on her, her words faded, her thoughts dissolving like the ocean foam that ravaged a stormy beach. He was so handsome, Dagmar could hardly think straight. She stared at him, at his raven-black hair, lustrous and wild. It was curly, cut in different lengths, but long enough to skim the wide set of his shoulders where muscles rippled when he moved. He reminded her of a pagan god, untamed, lusty, and more handsome than any mortal man had a right to be. His young skin was swarthy, like he’d spent hours in the sun. She liked to hear him talk, to hear the melodious tone of his rich deep voice. It was smooth and velvety, like fine, ripe whiskey. And then there was the cadence, the pulse, the lilt of his voice. She knew without a doubt that he could weave magic with that voice, each lovely word wrapping his victim in fine silk cords. She didn’t know him, maybe he was mean as hell itself, but he sounded like a gentleman. A pied piper, that’s what he was. Had a way about him that made her want to trust him. She had a feelin’ he could have a virgin on her back without layin’ a hand on her, jus’ like he had her sayin’ things she knew she aughten. Oh, he was sneaky all right, but ain’t that the way them demons is? Funny, she never knew that the Devil had a British accent! **** The minute Dagmar was gone Lance pushed the tray away and jumped up from the bed. He hadn’t taken a step when suddenly the room and everything in it began to undulate around him. He quickly sat back down making a mental note to get his strength back slowly. After a few minutes he stood again, careful this time as he continued toward the window where he looked out at the front of the property. Just as he’d thought, it was high up, too high for him to climb out of. He recognized the area. He was in the Hills, the Hollywood Hills. His gaze darted around at the manicured yard, and then moved to the sharp ridge further out. It was high, looking down onto a canyon road with jagged rocks at the edge. He longed to feel free, but he was trapped here, in this round room with no means of escape. He felt like a bird in a cage, his wings clipped, his freedom taken away.

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His gaze continued to roam the yard, the brush, and the curving walkway. This was a house he knew. It was secluded, alone, and had sat at the end of the lane for years. He raked his hand through his hair, trying to think. He seemed to remember it belonging to an old movie star, but who? He paced, wracking his brain for the name that just wouldn’t come. Just then he turned back to the window and his eyes immediately fell on the large, decorative D that adorned the gate. “D—on the gate. D,” he kept repeating, “D…” And then he suddenly remembered. “Desmond! Lorna Desmond! That’s it!” My God, he was being held captive by a crazy old movie star who had been famous in the—what? Fifties? He seemed to remember that she’d started out as a child star, then had come into her own very quickly. God, she was beautiful, and fiery. Wild, tempestuous, a bad girl type. It was way before his time, so he didn’t remember a lot, but he had seen one or two of her films since. He vaguely remembered her roaring around in a little chrome-covered sports car, her hair flying behind her. But today she seemed satisfied with that grotesque Rolls Royce that was half convertible and half sedan, and that stern, unsmiling chauffeur. Lance remembered him now. He had been the chauffeur in the dressing room. Stiff and tall, like he had a length of steel rammed up his butt. He hurried over to the door, expecting it to be locked, but trying it anyway. When he couldn’t get it open, he turned quickly, his gaze darting around the room until he saw a small desk. He rushed over feeling as if he’d found a gold mine. It must be filled with paper clips, letter openers— something he could pick the lock with. But after scrambling around inside, he found nothing but a few pencils. Some stubby, some chewed on, others with their lead broken. Desperation began to mount inside him, refusing to let him give up. Moving quickly, his hands scratched through drawers, through needless bent up cards, scraps of paper. He even fell to the floor and looked beneath it, jerked drawers out as if he thought something might be hidden beneath them, but all he found was dust. It seemed strange that there was nothing here. He knew immediately that it must have been cleaned out while he was sleeping. Giving up, he walked back to his bed and lay down. His gaze traveled along the shadowy, cobwebbed ceiling, then around the

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thick walls, and at last to the door. As he listened to the black silence, the closeness of the room crowded in on him, and he felt himself going a little crazy. He knew there was no way he could stay locked up in this room indefinitely. He had to find some way out! He had to!

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Chapter 4 That night Lance sat on the windowsill breathing in big gulps of air that tasted like rain. The wind was cool on his face, a welcome relief after the dusty closeness of the little room. Since early evening he had felt himself going a little crazy. He felt the walls closing in, and it was quiet, lonely. God, it felt like a tomb! He couldn’t stand being closed up in a space as small as this one. Isolated. Forgotten. His eyes turned downward, feeling almost desperate enough to try and climb down the side of this tower. Stupid idea, he thought, then shifted his gaze toward the winding street below the steep ridge in front of the mansion. If he listened closely, he could hear the far off sound of squealing tires. Tires that fought to stay on the narrow highway. It gave off such a lonely sound. Like those squealing tires, the anger inside him roiled and churned with black fury. He closed his eyes to keep the picture out of his mind, but there it was, black and fathomless; the wheels rolling, turning, squealing steadily, building inside him. When he couldn’t take it another minute, he pulled himself back in and began pacing, pulling at his hair, breathing as if each hard-drawn breath was his last. It was as if a black cloud was hanging over him! A raging black cloud that slowly grew, gaining intensity, power and turbulence that pushed upward, filling his throat until it came out in loud, maniacal screams. He couldn’t stop. The black cloud, the rage, whatever it was, filled his throat in waves, demanding expression. He continued yelling until his throat became sore. But it wasn’t through. No way in hell was it through. His mind focused on those downstairs, and hate filled him. He lifted his voice to cry out again, but couldn’t. The pain was intense, causing him to cough while he staggered around the room, drunkenly grasping at this throat. He looked around, his

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gaze anchoring on the furniture in the room. Noise. He needed to make noise. Loud, ungodly noise, so he grabbed anything he could find. Big, small, he didn’t care, and hoisted them high over his head, hurling them against the door, the walls. They couldn’t bury him in this room and ignore him. He’d yell, rattle the door and bang on the walls until he woke someone out of their comfortable little existence. When the room became cluttered with broken furniture, pictures, and piles of ugly bric-a-brac, he heaved himself against the door time and again. He then began kicking it as hard as he could until his strength was finally gone and he sagged against it and slowly slid to the floor. **** Shania jumped up from her bed and began pacing, rubbing her arms restlessly while she listened to what seemed like Hell itself bursting through the walls. Finally she slowed her pace and inch-by-inch her gaze crept upward, remembering the night she stood outside the house and saw the single light up in the tower. Then came the scream, the scream that sent an icy chill running along her spine. She knew then that someone was up there, but who? Or what? Where was Dagmar? Would she tell her who, or what was making these god-awful sounds? Sounds that slowly grew louder as the night wore on. Now it was after midnight and the crashes against the wall, the incessant thumps, and the crazed shouts were getting worse. If she tried, she could easily be convinced that all the demons in hell were on a rampage above her. Fear spiraled inside her as she sat on her bed, hugging her knees, her head lowered and her eyes squeezed shut. She steeled herself, trying to withstand the noise, but couldn’t keep back the fear that tore at her insides. Finally, she pushed her palms against her ears to keep the sound out, but it didn’t help. It became more violent as the darkness of the night deepened. The continuous battering of walls and doors trembled the old mansion, while a constant roar of shrieks, shouts, and tortured growls filled the night.

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Her curiosity was quickly building toward its pique. The old tower literally vibrated under the brutality of whatever it was, and the tormented howls and growling screams turned her blood to pure ice. As she tried to build up her courage to leave her room and see what it was, she paced. Deciding at last to do it, she hurried to her door, afraid of changing her mind. She cracked it open, just a little. Her eyes fell on the stairs just outside that led up into darkness. The house was in such a deep hush except for the tortured sounds coming down from the tower. There were no lights, and she wondered if the others were in bed. But how could they sleep with such a noise bouncing off the walls? Finally she stepped out of her room, only the blue, cold moonlight falling through the narrow, slitted windows along the stairs, lighting her way. As she climbed, she became reminded of an old medieval castle and a typical rock hewn, narrow stairway that wound upward. It chilled her to slide her hands along the cold, hard, craggy wall, leading her where, she didn’t know. All at once she stopped when she realized she was getting nearer. The tormented wails, the violent thrashes, the deafening sounds plunging down into the darkness around her were getting louder. She looked up into the dark, twisting stairway, but could only see more stairs that coiled around the wall like a slithering snake. They seemed to go on forever. As she continued her climb, the tower trembled. The heavy wind whipped wildly around the looming structure, playing a chilling tune between the thin cracks and crevices. Finally, she rounded the last turn. Above her she saw a small landing, and a door. She hesitantly climbed the last few steps and felt cramped beneath the low ceiling. The only thing that relieved the closeness was a window that looked out on the dark, dangerous ridge. The fog was thick, but through it, she could see a portion of the curving black road before it disappeared into the trees. The sound that came screaming down it gave her chills—like the tormented cries of the many souls that had met their deaths along the dark, twisting highway that stretched hungrily through the canyons. Since the first time she’d seen it, the dark, sinister ribbon of road had invaded her dreams, slowly turning to a black hissing snake that would leave its drunken trail and rise up to enclose

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the mansion in its death-like grip. Its red eyes and yawning red mouth never failed to bring her out of the horrible dream screaming. All at once something bumped up against the door and it rattled. My God, someone really was in there! Behind the door, trying to get out! Taking a moment to build up her courage, she took a deep breath, then reached out to touch the doorknob. Her hand hovered for a moment, then lowered, softly touching the smooth roundness. Before she could turn it, a loud, startling thud pounded against the door, shaking it in its frame. It sounded as if something was throwing themselves against it, beating the thick wood. She stood listening, then touched the doorknob again, but it wouldn’t open. “Hello,” she called out softly, and the pounding immediately stopped. Silence hung heavy in the air. Finally she heard a man’s voice, ragged and guttural. “Get me out!” he begged, with a voice that could hardly be heard. “Get me out, please!” “Oh, God!” Shania sobbed, a choking cry of horror rising into her throat. She thought back again to the single tower light she had seen blazing brightly, high and lonely. He had been here even then, locked in. Why? Who was he? Was he dangerous? She stifled the cry with her fist that pushed against her mouth. Fear began to pulse through her as she backed away from the door. She bumped against the wall behind her, not being able to go very far on the close, narrow landing. The moments hurried by, her heart pounding as she looked at the closed door. Finally, she whispered, “Are you all right?” “Who are you? Are you her? Are you the bitch that put me here?” “N-No!” Shania cried out. “I-I don’t know who—I’m s-sorry.” “Then let me warn you. Watch out for her—the woman downstairs. She’s crazy.” Shania thought of Lorna. She may be a bitch in every sense of the word, but surely she wouldn’t lock a man up. “No,” she said, her voice trembling, “no, you must be wrong. She wouldn’t have—” “Then why am I here? Please let me out! God, please!” He yelled the last two words as if he was barely hanging on to his sanity. “B-But I can’t help you,” she called out. “I…I don’t know how…”

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Lance looked down at the bottom of the door, then leaned down, seeing the shadow of the feet that stood there. He reached through the crack as far as his fingers would go. “Touch me—touch me, please!” Shania looked down and saw his fingers reaching; desperately reaching through. He wanted out. To touch her, grab her, maybe to kill her! He’d said the woman was crazy. How did she know he wasn’t the crazy one? Why else would he be locked up? She clamped her hand across her mouth to keep from screaming. She tried to back away, but felt the wall behind her. “Touch me,” he pleaded again. “Please, touch me!” Shania heard the desperation in his voice, and found herself crouching down, and reaching out. She touched him only slightly, but it was enough for him to grab her fingers. “Thank you,” he cried out, as if relieved in some way. “Please get me out. I’ll do anything; give you anything!” “I-I’m so sorry, but I c-can’t. There’s no key.” She hesitated, then asked, “Why are you in there, locked up?” “I don’t know. For some reason I’m being held captive. His words caused her face to pale. “No…” she muttered, pulling her fingers out of his tight grasp. “It…you’re wrong. It…It can’t be true. I have to…No, I c-ca…I have to go.” Shania turned, hurrying down the stairs, fear—no, terror knotting her stomach. When she finally came to her room, she opened the door, ran through, and then slammed it quickly. Terror clutching her, she reached down and locked it, then gradually began backing up, her chest heaving. Finally stumbling over the bed, she sat down. She immediately looked upward, visualizing what the creature might be like beyond the ceiling of her room. Who was he? Why was he locked in? Was he dangerous? A mad killer? Or was he the victim? The victim of an old woman’s insanity? ****

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Lorna went running through the mansion until she at last went behind the staircase and down about five steps to Dagmar’s door. She had only just begun pounding when it suddenly opened. “Do you hear that sound?” she screamed at Dagmar. “That devil is loose!” “He ain’t loose,” Dagmar said, trying to calm Lorna down. “He’s locked in, same as always.” “But he’s beating down the walls with his two fists. Heaving himself against the door! Go up there! Find out what he wants!” “Fool woman,” Dagmar muttered, her voice deep and gravelly, “he wants out. Thas whut he wants!” “Don’t call me names, you pathetic old dishrag! Do it again and I’ll have your hide! Do you understand? I’ll—” All at once her scalding threats ended while an evil smile stretched her lips, and her sinister eyes glittered. “—I’ll give you to him. I’ll place your deformed old body on a tray and present it to that black-hearted devil, and let him do his worst! That should keep him happy for a while.” All at once her smile faded, and her gaze stabbed Dagmar. “Now get up there this minute!” Fear twisted Dagmar’s ugly face. “No, ma’am,” she whispered. “Not whilst he’s like that.” “You're a spineless old crone,” Lorna said, threateningly. “Not worth my time, and certainly not worth the kindness I've extended to you all these years.” With that she turned from Dagmar and began climbing the stairs. When she reached the tower stairs she looked at Shania's door and wondered if she'd heard anything. She must have. No one could sleep through such a pounding, especially Shania, her room being just below his. She passed the door as quietly as she could, then walked on up the steps that wound around like a poisonous snake into the tower. The closer she came, the louder the pounding sounded. When she finally stood before the door, she put her head close to it, her rasping voice harsh and commanding. “I know who you are, Devil, and you'll die a thousand deaths before I let you out! You'll rot in there! Do you understand, you black-hearted beast? You'll rot!”

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“The Devil, am I?” Lance asked, his fury climbing to new heights. “All right, if that's the way you want it, listen to this.” His voice became guttural and low. “If you don't unlock this door, when I get out, I'll rip your throat to shreds! I'll drink your blood! I'll feast! I'll dine on your flesh!” He paused, the thick silence threatening. “And then I'll take your soul to Hell with me!” His horrible, deep, growling words caused an icy fear to twist through Lorna. She backed up, listened to the dangerous pounding, and looked at the shaky door that appeared weak under his assault—as if it would fall any minute. She turned, running back down the stairs, his black threats tearing at her insides. If she'd had doubts before, they were gone. She knew now that she had something in her tower room that could never run free. If it did, it would cause panic—destruction in the world. And it would begin in her own home! **** Early morning daylight found Dagmar in the kitchen preparing breakfast when Shania came in. The old woman held her breath, bracing herself for questions she knew would come. Slowly, she turned her grizzled old head around and faced the girl. “What’re you doin’ outta your room?” Ignoring the question, Shania whispered, “Who is he?” Dagmar's eyes lowered. “Don’t know what you're talkin’ about.” “Don't tell me you didn't hear that noise last night.” “What if I did?” Dagmar rasped loudly. “Who or what he is ain't none o’ yo’ business.” “But why is he locked in? Is he dangerous?” Dagmar lifted her eyes. “How do you know he's locked in?” “He told me!” “Told you?” Dagmar hissed with something between horror and anger. “You been up there?” Dagmar grabbed Shania's arm, jerking her forward. “What you doin’ walking around this mansion late at night?” Shania winced at Dagmar's strong grasp. “I couldn't sleep—the noise. I had to see what was up there!”

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Dagmar abruptly let go of her arm. “Don't you tell the missus you was up stickin' yo' nose in something that don't concern you.” Shania's gaze darted around as if looking for her. “Is she…?” “Ain't come outta her room yet, “ Dagmar said as she continued puttering over the tray she was preparing. “I'll need help with this.” Shania looked down at the tray. “Who's it for?” “Don't matter. Jus' take it and follow me.” **** Shania hesitated, remembering the deep, guttural words. The woman downstairs—watch out for her. She's crazy. “No…I…I don't think I want to see her…” “It ain't for her. We're goin' to the tower room.” “Oh, God.” Shania's voice trembled. “N-Not up there!” Dagmar cocked her head at the girl. “No? What do you think you'll see? A madman maybe? A monster with two heads? A devil?” Dagmar chuckled. “What do you think is in that room?” “I don't know, but—” Dagmar frowned. “Hell, gal, he ain't nothin' but a man.” “But he's—dangerous. Isn't he? I heard—” “You heard what?” Dagmar said. “A few loud noises? Restless sleeper he is, thas all. Naw, you musta had some kinda nightmare. Ain't nothin' in that room but a man. “ Anger instantly filled Shania. “Don't treat me like the village idiot! I talked to him. He said he was locked in, that the woman down here was crazy.” Shania eyed her closely. “Was he talking about you, or her?” “You ask too many questions.” “If he's not dangerous, why is he locked up?” “Because he ain't like you and me,” Dagmar rasped. “Differ'nt—in some ways. Missus’ got some wild idea he's the Devil. But whatever he is, he gets hungry same as everybody else. He'll be glad to see the food. Take his mind off anything he has a mind to do. I'll need your help.”

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“No,” Shania said, shaking her head. “I…don't…” Dagmar slammed the tray down, then put both hands on her hips in annoyance. “Now listen here, gal, I can't do this alone. I need you to help me. He's runnin' free in that room, and it'll take the two of us—one to serve him and one to watch.” She looked around as if she might be afraid someone was listening, then reached her hand in the pocket of her apron, and drew out the pistol. “You know what this is?” Shania's eyes widened, then she nodded timidly. “Good, because if he gets out of hand, all I gotta do is aim, point, and shoot. Think you can handle the tray if I handle the beast?” “Beast? I…” “I think the Devil is called a beast, ain't he?” She saw Shania's confusion. “It's simple. The missus thinks he's the Devil. I think he's a man. You'll have to decide for yo'self what you think he is.” Shania thought about the sounds she'd heard the night before, and the voice that had come through the locked door. He was tormented, desperate. Who was the real Devil around here? The man, or the woman who had him locked up? Shania's eyes lifted, and saw Dagmar studying her. “Dagmar, you're not crazy. What's going on around here?” Dagmar's dry old lips turned up in a crooked grin. “You'll find out. Time you did, too. Now you pick up that tray. You ain't a guest in this house no more, you work to earn your keep.” Realizing she had no choice, Shania picked up the tray with trembling hands, then followed Dagmar as she led the way up to the tower. When she reached the top, she slowed. She remembered standing in front of this door the night before, and knew it hadn't been a nightmare—at least not the kind that came to her in her sleep. She held her breath as Dagmar took the key out of her apron pocket and stabbed the keyhole. What would she find behind the closed door? A maniac? A crazed madman, perhaps? Instead she saw a man lying on the bed splayed out, resembling a sexy centerfold. He looked spent, his long, dark hair tangled around his face, his broad, muscled chest heaving with life. His face almost took her breath away. On one hand, the shadow of his beard gave him a virile, manly aura, yet on the other his

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face was so perfect, so symmetrical, that anymore delicacy would have made him too beautiful for a man. His body was magnificent—muscled and hard. A thrilling tingle buzzed through her when she thought of how he might feel beneath her touch. This was the Devil? More likely he was a god. **** Lance opened his eyes when they came in, and immediately noticed Shania. He sat up slowly, keeping his eyes on her. His stare was bold as he assessed her frankly. He gazed at her red hair, the color of firelight, and her bright green eyes—large and enticing holding a starry glitter. They weren’t wide and innocent as he might expect of one so young, but had a certain laziness that caused a burn in his groin. Her face, creamy and dimpled, her lips soft and pink—so very inviting, and strangely erotic. Moist like the petals of a rose. When he saw how well she filled out the top of her halter, he was reminded of how long it had been since he'd been with a woman. Suddenly he was in another world—a world where they both lay on a bed of tangled sheets. Oh, God, how his mouth tingled at the heavenly sight of her full young breasts, heavy and round, and budded with pink nipples. Firm, they were, firm, taut, and waiting. Oh, God, he was hungry, so hungry for a woman. This one, he thought as he looked into her steamy emerald eyes then shifted to her perfect lips, would do so nicely. As he mounted her in his fantasy, parting her young thighs, he became ridiculously hard. So hard he could feel himself growing into the soft cleft between her legs—so very close to the hot, pulsing sheath that would surround his cock. His skin tingled as he ran his hands over her velvety smooth body, wanting so badly to enter her and begin the mad push and pull until he was wickedly satisfied… Suddenly he was jolted back to reality when his gaze moved downward and he saw scars on her naked midriff. For one crazy moment he thought he’d hurt her. “Oh, God…I…”

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“I was running through the woods,” she said timidly when she saw him staring. “I must've fallen.” She indicated to the tray. “I brought your breakfast. You look kind of hungry.” “Yes—hungry,” he said, knowing she must have been the one at the door the night before. Reaching out to take the tray, he lightly touched her, then boldly moved to wind his fingers around hers beneath the tray. Their eyes met, each remembering their encounter the night before. Now the touch they shared beneath the door meant so much more. She'd sounded frightened, unsure of herself. Apparently she wasn’t part of this household. Part of the insanity that was running rampant through it. If she didn’t leave there must be a reason. Maybe she was like him—held against her will! **** Shania glanced nervously at Dagmar, then back at the handsome, sexy man with rippling muscles, vivid blue eyes, and two perfectly proportioned legs. She didn't understand why he was locked up. As far as she could see he was normal in every way. No, maybe not. Had she ever seen such a man? One that she would have given herself to the first time she'd seen him? Maybe he was the Devil. She could feel the lure, the pull of his eyes, his lusty, sinful looks. Any woman would fall at his feet, and she— “Go on,” Dagmar said softly, interrupting her thoughts. She cut her eyes over at Lance as she whispered to Shania, “Go downstairs and get something big and heavy. Hide behind a door or somethin’ and be ready to wop 'im with it if he gets out of this room.” **** When the door slammed, Lance's gaze slid harshly toward Dagmar. “If you didn't come up here to let me out, then you'd better go, too. Otherwise I might take that scrawny little neck of yours and strangle you with my bare hands!”

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“You don't scare me none, and don't you go givin' me orders, neither.” She looked around. “Look at this room. It's a mess. You made enough noise last night to wake the dead. The missus was nigh on ready to shoot you 'twixt the eyes.” Dagmar scuttled around picking up the room. “How much o' that are we gonna have to put up with?” “It's simple,” Lance said, his piercing eyes stabbing hers, “just let me out of here!” “Don't you hear good?” she asked. “I can't!” He stood then, the sheet that covered him, softly sliding down his darkly handsome form. He grabbed it before it fell to the floor and wrapped it around his hips. He knew he could overpower her, but he also knew she carried a gun. He'd have to be careful. With short, careful steps he began edging around the bed, each step bringing him closer to Dagmar. “Don't you try nothin' with me. I done tol' you once that I'd have them cuffs on you agin if'en you did.” “Try it, just try it, you crone, and see how long you live. I could throw you out that window with one hand.” Dagmar slipped her hand in her apron pocket. “Not 'fore I put a hole through yo' head.” “I don't believe you. Threats, nothing but threats. There's nothing in that ratty old pocket but—” He looked startled when he saw the quick movement of her hand. “—this,” Dagmar finished for him as she turned the barrel of the gun upward toward his heart. “You do anything to me, Shania…” “Shania?” he asked, suddenly interested. “Is that her name? Who is she? Is she as crazy as the rest of you?” “She ain't nobody. She was hurt, needed help. Came right after you did. Ain't been here long.” “I want her.” Dagmar turned her head slightly, and angled a scowling look at him. “You what? Why would I…?”

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“Come now, Dagmar. You're no innocent. You feed me, take care of me. Why not provide me with a woman?” A spurt of hungry desire deepened his husky voice. “I have other needs, too, you know.” “You expect me to—Why, you is crazy. Me, gettin' you women?” “Not women, Dagmar. Just this one.” “I c-can't,” Dagmar said, her words stumbling. “Missus wouldn't want that.” “I don't give a flyin' fuck what the missus wants. I want her!” Lance bellowed, his looming size, threatening. “For eatin' or for fuckin'?” Dagmar said nervously, a sarcastic tone to her voice. “Seems like the two go hand in hand, if you know what I mean. And I think you do.” “They's eatin'…and they's eatin'. I mean—Since I hear tell you is the Devil, and all.” Lance chuckled. “Dagmar, you’re a riot. You know, I'd almost be willing to take you on. I guess that shows just how desperate I am for a little—pussy.” He slowly walked toward her, his eyes shooting fire. “Stay where you are, you black-hearted beast. I got no reason not to shoot you 'twixt the eyes.” She indicated to the sheet with her gun. “I seen what you got under that sheet. You'd tear up any normal woman.” He gave her a lopsided smile. “I haven't had any complaints yet.” “Do they live to tell?” Dagmar asked, hoping her words were placating the demon while she edged around the room, trying to get to the door. Lance chuckled again. “Some of them even compare notes.” “Well,” Dagmar began, nervously, “maybe I'll ask the missus. If it's a woman you want, maybe she'll—” “She'll what? Spread her legs for me? Hell no! That woman's way past her expiration date. I'd jerk off on Hollywood and Vine before I took that crow to bed.” His voice dropped low in his throat, and his eyes shone like blue flames. “I want that juicy young thing that was just in here, and I won't settle for anything less!”

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By this time, Dagmar was standing only a few inches from the door, her eyes trained on the old, scarred antique knob. All at once she leaned sideways and grabbed it. He was on her in a second, one hand clamping down over her hers, while the other grabbed the hand that held the gun. Dagmar managed to wrench it away from him, and with one swift movement threw it across the small room and sent it sailing out the window. “You bitch!” Lance yelled as he ran toward the window and watched as it fell to the ground. He whirled around, his eyes almost elongating with rage as he paced toward her. “I ought to kill you for that!” he growled. While she watched him advancing on her, she frantically pulled at the doorknob, but for some reason it wouldn’t open. She knew his devil's mind was whirlin', thinkin' up ways—bad ways, bloody ways, to get his revenge. And suddenly he jerked her to him, his whispered words and hot breath damp on her ears. “How much trouble would you get in if I escaped? Would that witch downstairs have your ass for lunch?” “That'd be on a good day,” Dagmar said, her breath heavy and short. “Then listen to me,” he whispered, he face close to hers. “I'll make you a deal—meet you halfway. But you have to do me a few favors. Send Shania in here tonight—alone. Give her the key and tell her to leave it in the lock. You'll be in the clear. She'll be the one to get the blame. She's young, frightened, not thinking straight. No one would blame her for a few minutes of carelessness.” “You don't want much, do you? 'Sides, Shania don't belong here. She's—I can't tell you.” “Even better. She doesn't know the rules. Lost the key. Doesn't know where it is.” Dagmar trembled, fear lay naked in her eyes. “Don't you understand that I can't? If'en I did and the missus found out, I'd be dead meat for sure!” “Apparently you don't know who you're dealing with,” he growled, realizing that she was more frightened of that witch downstairs than she was of him. He only knew one way to fix it and pulled her closer, pressing his

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full, beautiful mouth against her ear. “So the missus thinks I'm the Devil, huh? Is that just her opinion, or do you believe it, too?” “I ain't crazy enough to—” “Well, you'd better believe it,” he snarled. “Because it's true. And I'll get out—with or without your help. And when I do, I'll dine on your flesh— yours and the old crow's downstairs. But as long as you do what I say, you'll be safe from me.” His eyes cut down at her. “Think about it, Dagmar. You'll never know when your blood will be spilled, and your ugly flesh ripped and torn beyond all recognition. You live close to the woods. I can make it look like an animal came down out of those hills and attacked.” He saw the look in her eyes, the stark fear. Apparently he'd convinced her, and that was all that was important. Maybe he wasn't the devil they thought he was, but he was willing to play the part. After all, he'd been doing it for three years now. And if fantasies of grisly murders were the dark and evil things that go through a devil's mind, he'd be the wickedest devil in the Hollywood Hills. Because, like any devil worth his salt, all he could think about was tearing the head off of Lorna Desmond—and anyone else who kept him locked in this room. “I jus' don't believe it. It ain't possible. You can't be—” “—the Devil,” he finished for her in a voice that seemed to echo all the way up from the abyss called Hell. “No, no!” she said, shaking her head, refusing to believe. “If'en you is the Devil, then I'm Mary, mother of—” He clenched his teeth, and his hand wrenched her arm, tearing a whimper from her throat. “Believe it!” “All right, you is the fuckin’ Devil! So why the hell don’t you jus’ go? No one could stop you, least of all not me.” Lance’s full lips stretched upward in an evil smile. “I’ve got lots of reasons, the first and foremost being revenge. I want to yank the heart out of the one responsible for locking me up! The other reason is Shania. I have a feeling she’s in danger. If I do go, I can’t leave her here at the mercy of that mad woman downstairs. Now is it a deal, or do I begin counting the days until you and that crow downstairs become my dinner?”

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“I…I don't…I…” “Save yourself, Dagmar,” he whispered, his breathy words subtly moving the wisps of her grizzled head. “What do you care what happens to that hag? Help me, and you'll be safe. I give you my word.” “How…How you 'spect me to take the word of…of the Devil?” “Take it or leave it,” he snarled, “but I'd advise you to take it.” “N-No…I…” She pulled on the doorknob. “The missus…Her breakfast, she's—” “That crow's breakfast can wait!” Lance said angrily, his eyes turning to scalding fury. “Answer me now, Dagmar!” When still she hesitated, he continued, his words ominous and soft. “Who’d miss the little gimp with no name, huh? The little mole that hides in these Hills. Who’d care if one day or night she suddenly—vanished?” Dagmar tried to swallow the fear that rose into her throat. “All right!” she hissed, knowing she had to agree to get away from him. “I'll do it!” A sob of relief choked her when his hold relaxed. She turned and quickly fled through the door. After turning the key in the lock, she leaned close to the door, knowing she was safe. “I'll give you—” She slid her eyes toward the stairs that led to Shania’s room, then lowered her voice. “—Shania, but I ain't givin' you no key.” Lance grinned, his face close to the door, just opposite Dagmar's. His whisper was soft and subtle. “Yes you will, Dagmar. You will, and you know it. Or else!” There they were again—them soft, velvet-edged words. Smooth as silk, they were. Sayin' her name like it was honey in his mouth. All he had to do was speak and something hot rippled through her. His pied-piper voice could make her do anything he wanted. And she knew she would. Maybe not today, tomorrow, or even next week, but she knew, sure as Hell had fire, that the key he wanted was his—along with anything else he asked for. God, why had she removed those handcuffs? Now that he was free, he could jump her anytime. As strong a man as he was, it would be easy. But he didn't. He could've, but he didn't. Why? Was it revenge as he had said? She knew the answer to that. He was playing with her—playing with all of

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them, like a cat plays with a mouse. That was the way of the Devil all right. But one day the playing would be over and he'd demand payment—just like the Devil always does. She thought back to when she was a street kid. She saw the Devil there—right there on the streets. Stabbings, shootings, rape, poverty, homelessness. God, it's a wonder she was sane today. Yeah, she knew about God and the Devil. And the Devil she knew about always made you pay. The first payment was the girl. If she knew—had any inkling she was gonna be thrown to the Devil and his lusts, she'd run. Or would she? Would any woman run away from a man who looked like him? Maybe the missus would—if she knew she was first on the Devil's hit list!

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Chapter 5 Someday—and please, God, make it soon—they will find her. But what shape will she be in? Dead? Hurt? Amnesia, or even insanity? The handsome older man with strong features had, for the first time, appeared weak as he walked to a window and looked out. Yes, the wind had been knocked out of him when he'd learned that his daughter was missing. Now, the overcast sky seemed to sag, threatening to crush his entire world. He looked out at his gardens, to the green grass, climbing roses, morning glories, and sighed. Only a few days ago their colors were bright and vivid, but a few days ago he still had Shania, knew where she was, or at least thought he knew. Sure, he was protective of her, and constantly had to put up with the argument that he treated her like a child. Hell, he couldn't help it. So what if he hardly let her have any freedom, screened all her friends? He knew it was embarrassing for her, but it was necessary. She was, after all, the daughter of Ross Hunter, the head of Monarch Studios. Plenty of people—or more appropriately, plenty of rats—would love to get to him through his daughter. When he finally tried to lighten up a little, what happened? She got herself...what...lost? Killed? God, where is she? Suddenly a sizzling spurt of anger shot up inside him. Why had she trusted that stupid kid to drive her anywhere? The report was that he'd taken her to the beach cottage and left her there. That was the night he'd literally had blocks of time missing from his memory and didn't remember seeing her there. He'd seen darkness, blood, a body—God, a body! He even remembered seeing someone in the dark—an indistinct form—the breathing, the gasping words of terror that drove a knife through his heart. But nothing more until he found himself running

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through some woods somewhere, the trees towering silhouettes above him. Had it been Shania? Had she seen him leaning over a dead body? Covered with blood? Had she seen him plunge a knife into the throat of someone? Who was it? Is that why she ran? The darkness, the music, the blood, the missing blocks of time...God, it all had him so confused. He wasn't sure what had happened, who was there, and where he went from there. One thing was certain. He didn't remember actually seeing Shania, and didn't remember getting home. The memory losses were driving him crazy. Sure, it had happened before, but in small slices. Small slices of darkness, of fear—of death, and now it was getting worse. He'd be in the middle of something and suddenly the shadows would descend and take him away—for minutes, hours! This time it had been for a whole night. What next? Days? Weeks? If she'd only called him to come and pick her up. He knew the reason she hadn't. It was because of her independence. Shania had always been kind of wild. She insisted on doing things on her own. Even as a small child, he could see her independence maturing right along with her body. She'd insisted on tying her own shoelaces, putting on her own dresses. Ross smiled inside. How many times had she put the wrong shoes on the wrong feet, put her clothes on backward, or wrong side out? It had been funny then, but now—God where was she? Was she hungry, frightened, hurting? Was she dead? **** When it was learned that the daughter of Monarch Studio's CEO was missing, the local police precinct had put everything on hold and formed a squad that was made up of only their best men, and the vast grounds of Ross' home had become cluttered with a swarm of police cars. They gathered in the exquisitely furnished living room to collect as much information as they could in order to continue their search. Now the officers milled around, some standing, and some sitting while drinking coffee and studying stacks of Shania's pictures. A few good ones

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were taken to familiarize themselves with her looks, and to show around in case anyone had seen her. Up to now, her image had been published in the paper, projected on TV, and silly, playful home movies were shown of her being caught off guard while cavorting with her friends around the house and in the pool. The films brought back happy memories to Ross, but in view of what had happened, he had to leave the room every time they were aired. It seemed that no matter how far away he stood, the happy sounds, the laughter, and the good times they shared made his misery lay inside him like a steel weight. He endured it. He had to. His anger and his torment made him determined to find the culprit who was responsible for his child's disappearance. Ross sat on his couch, leaning forward, his hands raking impatiently through his dark hair. He felt like a coiled spring ready to jump at any provocation. He was restless, and it was impossible for him to sit still. All kinds of ugly pictures danced through his head—pictures of his daughter and the torture she might be going through, the horrible things she might be enduring. When he couldn't stay still any longer, he jumped up and faced the fat, balding officer who had a voice too mild and unthreatening for his peace of mind. His hands slowly opened and closed as if itching for a neck to wrap them around. “I'll kill anyone who touches a hair on her head. I'll dip the bastard in boiling tar, then—” “Ross, please,” the officer said, trying to take control of the situation, but failing miserably. “I understand how you feel, but you have to calm down. We need you to think clearly; work with us on this.” “Did you find anything in the woods? Fresh footprints? A broken branch? Anything?” Ross was frightened. Even though he had asked the question, he was afraid of the answer. What if they had found something and it eventually led back to him? Would that prove that she'd been there that night? If he had been chasing her, was it to protect her? Or did some perverse part of his personality want to kill his own daughter for what she'd seen? What wicked killer lurked inside him? Where did it come from? How did it happen? Had

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he birthed it? Nurtured it? Raised it to manhood only to do the dirty jobs he refused to face? “I keep telling you. The trail of prints were indefinable. It was hard to discern hers from some that had been left there previously. We did find a trail that looked as if someone had been running. There were also broken branches, even blood—” “Oh, God,” Ross moaned, “blood!” He wilted down on the couch, his strong body suddenly weakened at the possibility of his daughter's death. “The trail ends at the edge of the woods that faces Devil's Tongue Canyon. Where she went from there, we don't know. There's nothing to do now but show the pictures around. Someone might remember seeing her exit the woods. She may even be staying somewhere close by.” Ross looked up at him. “You're spinning your wheels, dammit. If that had happened, she would have told them who she was and they would have called by now.” “But we don't know what shape she was in, and can't be certain she's even spoken to anyone. She could be out wandering around somewhere.” “Wandering around? You mean like—maybe she can’t remember who she is?” The cop shrugged. “It’s a possibility. That's why we have to show the pictures. That, along with everything that's being broadcast on the news, will surely bring someone out if they've seen her.” “It sounds like a long shot to me. What if it doesn't work? What next?” “A search beyond the immediate perimeter would be next,” the officer said methodically, as if he was quoting rule number five in the Officer's Police Manual. “Unless we find a body, of course. We have to keep in mind that she could have been picked up by a motorist—maybe a tourist, vacationer.” He shrugged slightly. “She could be anywhere by now. Even in a different town.” “Oh, no,” Ross said as he urged himself toward the cop as if trying to convince him. “She’s still here—somewhere. Don't you see? I'm Ross Hunter. I’m rich, successful, prime for blackmail. Whoever has her is biding his time before he asks for money. Isn't that the way it happens? Don't they

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usually hold them for a while, just to make you nervous, then call with a demand for ransom?” “It could happen that way, but—” “But nothing!” Ross growled, then began raking his fingers through his hair as if he were tempted to tear it out by the roots. Suddenly he looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and pooled with tears. “I don't think she got out of those woods. I mean, everything you've said is so fucking far fe—” Suddenly a picture flashed in his mind, a picture of Shania dead. He put his hand up to his head and closed his eyes. My God, were they looking for him? For the monster that lurked inside him? He felt like pounding his fists on his own head. Why the hell couldn't he remember what happened? “What was that?” “F-Far fetched. I was going to say...” He looked at the cop, suddenly angry. “Forget what I was going to say!” His eyes bored into the cop while he pointed to some point beyond the house. “She could be buried out there, in some shallow grave, and we'd never know it. She could be holed up in some pervert's basement, and all you want to do is show pictures!” “Ross, we have to do what we think is best—cover all the possibilities.” Ross jerked himself around, the anguish in his eyes apparent as they darted to each one who stood around doing nothing. “I know what you're doing, you're wasting time! You think she's dead, and you're giving up.” He lunged forward, quickly caught the officer's uniform in his desperate grasp and looked him in the eye. “If she's not dead, then someone has her! Some perverted lunatic who is using her! What's he doing to her, Jason? What in hell is that depraved bastard doing to my daughter? She's being held against her will, I know it. He's forcing himself on her, making her to do ungodly things.” He clenched his teeth, stretched his mouth back in bestial anger, and his eyes narrowed with a promise of death shining in them. “I'm warning you now,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “If I find him, I'll cut him up into so many pieces there won't be anything left to bury.” The officer grabbed the grieving father's strong fingers and tried to pry them off his collar. “Someone might have her, that's true, but there's been no demand for ransom, and until there is we have to assume…Ross—” the

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officer grunted, still struggling with the fingers that resembled cords of steel. “—she's still…Ross, let go dammit. Hell, man, I understand what you're going through.” “Do you have a daughter?” Ross asked, his eyes wild and full of pain. “You know I don't—” “Then you understand nothing.” Ross finally released the officer's collar and brutally pushed him away. The cop looked at Ross, his anger apparent while he tried to smooth his clothes. “I could take you in for that, you know. You're not supposed to touch a police officer, it—” “And no one is supposed to touch my daughter!” Ross yelled in the cop's face. “What the hell are you doing about that?” “Touché,” the officer mumbled, then turned to the uniforms standing around. “Okay, men, let's get out of here, there's work to be done.” He began passing the pictures around just before they entered the foyer, their black, regulation shoes scraping along the pristine black and white tile floor before they ambled out the door. **** That night, while the rest of the world slept, Dagmar knew what she had to do. Her lurching silhouette moved through the house like a ghost, peering around corners, her eyes lifting toward the tower as if listening for some kind of movement. It was almost midnight and he'd be waitin' there on his bed with his eyes on the door. She had to hurry. Get the girl up there. If she didn't, he'd be poundin' on the walls again; she knew it. And if he somehow escaped, he'd break through that fuckin’ door and find her and kill her. With fear trembling through her body, Dagmar clutched the baluster and climbed the stairs slowly to the second floor landing. The minute her foot found the last step, her black beady eyes shifted to the first tower room. She hesitated only for a moment before her old, lurching body pulled itself upward, then like a gnome from Hell, stealthily crept through the leaning shadows until she came to Shania's room. She entered it silently. From the door she could

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see the silvery rays of the moonlight as it fell softly through the window on Shania's face. Dagmar's breath was stolen by her utter beauty. The shimmering moonlight had given the girl an ethereal glow unlike anything she had ever seen. Dagmar immediately felt a surge of guilt while looking at her. She didn't want to do this, and now as she looked at the pure loveliness of the girl—loveliness that by morning might be marred by scratches, bites, and—Dagmar couldn't bear to think of it. It was just something that had to be, it just had to. It was either this filthy act, or her death. “I don't know her,” Dagmar breathed to herself. “A stranger—nothin' to me.” And then without a sound, she slipped through the door and moved toward the bed. Without any hesitation she suddenly grabbed Shania’s arm and jerked her forward while she clamped her gnarled old hand across her mouth. “Don't say nothin', hear? You're comin' with me.” Dagmar could feel Shania fighting against her withered old body, but managed to hold her still. A series of grunts and groans, begging to become screams, managed to escape her throat. “Shut up!” Dagmar hissed. “Don't make me hurt you, gal.” She jerked Shania up from the bed and hugged her close to her body. Feeling as if she were fighting a wildcat, she finally managed to heave Shania toward the door, then push her around the corner and out into the wide corridor where pools of midnight shadows lurked. **** Shania could feel the old woman's jagged nails digging into her flesh as she dragged her through the fluttering gloom and up the spiral staircase. She tried to scream while she thrashed from side to side, but Dagmar held her firm. The moonlight that etched the narrow stairway did a deadly dance on Dagmar's face, exposing her witchy ugliness as she struggled. While stumbling up the steps, a glimpse of the outside revealed shapes that were twisted and stunted. For the first time, Shania realized that her world was on a mad hurtle toward danger, everything harsh and distorted with evil. She'd been happy once, she was sure of it. And then it had been stolen, replaced

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with this hell. It was out there somewhere, that world. Where had it gone, and why? While these thoughts buzzed through her mind, she realized where Dagmar was taking her, and gasped, muffling out a plea while her head jerked and turned, her body shifting and struggling as she was forced up each step. Dagmar's throat rattled when she whispered close to Shania's ear. “It won't be so bad. A little pussy to calm him down. Might make him right tolerable. I'd gladly do the job myself, but he asked for you. Got a cock that'll send you right up to heaven.” **** The whisper of a voice caught Lance's attention, and he ran to the door and put his ear against it. Was someone out there? He strained to listen, but could only hear a few faraway, shuffling footsteps. Slowly it became louder, the hissing whispers forceful and demanding. And then the door shook when someone fell against it. Almost immediately he heard a key rattling in the lock, then turning. When the door opened, he saw a portion of Dagmar's misshapen face, and could see her struggling. Then all at once the door burst open and Shania was thrown in, and landed on the floor. “There she is—dressed for the occasion.” Lance saw the look of fear on her face. “You mean you had to force her? My God, you can’t expect me to rape her.” “Use that charm you've got so much of. ‘Sides, you didn't say she had to be willin'. You said you wanted her.” Dagmar indicated toward her. “Well, there she is. The rest is up to you.” **** Shania lay there on the chipped flagstones listening as they discussed her as if she weren't even in the room. She wanted to speak, but fear coiled heavily inside her, taking her speech. And then Dagmar was gone, and she was alone with him.

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Her head jerked toward the door when she heard the rasp of the key locking her in with this maniac. She turned to him and saw him walk toward her, the heat in his eyes like two wicked flames. She slowly began to scoot backward on the floor, watching his every move. “S-Stay away,” she whispered. “I'm not going to hurt you…Shania? Is that your name?” “It's what they call me.” “I assume you know why you're here.” “Yes, I know, and if you touch me I'll scream,” she whispered, her voice trembling. **** Lance's anger spiraled. Raking his hands through his hair, he turned away, trying to figure out what to do next. Finally turning back to her, he continued. “What is so bad about being—well, being with me? I've had women throw themselves at my feet!” Silence. “Really, I'm not the monster they say I am.” He chuckled. “The Devil, can you believe that? Is there anything so ridiculous as thinking that I'm the Devil? The demented old crone downstairs saw me dancing at the Lucifer Club and let her imagination run wild.” He looked at Shania for a moment, then said, “I'm just a man who wants a woman. Is there anything more natural than that?” His voice became a guttural rasp. “More human?” **** Shania’s curious gaze raked him up and down, seeing the shadows from the glowing fire dance against his skin. They called him a devil, but to her he was a god. Muscled and strong, the sheet tied around his hips, his legs shapely and firm. And then he knelt before her, his hand moving to her shoulder, then to her arm.

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“Let me help you up,” he urged, “the bed is much more comfortable than this cold floor, and deliciously warm.” His accent, his eyes, his mere presence, filled the room with sensuous vibrations. Shania could feel a certain excitement growing inside her. Slowly, the fear began to settle beneath his sensuous touch. His hands were warm, strong and firm. Taking her by the tops of her arms, he pulled her up to her knees, bringing her thrillingly close to him. He was kneeling in front of her on one knee, his other knee bent, his foot on the floor. She shivered when she felt her body brush up against his naked thigh. **** Slowly, his eyes traveled downward and saw her sweet, curving body outlined beneath the thin nightie. His fingers moved leisurely as he pushed a strip of material off her shoulders, then his hand moved upward, pushing her bold red hair back so he could see the creamy expanse of her neck. Such a beautiful picture she made, he thought as he caressed her. “Shania, I must ask you. Are you a—virgin?” Her lids lowered, and she looked down as if ashamed. “I s-suppose. I don't ever remember being with a man.” “You don't remember? What do you mean?” “I...” She sighed sadly. “I can't remember some things.” “What? Do you mean your memory is—You have amnesia?” “I remember running through the woods,” she began, her sooty lashes lifting. Pure innocence gazed back at him from her beautiful green eyes. “Nothing before that. I don't know why, or who was chasing me. I saw this house—” “How long have you been here?” “Only a few days.” “My God,” he whispered. “No wonder you're frightened.” Could he touch her? Could he lay one finger on her innocence? Feeling a rush of desire begin to claw at his insides, his hands squeezed her upper arms. He could feel the beast inside him raging. He wanted this young flesh beneath

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him. Writhing and moaning with pleasure. Gently his hand moved toward her breast that was half exposed, its blatant fullness making his mouth tingle. She jumped when he touched her, and he stopped abruptly. After a few heartbeats, he drew her forward and leaned his forehead against her hair. “God, Shania, if you could only feel what I feel. The blinding hot urges that swirl inside me. I have only to look at you to want you.” **** While he spoke, his hands were caressing her body, lulling her into a place where soft desire turned to flames leaping wildly inside her. Her eyes closed, and her chin lifted gently at his touch. She felt his lips, so pillowy soft, urging hers open to receive him. Some part of her wanted to resist him, but she knew she was lost in the scorching heat he radiated. It wasn't only his body, it was his exotic fragrance that was more than spice, it was an elixir called man. His full lips pressed against her, his hot breath scorching her ear. “Will you let me fuck you, Shania? It doesn't hurt, it feels good—so good you never want to come down.” “I...I'm frightened.” “Don’t be frightened, Shania. Just let me lead you. We'll roll and tumble together, enjoying each other's bodies, until we’re spent. There’s nothing like it, Shania. Nothing on this earth, or any other.” Lance took her hand and slowly led her to the bed. **** Slowly all resistance left her. A sizzling heat burned all around her, almost singeing her skin. She looked toward the fireplace, seeing the image stretch, then widen, the room becoming a flame-ridden cave where tongues of fire licked at them hungrily, the bed a glittering red altar. Lance lifted her and placed her on that altar. Her breath stopped when she saw the exotic beauty of the Devil coming down on her, flames leaping from his eyes. Heat

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surrounded her as his hot skin touched hers. He kissed her, bringing her into a deep, dangerous place—a place that sensuously swirled with desire. It was a feeling that she felt inside, on her skin, deep in her soul. She allowed him to lead her into it—gently, softly. With his every touch, his soft hot breath upon her face, she knew hunger like she'd never known it before. Who was he? What was he? She didn't know, but she knew that she wanted to give herself to him. This hour. This moment. This second. She was aching with desire when she felt something stiff against her stomach. Looking down, she saw a cock of such glorious beauty, she had to touch it. She might not be very experienced, but she had no trouble following her instincts. And he was beautiful—so much more beautiful that any artists' rendering of the old statues or paintings. How had he done it? Her nightie was down to her hips now, his ravishing mouth scouring her skin, biting her ear, kissing her neck. And then his mouth opened wide and began suckling her nipples. She could hear his soft moans of pleasure, and thrilled to his touch as his magic tongue made a path all the way down her body until he found her throbbing cunt. With one touch of his fingers to separate her folds, she felt herself open to his heat. Immediately his tongue became a flaming torch as it touched her ever so gently. She moaned loudly, her hips moving sinfully. She wanted more! Begged for more! Walls could shatter, fire could rage, floods could ravage—nothing mattered except him, and what he was doing to her! And then his mouth closed over her throbbing bud while a fire erupted inside her. An electric thrill jerked her spasmodically, her hips gyrating wildly, wantonly. She wasn't Shania anymore. She had turned into a female demon of desire at his touch. She didn't know this side of herself. Had she been this wild before, or had he brought it out of her with a mere touch? Shania felt herself pushed to the edge, but was afraid to let go. To fall, to glide into the blinding mists of what waited for her, frightened her. But he pushed her on while billows of desire rose higher and higher until her reserve shattered, and her scream echoed around the room! Lance felt the throbs of ecstasy pulsing through her, and pulled away. “God, no!” she cried out.

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While his crooning voice soothed her, he cradled his naked hips between her thighs, feeling the soft curves of her body beneath his, his hands lifting her legs. He moaned as he rubbed his untamed cock against her pussy. Pushing against her, he could feel her folds separate as if inviting him in. They were sharing a wild magic, and temptation roiled inside him to tumble her roughly, go to Hell and back with her beneath him. She was ready, open, and begging him to enter her with everything he had. But he shouldn't. He gritted his teeth, holding himself back as the sweetness beneath him lay splayed out, begging for his touch. He would give it. Yes he would give it, but...Temptation stirred again, and suddenly it was too much for him. All at once he lifted her legs again, took his cock in his hand and recklessly plunged it in. He held his breath, wondering if he would encounter an obstacle that told him she was a virgin, but none was there. **** Shania's hands kneaded his muscled flesh while bursts of desire surged through her. She'd never felt anything so wondrous and she clung to him, lifting her legs and encircling his waist. She then felt herself being lifted, his hands squeezing her buttocks as he pulled her forward, burying himself even deeper inside her. Their movement was frenzied, moans filled the room, and the bed moved with every thrust that Lance made. **** Lance found himself at the pinnacle where his thrusts became raw and primal, his hips wickedly plunging and pulling until he groaned loudly. His body hunched over her, breathless, reaching for satisfaction. Sweat made

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their bodies slick, his body tensing again and again. Flesh against flesh, man against woman, they soared higher and higher still. Lance’s wild, untamed movements exhilarated Shania, and giving in to every wanton desire she had, she jerked, her hips moving with his. He was deep inside her. She could feel his twitching cock as it vibrated, bringing her to an explosion and him to a tumultuous climax that jerked him around erratically. **** The night wore on silent and still, the groans and moans drifting down the twisting staircase a wicked reminder of her part in this hellish scheme. Dagmar tried to stay busy as she skulked through the house like a ghost, looking up periodically when she thought she heard a muffled thump, thump, thump. They're doin' it, she told herself, then looked toward Lorna's room, hoping the slight trembling of the walls didn't wake her. Slowly, Dagmar limped through the dark shadows to the kitchen, opened the swinging door and leaned back against it as a swell of relief surged through her. She was saved. The Devil was having his romp, and Dagmar was saved. She moved her hand down to her own ugly mound and felt it throbbing. The thought of what was going on up in that tower room made an ungodly lust tremble through her. But what could she do about it? No one would have the ugly old mole that lived way up in the Hollywood Hills. It didn't bother her none except at times like this. How many times had she listened outside the door when she knew Lorna and Klaus were doin' it? She could hear the moans, the grunts, the groans—even screams. But they didn't seem to care that the little gimp might hear. To them she was invisible, not human. No, she couldn't have feelings, especially not those feelings. She limped over to the refrigerator and made herself a sandwich while she waited. As she sat eating it, she couldn’t believe how good it tasted. Every part of it, every morsel, every bite was like manna from heaven—because only moments before she had been so close to Hell!

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Later on Dagmar stood before the Devil’s door with her ear pushed against it, listening. Hearing nothing but even breathing, she was fairly sure no danger lurked beyond and inserted the key into the lock. Being very careful, she pushed on the door and peeked in, the firelight in the room casting creature monsters on every wall. Her eyes moved toward the bed where the two lovers lay. They looked totally spent, soft lines of satisfaction smoothing the features of each face. “Shania!” she whispered as loud as she dared. When Shania didn’t move, she went in and quickly picked up her clothes on the floor before she approached the bed to wake her up. “Come on, gal. Unwind yo’self from that devil and get outta here!” Shania’s eyes fluttered open looking alarmed at first, and then she remembered where she was. She turned toward Lance and carefully pulled herself away from him causing him to move and a deep moan to float lustily from his throat. The two women were creeping down the squeaking staircase before Lance opened his eyes and noticed Shania gone. A fleeting stab of disappointment cut through him before sleep claimed him again. **** The next night Lorna and Shania were having dinner. “So, Shania,” Lorna asked, “how have you been? Feeling better? Pain gone?” This is ridiculous, Shania thought. She has a man held captive in the tower room, yet she acts as if we're all stupid idiots who don't know what's going on. Well, she knew. After last night, she knew everything. Not only had they made love, they'd talked, her and Lance, and Shania had learned how he had been abducted and held captive in this crazy woman's tower room. Shania wanted so badly to fling it in her face, and ask—no, demand she let him go! Lorna turned toward Shania, when an answer didn't come. “My dear, what's wrong?”

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“Yes,” Shania bit out, barely able to be civil to the woman. “I'm feeling much better. I suppose I should be thinking about leaving.” “Nonsense, darling. You may feel well, but I'm sure you're still very weak. Besides where would you go? I mean, you can't go traipsing all over the place with no memory, now can you? No, of course not. No money, no memory. Why, it would be cruel of me to turn you out now. I think the best thing you can do is stay here until we can figure out who you are.” Shania felt her heart hammering against her chest. “But I can't— impose.” “Impose? Of course you're not imposing, darling. When you are, I'll let you know.” “Miss Desmond, I've been thinking—” “Lorna, dear. Call me Lorna. After all,” she said, her deceitful eyes slinking toward Shania, “I'm beginning to think of you as one of the family.” Shania's cold eyes stared at the woman. Lies, so many lies. “Perhaps I should see a therapist. Don't they deal with—” Suddenly Lorna dropped her utensil with a clatter. “No!” she said abruptly, then hesitated when the girl gave her a slightly shocked look. “What I mean is,” she began, her voice softening considerably, an embarrassed smile touching her lips, “it wouldn't be good for you, at least not at this time. I feel it's too soon.” Shania knew Lorna was hiding something. What was it? God, how many secrets were there in this dark mausoleum? How many skeletons in the closets? She wanted to leave, but knew she couldn't. Where would she go? No money, nothing. Maybe it would end soon. It had to end soon. She would have to work hard at getting her memory back. If only she knew how! **** Lorna's hand trembled as she picked up her coffee cup. Cutting her eyes over to Shania, she knew she had to try and keep her happy. Make her think she was as concerned with her loss of memory as she was. And in a way she

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was, but definitely not to the same end. She absolutely must be more careful about what she said. Her eyes darted to the phone. She couldn't wait much longer. The girl had already been here for days. What excuse could she give for taking so long to pick up the phone? She'd been wounded—blood had flowed. No, that wouldn't work. He'd want to know why she hadn't taken her to a hospital. Oh, God, she was so confused. She had to be careful what she told him. Think up just the right story. When she thought about what she was planning, doubts assailed her. Could she actually do it? Could she use the girl as a bargaining chip? Keep her here—not really against her will. As long as the girl had no memory of who she was, she wasn't going anywhere. And then it came to her. She didn't have to tell Ross anything. Only that she knew where his daughter was, and that she would tell him only after he consented to star her in one of his magnificent productions. It wasn't the comeback she had dreamed of, but it was something, and at this point, she couldn't be choosy. Yes, she would do it tomorrow, but tonight she had other plans. As soon as dinner was over, she hurried to her room and locked herself in. She whirled around, leaning her back against the door, her heart jumping in her chest. She was about to turn fifty. Next week the dreadful day would come. All at once, she pushed herself away from the door and hurried to her mirror. She leaned forward, looking at her face closely. She rubbed her skin while her gaze traveled over it ruthlessly. She didn't look any different. Her skin was still soft, her dark eyes still as sultry as they had been on the screen. Slowly her eyes traveled downward to her neck, her breasts, and then to her hips before she began to leisurely strip off her clothes. It was the first time in a long time that she'd stood looking at herself— her breasts, her waist, her hips. She had never had a weight problem, and for a woman in her forties—well, fifties, she wasn't bad at all. She reached over and picked up some scented oil. The fragrance wafted on the air around her as she sinfully rubbed herself. Her neck first, then her breasts, her abdomen, and then between her thighs. As her hands moved slowly, she could feel herself becoming aroused and thought of her vibrator. No. Not tonight! Not

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when there was a man in her tower room. And what a man! She thought of his savage look, the electric blue eyes that glowed from his swarthy face. And his body. Chiseled, it was, and hard. God, so hard! And the way he moved on stage. He could cast spells with his dancing. It was apparent in the way he looked at his audience, moved his body, inviting intimacy with every lusty, shocking, undisciplined movement. She knew a healthy man like him should be wanting a woman by now. Should she do it? Should she turn wanton? Should she offer herself to him? His to do with as he pleased? What if he turned her away? What if he threw her out? What if he—Oh, God, what if he laughed? She couldn't do it. She wanted to, but… And then something happened! Maybe the earth had turned on its axis. Maybe there was a sonic boom. Or maybe something snapped inside her brain, because all at once a cool assurance crept inside her like a slithering snake, and her eyes glittered as she looked at herself in the mirror. No, he wouldn't dare! After all she was Lorna Desmond—beautiful Lorna Desmond, the star Lorna Desmond. No, not merely a star, but a superstar! Her lips turned upward in a sarcastic twist. How absolutely insane, she thought, an evil laugh gurgling up from her throat. What was she afraid of? Maybe she would be the one to laugh! **** The devil in the tower room was surprisingly quiet. As he lay on the bed his mind was in a whirl trying to figure out some way of getting out of here, when suddenly he heard a noise. His gaze quickly shifted toward the door, the glow from the fire casting shadows along his face and body. He listened, hearing only the crackling of the fireplace—and then it came again. Someone was climbing the stairs. He moved from the bed and walked to the door and stood beside it—waiting. He’d be ready for them this time, he thought as he stood there with his gaze lowered, and his eyes focused on the lock. And then it came.

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The sound of a key, soft and clinking. Slowly the door opened, and Lance stood behind it ready to grab the intruder. When they were inside, suddenly he slammed the door from his side and grabbed the old film star who gave no resistance at finding herself in his arms. He couldn’t help but notice that her body was soft and yielding—a real armful. Feeling his wayward libido taking a giant leap, he couldn’t keep his eyes away from her shapely body as she stood before him dressed in nothing but a robe. “Well, I'll be damned,” he said, “we finally meet.” “Yes,” she whispered, her eyes looking deeply into his. Moving away from her slowly, Lance looked her up and down. My God, she was—she was actually pretty! Well, in an older-woman sort of way. He'd expected a witch with wrinkles, but what he saw was sultry dark eyes and a mole just below her bottom lip. The deep blue terrycloth robe seemed to be half on and half off, and she was clutching it in the middle, revealing her shoulders and her legs, which were surprisingly well shaped. Was it the lighting that made her look so good to him? She clearly had been beautiful at one time. He recalled one or two of the films he'd seen her in. Oddly enough, she hadn't been only beautiful, but a terrific actress. But now, a million years later, after stardom had come and gone, after her footprints lay dusty and dirty in front of Mann's Chinese Theater, and after awards cluttered her mantel—he felt a slow burn at the way she was looking at him. There it was again—his damned libido doing somersaults. He couldn’t let it happen this time, and forced his eyes away from her to the unlocked door. He felt excitement course through him, but it quickly vanished when he saw a bright, piercing flash coming from the sparkling amulet she wore around her neck. He knew about the damned thing from Dagmar. It was supposed to signal Klaus in case of trouble. His mind filled with visions of the old stunt man and vaguely remembered the night he had been abducted. The man’s strength was unbelievable. He was big, and could probably squash Lance without even trying. The threat of feeling that vise-like grip again was the only thing that kept him in his place.

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“I wouldn’t get any ideas if I were you,” Lorna said as she lifted her hand and nervously fingered the amulet. She watched him pace around her like a caged lion. Every thought he had was written across his face. He looked dangerous. And then suddenly he turned his dangerous gaze on her. There was hunger in it, and it did something to her. For the first time in years she felt like a star again—sought after, desired. While his eyes followed her, she moved around with a sultry air about her and looked him over favorably. The round room—so high above the city, made her think of him as a bird in a gilded cage. “I was in my room tonight—” she began, her voice deep and smooth, like dark whiskey, “—almost ready to go to bed when I…Well, I haven't had a man now for…Oh, well, about a month, I guess.” She cocked her head, looking at him with lazy eyes. “Long time, don't you think?” “Yeah?” he said sarcastically as he sauntered toward the bed and sat down on it. “So what do you expect me to do about it?” He didn't move, just sat there looking at her with a granite face, and an icy stare. Her sultry look suddenly vanished, but instead of a scathing reply, she held her tongue and strolled over to the window and looked out. “Such a compact little room,” she said. “No way out except through that door.” She slid her gaze to the door, then back to him, and their eyes locked as if they were sizing each other up. Finally, she moved from the window and sat down on the side of his bed. He looked at her as he would a snake about to strike, then recoiled when her hand came up to stroke his cheek. “What's the matter?” she purred. “Afraid I'll bite you? Or afraid I won't?” Slowly, her eyes lowered, and her hands began to touch him— softly, tenderly, as if she were touching an expensive work of art. Yes, he was a work of art all right. Perfect in every way, right down to his… Just as she was about to remove the sheet, he reached up and caught her hand. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” Her lazy eyes held his. “Anything you want,” she whispered.

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Fire leaped within him. Whore was the first word that came to him when he looked at her. And with the feelings he had inside him now, a whore was exactly what he needed. Not someone like Shania. Small, gentle…No, a good whore would do nicely. Someone he could fuck the hell out of without doing any damage. And if he did? Who cared! A dark smile slowly crept across his face. “That's better,” she whispered, her words soft and seductive. Suddenly the years began to spin away and he saw her the way she'd looked in Fashionably Late. There was a scene like this in the picture. Was she acting now? Putting on a performance? In the dim lights, she looked sexy, young, and indescribably beautiful. With a coy look on her face, and her fingers tracing along his arm, she said, “I thought maybe you were ready for a woman—a real woman.” “Yes I am. Know where I can find one?” He felt movement and his eyes slid downward, watching her hands as they slowly edged the sheet. Her brightly decorated nails pushed beneath it further and further until she was caressing his naked body. Her touch was sensuous, gentle, as she stroked his abdomen. The heat blossomed inside him as her hands moved downward, teasing—getting closer and closer until she was gently nudging him. He wanted to move his hips like he did on stage, but managed to resist until her fingers brazenly grasped it. He breathed in sharply. **** God, the size of it! She couldn't even close her fingers around it, and could feel it growing in her hand, becoming even larger. As she handled it, his lazy eyes slid toward her. “Now that you've got it, what are you going to do with it?” “Don't you know?” she whispered. “How do you like it? Top? Bottom?” Her eyes sparked fire as she looked at him. “Rear, maybe.” “I don't like it with my grandmother!”

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Her eyes suddenly shot fire, and her mouth clenched with anger. Her hand quickly swung up to slap him, but he caught it in mid-air, the jerking movement causing a full head of dark blonde hair to fall into a cloud of alluring disarray, the streaks of gold flashing from the fire in the fireplace. “You may as well know right now, Bitch. Hitting, biting and scratching don't come with the package!” “You think because I'm older than you I can't please you?” Her teeth clenched, and her eyes narrowed. “I can do anything a younger woman can do, and do it better. I've known many men in my lifetime, and I know all the little secrets—the places a man likes to be touched.” “Yeah? Well, talk is cheap, Bitch. Take off your clothes!” “W-What?” she said, shocked at his unexpected words. He smiled, a challenge in his eyes. “I said, take off your clothes!” Her eyes narrowed. He was trying to shock her, intimidate her. He didn't think she would do it. He apparently thought she would turn and run. With abrupt movements, she quickly stood and began to untie her robe. When it opened, she clutched the sides and threw them backward, away from her shoulders, away from her body. She could feel the robe slip a few inches down her arms, and realized she was standing naked before him, naked before his young eyes, while he slowly assessed her forty- soon-to-be-fiftyish body. Seeing the lustful look in his eyes, Lorna allowed the robe to sink to the floor before she moved. Then stepping out of the pool of fabric, she walked slowly to the bed. All her years in the movies told her that the setting was perfect. The room was only lit by the crackling flames, reminding her of a wicked lair in which to make love. “So what the hell are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?” “So, you…You like what you see?” He shrugged slightly, not wanting to give her too much of an edge. “It'll do.” “You bastard,” she hissed, “you won't give me anything, will you? Not a smile, not a kind word—nothing! Will it be so bad? With me, I mean?” “I make the demands here, Sweetheart, not you.”

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“You think you're so special. You sit there like a king on a throne. Aloof, demanding. Well, don't force yourself,” she yelled. When she whirled around to leave, he suddenly jumped up and skirted the bed. Her eyes grew wide when he stood before her without even the sheet wrapped around his hips. His hands were on her shoulders, his lips hovering just above hers. He was close, so close she could feel his breath, the contours of his body against her. A thrill speared through her, she closed her eyes and her head fell backward. In only seconds, she felt his lips cover hers, pressing them open with his tongue. God, he smelled good, like spring rain—something of a woodsy scent. She began to melt against him as the fire within her raged. She reached up, desperately winding her arms around his neck to hold on, otherwise she'd liquefy right down to her toes. He stooped down and lifted her up, then took only a few steps to the bed. Laying her down, he roughly grabbed her by her thick hair and looked at her with stabbing eyes. “Rule number one. I'm the boss here. Rule number two. You do what I say, not vice versa. Understand?” “Yeeessss,” she whispered, immediately falling under the spell he seemed to spin around her. She wondered, did he make love with all the savage fury she could see in his face? Sure, he made demands. All men as handsome as he did. They wanted to know they were in control, but that was okay. She would give him control while the lights were dim and appetites were raging, but only until she'd been sated—over and over again! Just then her eyes glanced around at the suddenly flame-ridden room. The blaze of red and blue seemed to lift out of the fireplace and swoop upward, the heat in the room scorching. A sudden desire rose in her, making her feel uninhibited, like a bitch in heat. She wanted to bite, drink and savor the man with her—if he was a man. But it didn't matter. Man or Devil, she wanted him, now! His lips sinfully curled just a touch on one end. “Eat me,” he said, then rolled over her and lay on the bed as if making himself a feast. Seeing him lying there before her, she remembered the day he lay asleep and she longed to take him into her mouth. That wayward little thought brought her hunger spiraling upward. With a small smile playing along her

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lips, she lowered herself over him, their naked skin touching. Her hands moved freely along his face, his neck and his chest. “What the hell are you doing? I said eat me!” “I'm getting to that,” she said. “Don't you want a little foreplay first?” While watching him, she lowered her lips to his neck, opened them, then slid her tongue out and tasted him as she slowly made her way toward his muscled chest, then to his nipples. **** The touch of her mouth on his throat was riveting. So much so that his eyes drifted shut while the smell of her perfume swirled around him. Then she moved downward, her lips opening wider to drink him in as her tongue swirled along his heated skin, creating little whirlpools of sensation. He could feel her moving slowly, coming closer and closer to his cock. He felt hotter than a firecracker about to go off and began to slightly writhe, a moan escaping his lips. As the heat swirled in his groin he could feel himself growing. And then she reached it. “God, eat it, eat it!” he rasped. And then he felt it—the velvety softness of her mouth as she closed over it. Not being able to wait another minute, he reached down and caught her head, his hips writhing, and his cock moving in and out of her mouth. “Suck the goddamned thing!” he croaked, then almost came apart when the inside of her mouth closed in on him as if she were trying to suck the very life out of him. It drove him wild. His hips moved loosely, the bed creaked, and he moaned, wondering if he should worry about someone hearing. And then all at once he felt himself hovering on the brink. Did he want to come inside her mouth? He made the decision quickly and reached down and pulled her upward and fell on her. He wanted those breasts, and didn't hesitate to bury his face between them. He went mad, like a man possessed. Finding her swollen nipples, he caught them in his mouth and sucked, then chewed while he whimpered. God, they were good. The fire inside him was raging out of control. He quickly parted her

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thighs and his hard, overgrown cock pressed against her cleft. Then in a passionate thrust he pushed, hard, going in just far enough to nudge her clit. She erupted in a fit of moans, her body rolling like the reckless waves on a seashore. “Lift your legs.” When she didn't respond, he rasped in her ear, the words wet and desperate. “Lift your fucking legs!” She did as he asked, and he felt her cleft part. “Push me in—now! Before I—” Before he could finish, she pushed him in, and the two of them groaned in ecstasy. Without another word, and nothing on their minds but satisfaction, their hips began gyrating toward each other, each reaching for satisfaction. His hands lowered to her hips, full and round, and pulled them upward, pushing himself so deep inside her that he wondered if his cock would fit. While he thrust, over and over again, they rolled and grunted, hot skin against hot skin, and nothing covering their writhing bodies but a thin sheen of sweat that gleamed in the fire's light. And then it happened. Her velvety cunt began pulsing around him while she groaned with pleasure. With her hips bucking, she tried to milk as much pleasure from him as possible. Lance could feel himself climbing—fast. Then he stiffened while he emptied himself inside her. The intensity of it jarred him, knocking him around like an erupting volcano that would never stop. When it was over, he slumped, breathing hard. When he finally got his breath and found he could move again, he rolled off her, his back to her as he sat up. She reached for her robe and dug deep into the pocket and grabbed something—a wad of bills she slapped in his hand. Looking down at the roll as if it were a poisonous snake, his face twisted up in anger and he swung his arm, throwing the money across the room. He turned then, and looked at her with eyes full of hate. “Get the hell out of here.” “I just figured since you earned it—” He broke down in sobs and yelled, “I told you to get out!” She rose from the bed and grabbed her robe. While wrapping it around herself slowly, she looked at the back of his curly head, raked her gaze

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down his muscled back, then crept to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. The minute the key turned in the lock, Lance's head dropped and a sob wrenched from his throat. He finally fell backward on the bed, his tears mingling with the sheen of sweat that had turned to little round droplets on his forehead. He felt—God, what was it? Shame? Guilt? He didn't know. He'd called her a whore, but he had no right. He'd been the whore. He'd been used by a woman twice his age. Feeling suffocated by his guilt, he jumped up from the bed, ran to the window and flung it open. He hung out, feeling the cool wind in his face, but it didn't help. For three years now he'd been a dancer, and only a dancer. He'd had opportunities to sell himself to the older, lonely females who frequented the club, but he hadn't. And now here he was—trapped and hungry. And it had been so easy. Get me hungry, he thought, show me a woman with a soft body, lay her down in front of me, and like a ravening vampire, I'll suck her dry. Finally he looked down at himself. The ugly thing hung there, limp, satisfied. But it would hunger again, and when it did—when it began to rise obscenely, and harden, he would do it again. God, he would fuck the old crow—and like it!

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Chapter 6 Laughter in the dark—like a tinkling wind chime on a windy day. Young sounds, happy sounds. It drew her from the parlor, and into the dining room where she stood surrounded by leaning shadows. Why was the room so dark? And what were Shania and Dagmar doing in a dark kitchen? And then the laughter stopped, giving way to secretive, muted voices. She could see something beneath the swinging door. Movement like undulating flames. It reminded her of the night before when she'd thrown herself on the altar of that devil upstairs. The dark room—the fire—the sweat—the—Oh, God, she had clung to him, moving her hips so wantonly beneath his. She'd never been brought to such heights—such glorious heights. He'd filled her, inflamed her and plunged into her until she was sated beyond her wildest dreams. Recalling the magical night, she closed her eyes and leaned against the table, weakness overcoming her. All at once the door opened and Shania and Dagmar stepped through, carrying a cake that looked as if it were on fire. Shania carefully placed it on the dining room table, her face revealing a certain pride in their handiwork. Lorna's indulgent smile vanished when she saw the center of the cake, causing an instantaneous anger to catch fire inside her every bit as wild and spitting as that on the cake. Not a simple “Happy Birthday.” No! Instead a great big ugly “Happy 50th” was written within the sputtering candles. She was filled with such a demented rage, it twisted her face into an ugly, seething scowl. All at once, with a wild swipe of her hand, she reached out and threw the awful thing against the wall. The cake and icing slid down slowly, the candles dying a sputtering death. “How could you?” she yelled, watching as Shania and Dagmar gaped at her with looks of shock on their faces. With the candles out, the room sank

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into a darkness so deep that the furniture seemed to have turned into silhouettes of crouching monsters. Slowly she skirted the table, her glittering eyes anchored on Shania and Dagmar. “Does it give you some kind of perverted thrill to remind me of my age? Do you think I need to be told how many years I've lived on this earth? How many years have passed me by—every one adding more wrinkles to my face?” She saw the two of them sneak glances at each other as if they were watching her go slowly mad. “Well, have your fun because it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. Besides, I’ve had my birthday present. It was last night in the tower room. Was he concerned at how old I am? No! He didn’t care!” Shania’s eyes widened as she listened to Lorna’s revealing words “Surprised?” she said to Shania. “You didn’t know about him, did you?” she hissed. “Well, it’s about time you became educated! There’s a devil on these premises. A devil so handsome he would take your breath away. Well, that devil made love to me last night!” “Oh, my God!” Shania mumbled, feeling a deep hurt dig into her like a sharp blade. “What’s wrong?” Lorna shouted as she threw a chair aside and made her way toward the girl. “You act as if…” Suddenly Lorna’s eyes widened, the truth staring her in the face. “Oh, my God!” she yelled as she continued to advance on her. “Tell me, you cheap little bitch! Have you been in there? Has he touched you? Made love to you?” And don’t even think about lying! I want the truth!” **** Shania was tired of walking on eggshells around this bitch. She was tired of being scared, creeping around afraid she would say or do the wrong thing. “Yes, I've been in there!” she hissed. “And I loved every minute of it. Every minute of his hot tongue upon my skin. Every minute of his lips on mine. Every minute of his cock plunging so deep into me I thought I’d die! Yes, I've been in there, and I'll go again anytime he wants me!”

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**** Lorna's eyes widened at Shania's remarks, and a sudden anger shot upward, burning her insides as she turned toward Dagmar. “You bitch!” she yelled. “This is your doing!” Dagmar began backing up “Wait a minute! I never said I’d keep your sec—” “Shut up!” Lorna yelled, then leaned over and grabbed a knife. Waving it recklessly, she said, “I could kill you both and no one would know. No one would ever know!” Dagmar kept her eyes focused on the knife as it flailed madly. “I thought I could trust you. You were supposed to keep them apart. Did I not make that point perfectly clear?” “He made me do it!” Dagmar said desperately. “It was him. He wanted...he wanted a woman. Real bad. He said he'd kill me—kill both of us, if I didn't. I didn't know what else to do.” “It wasn't her fault,” Shania interrupted, her voice still strong, but trembling. “I knew about him before that. I went up there.” Lorna exploded. “You did what?” “I went up there. The noise, it was so loud—it scared me. I couldn't sleep. I had to find out what it was.” The blade of the knife glittered with a dark, sinister light as it ruthlessly stabbed the darkness. “You had no right! This is my house, and you have no right to go sneaking around in it unless I give you explicit permission. If I ever catch you going near that room, I'll…I'll cut you in two. Do you understand? He's mine. He's mine and no one else's.” “But the noise—” Shania began, “no one could—” “I'm not up to hearing your pathetic excuses.” She rasped, then shifted her eyes to Dagmar. “She's to be locked in.” Shania's eyes widened while Dagmar shook her head. “No ma'am, I jus' can't. It's not right.” “I didn't ask you what was right. You'll do as I say, or else.”

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“Let her leave,” Dagmar pleaded. “It's that simple. You don't want her around him, let her leave!” “I have my reasons for keeping her here. Now, if you can't abide by my rules, you'll be the one leaving.” **** Dagmar lowered her eyes for a moment, hating what she had to do, then slowly lifted them toward Shania. “No,” Shania begged. “Dagmar, don't.” “I have to, honey. I'm not like you. I don't have no one—nowhere to go.” Shania slid along the wall, stumbling into chairs. “We can leave together. I'll take care of you.” “You? Take care of me?” Dagmar chuckled, thinking of the fine house the girl lived in, and the man who was her father. “No, honey. I wouldn't fit in your world. I belong here—” She cut her eyes over to Lorna, the sound of her voice soft and ominous. “'Mongst them that don't care who they hurt. 'Mongst them that done sold their souls—to one devil or the other.” Shania frowned. “You wouldn’t fit? What do you mean? How do you know? Dagmar, do you know something you’re not telling me?” “Keep your mouth shut,” Lorna warned. “It ain’t right!” Dagmar whispered. “She has a right to know who she is!” “I’ll decide what’s right!” Lorna said as she pointed the knife toward Dagmar. Fear for her life roiled in Dagmar’s stomach and she looked back at Shania. “Don’t mean nothin’ by it, she mumbled. “Just a poor choice of words, thas all.” “Dagmar,” Shania sobbed, getting desperate. “I'm begging! Please tell me!“ “I can't, suga, don't you see that?”

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Shania looked at one shadowy face, and then the other as she backed away from them. “No! No, please,” she sobbed. “I'll leave. I won't bother anyone.” Just then Dagmar lunged for her and grabbed her arm. Shania struggled, wincing with pain as her arms were twisted behind her. Both the women forced her up the steps while she struggled. Shania dragged her feet, sobbed, begged, and pleaded, but it all fell on deaf ears. All at once, a door slammed open, and Shania felt herself being forcibly pushed through. Stumbling, she landed on the floor. She looked up and saw the door quickly close, and then heard the key turn in the lock. She ran to the door, tried to twist the knob, but it wouldn't turn. She banged on the door with her fists, pleading to those who had locked her in, but no answer came. Finally turning around, she looked for some other way to get out, but all she saw was the window. The window. Maybe… She pushed herself away from the door and ran to it. Throwing it open, she looked down. The bottom of the tower was just above the top of the house, but too long to climb or jump down. Her room was so high up that it looked out over the palms, and then further out to where the ridge made a steep drop. She turned and looked upward, seeing his window. It seemed so close, and yet so far away. Climbing upon the sill, she hung out of the window, hoping his window was open. **** Lance! Hearing the tiny, faraway voice, Lance hurried out of the bathroom to look around, but the sound had gone. Thinking it was his imagination, he sat down on the bed and leaned back on the headboard. Lance! He lunged forward. There it was again. He looked toward the door thinking someone might be out there, when he heard the sound again. Lance!

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His head jerked toward the window. What the hell? he thought as he leaned forward and looked down at the lawn as if expecting to see someone calling up to him. Instead, he saw Shania leaning out of her window. “What in God's name are you doing? Get back in before you fall!” “Lance,” Shania sobbed, “I've been locked in!” Oh, God, Lance thought, then yelled down, “Why?” “She found out about us,” Shania answered. “She wants to keep us apart.” “The damned bitch,” Lance breathed, then leaned out again. “Get back in before you fall. We'll figure something out.” Shania scooted back in, wishing she could get her memory back. Looking into her past was like looking into a dark room. There were faces, people, things—even voices—familiar voices from a long way off that echoed around in her head, but she didn't know who they were. She wished, prayed for some kind of light—some kind of revelation to expose those secrets that lay in darkness. And then there was the night she found herself running through the woods. Who was she running from? Was she in danger? Maybe her body had escaped, but it seemed that her mind was still caught in those woods surrounded by darkness—darkness—darkness! **** Lorna's hand, heavy with rings, and nails brightly decorated, lay on her blood-red phone, preparing to pick it up, yet she hesitated. She had started to ring the main number, but knew the operator would ring his secretary and she would never put her through. She knew his private number, but after all this time didn't know for sure if the number was the same. Should she use it? Ross only gave special friends and family his private number. She was sure he wouldn't expect her to still have it. So what? It would take him by surprise. Maybe that's what she needed—the element of surprise. He certainly wouldn't be expecting her to invade his office after so many years, but she would. He'd given her the number, after all. Back when they were having an affair. So, steeling herself against her trembling insides, she

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picked up the receiver, put it to her ear and heard the dial tone. Using one of her long, hard nails, she punched in the number. After a few heartbeats a smile suddenly broke out on her face. “Ross, darling. I'm surprised you're in your office! I mean…well, I heard what a tragedy you were facing at the moment.” “Uh…yes, well, I was advised to carry on business as usual. Take my mind off things, you know.” “Ridiculous,” Lorna replied. “As if one could take one's mind off such a tragedy.” “Please. I don't like the use of the word 'tragedy.' Sounds like a movie in which everyone dies. By the way, who am I talking to?” “Why, Ross, don't you recognize my voice? It's Lorna, darling, Lorna Desmond.” Lorna could hear a muffled, undefinable sound which told her the surprise had worked. After a short pause, Ross’s, dry, somber voice spoke into the mouthpiece. “Oh, yes, Lorna. Sorry, dear, I'm just not myself as you can well imagine. So, Lorna, how did you get my number?” “You gave it to me, darling.” “Me?” “About thirty years ago,” Lorna said with a soft sensuality she hoped might trigger Ross’s memory. When he didn’t respond, she said, “Ross, I…well, I called hoping you'd give me a little time today.” “Of course. What's on your mind, Lorna?” She immediately felt good about this, as if she were holding all the chips in a game of chance. “Well, darling, it's something that really should be discussed in private—certainly not over some public convenience like the telephone. You do understand don't you?” “Well—I…I am busy. Is it important?” “Of course, darling. I wouldn't call otherwise.” “Well…I suppose I could make some time for you this afternoon, say around—” “No, no. I…well, that just won't do at all, Ross. I appreciate your willingness to allow me some of your valuable time, but I wouldn't be so

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forward as to ask for even one moment out of your busy work day. Perhaps you could allow a few minutes for me, say, tonight. You could come for dinner. About nine?” “No, I'm sorry Lorna, I couldn't. I'm...I'm just not good company these days. In fact I'm giving up all social contacts until all this is over.” “Of course, darling, I understand. I'll come to your office then. Your work will be done, we can relax over a drink. No interruptions. Very official. No social expectations.” “Tonight? You mean after the studio closes for the day?” “Yeeesss,” she said, knowing she'd unbalanced him. That was what she needed, a surprise attack from the rear. First a call on his private line, and now this. She knew Ross well enough that he would be constantly interrupted during office hours. And she wouldn't put it past him to arrange some of those interruptions. Verna, give me ten minutes with Lorna, then tell me I have an important phone call. Lorna snorted. She'd seen him do it a thousand times. Well, she wouldn't be subject to his tricks. Not a star of her caliber. She wouldn't be put off, insulted, or pushed to the side. She wouldn't stand for it. “Lorna, this is highly irregular. What could be your reason for—” “You'd better see me, Ross,” Lorna rasped, a threatening edge to her voice. “I think you'll want to hear what I have to say—” **** “—if you value your daughter's life.” The eerie, faraway words that crept through the receiver drained his face of every ounce of blood, and took his breath. Ross managed to choke out, “My…my daughter? What does my daughter have to do with my seeing you, Lorna?” Lorna smirked. “I'll see you at ten, darling. In your office. Have a signed contract handy.” “Lorna! Don’t hang up! Tell me. Where is she? Is…is she all right?”

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“She’s fine, Ross,” Lorna said softly. Drawing on her years of acting, she paused here for the dreaded silence—the hesitation—the touch of suspense that never failed to draw the audience in, put them on the edge of their seats. And then at just the right moment she continued with, “and we want to keep her that way—don’t we?” “Bitch!” Ross growled after he slammed the phone down, then raked nervous fingers through his hair. Imagine! Pulling tricks like that on him! He invented suspense! He had taught her, and now she had taken what she had learned and was using it against him! At that precise moment, years of regrets came crashing down on him. Years he’d spent catering to that witch, and now she pays him back like this! My God, why had he done it? He thought back to how it had all started—back to the day he took her aside to tell her that she had come to that point that all actresses come to eventually. She had begun aging. He’d tried to explain that although she couldn’t play leading lady roles anymore it was no problem, not to the studio. They'd simply cast her in other films, give her a chance to grow, to widen her acting skills. It was a compliment really. All some actresses had were their looks, so they were through once they aged. Those in Lorna's category had so much more. They could actually act, and continue working for years. But not all of them had the ego Lorna had. And not all of them allowed it to control them, drive them over the edge. Acting was more than just pretty faces, glamour, and spotlights. It was a profession, a skill like so many others. It showed him how very narrow Lorna's mind really was. She struggled for attention, demanded it even, refusing to play roles that didn't classify her as the young heroine, no matter how good they were. To her, the heroine was the star, and she wanted to be the center of attention. Her grab for the spotlight only made her look ridiculous. So, since she refused to play the roles best suited for her, their association was dissolved, and Lorna walked out. Once she left, she'd traveled a little—ran all over Europe until there was nowhere left to go. Once back, she'd been seen around the city in her ridiculous Rolls Royce, frequenting all the stylish places, and even had several male suitors. But nothing seemed to be able to fill the lonely hours,

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or take the place of her career. She'd been gone from the studio for several years when her Rolls Royce inched up to the gate. Not being under contract anymore, Jud wouldn't let her in. She blew up, insisted he call Ross, and Ross had allowed it. What would it hurt? he'd asked himself. Now he knew. He'd treated her too well all these years. Knowing she was crazy, he'd allowed her on the lot, given instructions to the crew to practically bow down to the bitch. He thought it was the best way to keep her out of his hair. Let her come and go as she pleased. After all, she'd been under contract to Monarch Studios at one time. Been a valuable star, too. It had gone on like that for years. Now, suddenly it wasn't enough. But what did his daughter's disappearance have to do with any of this? Did Lorna know where she was? Should he be worried? It might be very innocent. Maybe Shania had been hurt and Lorna was taking care of her. Ross quickly picked up the phone to call her back, but changed his mind. No, he wouldn’t subject himself to her madness again. Let the police handle it. He picked up the phone again and dialed the precinct and told them about his and Lorna’s conversation, making it clear that he wanted them to question her. The next phone call he made was the guard shack. “Jud, tonight, just before ten, Lorna Desmond is going to show up at the gate. Don't let her in. Do you understand? In fact, don't ever let her in again. She's never to be allowed on the lot. Is that understood?” “Yes, sir. If you say so, sir. May I ask why she's coming so late?” “I made a tentative appointment with her, but I don't intend to keep it. The crew will be knocking off around seven.” “I understand. By the way, how's it going, sir? With your daughter, I mean?” “To be honest, I feel like I'm coming apart. But I think everything's being done that can be done. I just received some additional information from an unlikely source and told the police. I’m hoping it will help.” “I wouldn't worry sir. Them cops...It's my guess they're right on top of it. Know what they're doin'.”

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“Well, I sure hope you’re right. Anyway, as I was saying, I just don't have time to deal with Ms. Desmond tonight, so be sure you stop her at the gate. By the way, I've gotten a little behind in my work, and I’ll be in my office rather late. What time do you leave?” “As soon as the night man comes on since I don't have any...well, late calls tonight.” “They're called casting couches, Jud,” he said, then gave a raucous laugh. “Some of the hottest stars in the world have been the result of a casting couch. From starlet to star after one easy ride. Even Lorna Desmond was one of those. A mistake I made a long time ago while I was still directing.” “Yes sir. I guess everyone's heard of them casting couches,” Jud said with an embarrassed laugh. “Well, Jud, you have a good evening, okay?” “Yes, sir. And I'll be looking for her. Don't you worry, I'll stop her at the gate.” “Thanks, Jud.” Ross replaced the phone. A troubled scowl marred his handsome face when he thought of the fuss Lorna would kick up over this. He couldn’t help wondering if he'd done the right thing. Too late now, he thought as he withdrew his hand from the phone. He absolutely refused to face another contract negotiation with Lorna Desmond. It was just like her to think of herself right now with everything crashing down around him. He mentally counted all the other contract negotiations he’d had with her. There had to be at least five. My God, doesn't the woman ever give up? Her star had burned out long ago and she was just going to have to accept it. **** Lorna watched Klaus hard at work in the carriage house. He leaned over the Rolls, his hands black with oil, and his thin shirt sticking to his sweaty body. She didn't see his brawn much since he was usually covered up in his uniform. At those times, he stood ramrod straight, his arms down by his

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sides, his eyes straight ahead. But when he looked at her from beneath the bill of his hat, she knew he would do anything she asked. She remembered the first time she'd seen him. He'd been a stunt man on a movie she was making. She couldn't miss his big, sexy body, and his German accent intrigued her. She realized his obsession for her right away, and used it to her advantage. The first time was when she needed a chauffeur. When she asked, it was with the understanding that it would be temporary, but days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to years, and years…well, he was still here. He'd been quite a find for her. He was muscled, broad-chested, and didn't have an inch of fat on him. He not only chauffeured for her, he was her protector. Not many people knew Klaus stood before her and danger. She wondered once if his obsession for her would be a problem, but other men had come and gone while he just stood in the shadows and watched. It was an extremely strange situation, but she hesitated to get rid of him because he was so good for her ego. He said all the right things, did all the right things. He even accommodated her many times when she needed a man. Suddenly he looked up and saw Lorna's silhouette standing in the doorway. “Mistress!” Klaus barked, and immediately dropped his rag and stood at attention. When Klaus spoke, his German accent was clipped. “Relax, Klaus. Is something wrong with the Rolls?” “Nothing, mistress. It just needs new spark plugs. I am replacing them now.” “Klaus, I may have a job for you tonight.” He clicked his heels militarily. “I am at your service, mistress.” “Yes. I knew I could count on you, but I must warn you, this may get— uncomfortable.” “I am faithful, mistress. Did I not prove it to you the night I captured the young man and locked him up for you?” “Yes, of course. But this might be...Well, it might get ugly.” “No matter. I v’ould do anything, you know that, mistress. You have only to ask.”

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Lorna smiled. She loved a devoted servant. To test him, she lowered her lids, angled a look toward him, and asked, “Tell me, Klaus—would you kill for me?” “Yes, mistress. I v’ould kill, lie, steal. I v’ould even give my life.” Lorna needed an ego boost right now, so she led him down the path that would lead to it. “Klaus, I know you remember the days I made movies.” “Yes. I’ve seen all your movies, many times.” “Tell me, Klaus—” She cut her slinking eyes over to him questioningly. “Do you think I’m as beautiful today as I was then?” “Mistress, there is no other that can compare.” “Really, Klaus,” Lorna said, trying to act coy by lowering her eyelashes, “Surely you don’t mean it.” “But I do, mistress. Your beauty is legendary.” Lorna reveled in the usual ego boost that made her feel young, desired. At this moment, with Klaus looking at her with the eyes of a lovesick boy, she felt she owned him. While the power she had over him whirled inside her, her eyes became sultry and her lids dropped slightly as she gazed at the large muscles in his neck and chest. Klaus was not a gentle lover, which made her very happy. She liked the rough stuff, and Klaus was like a caveman. He only knew what he liked. Oh, he might try to please her once in a while, but for the most part, he cared about nothing but his own satisfaction. As clumsy as he sometimes was, he had never failed to satisfy her yet, and with the job she had for him to do tonight, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let him grease his cock on her before she told him what she needed him to do. Slowly, she moved toward him, her hands reaching out to caress his arm and his shoulder. She looked down at the thin shirt that revealed his muscles. “Klaus—” she rasped, huskily. “Take me.” Klaus’ eyes widened, and he looked down at himself. “Now? My hands are full of grease. I…” “Do it, Klaus,” she said, while pushing herself between him and the automobile. And then in a tone soft and sensual, she continued, “I’m giving you an order.”

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He looked down at her, to the woman who had become an obsession with him. The woman who he would do anything for, and suddenly he dropped the greasy rag and pulled her roughly to him. Surrendering to his needs, he pressed her against the car, his large cock growing to enormous proportions, and becoming as hard as stone. His lips came down on hers, smothering her with his eager mouth, his greasy hands making prints all over her body. Lorna loved it when Klaus began to moan, his cock pressing against her and growing larger with every lusty sound that escaped from his lips. She felt the desire rising in her, and wanted to spread her legs to accommodate him, but their clothes were in the way. Suddenly, she felt him lifting her robe, and groping beneath to her panties. His large fingers played along the folds of her sex while red-hot heat seared her. Her bud turned to stone, her hungry pussy wet and throbbing with anticipation of his raw thrust. Together that sank into the front seat of the Rolls. By now, this insane desire of hers was pooling in her groin as she felt Klaus’ large cock fall heavily out of his pants, and press against her cleft. She lifted her feet and her legs encircled him. She clung tightly, moving her hips as he rocked into her, then out, and in again. Oh, God, it was so good, and he was so large, she wanted to scream as he slammed her against the car seat over and over again. The car swayed with their eager movements, until at last the two of them gave a cry of satisfaction. Klaus suddenly wilted, his breath wheezing from somewhere deep within his throat. While he still lay against her, she whispered in his ear. “Klaus, I have an appointment on the Monarch lot tonight at ten. Ross is tricky, and I fully expect he might try to give me trouble.” Her eyes searched the sweaty face that leaned over her. “You wouldn’t let that happen, would you?” “No, mistress,” he said, the words coming between short breaths. “I v’ill gladly do what I must to see you safely inside.” A sinister smile curled Lorna’s lips. “Yes, I knew I could count on you Klaus. You are such a comfort. By the way, it might be wise to bring a weapon.”

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**** Klaus withdrew himself and they worked feverishly to straighten their clothes. Finally, he watched her leave the dim, shadowy carriage house, his stern face relaxing slowly as she passed like a floating specter through the door. He knew he was playing the fool, yet something deep inside him drove him to it. He knew his words were lies. She knew it, too, yet they continued to play their little game. To the world she was old, washed up, a pitiful old relic trying to hold on to the past, but to Klaus she would always be just what she was at the height of her career—the reigning queen at the box office. He knew if she were ever forced to open her eyes, it would push her over the edge. That’s why he would gladly die to protect that secret.

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Chapter 7 Loneliness—yes, it was loneliness that had brought her to this, to blackmail. She stared at her reflection, lightly caressing her face, a thin sheen of tears glinting in her eyes. She couldn’t help it. She had to do something. She’d just turned fifty and the years were ravaging her face and body. If she were ever to grace the silver screen again, it must be now! Before her face crumpled into wrinkles, and her hair turned to a gray mop. Yes, it must be now. No matter what she had to do to achieve it, she had to show them—show them that they’d thrown her away in her prime. Beauty like hers had to be preserved, revered—worshipped! She moved, a little hesitantly, and looked her outfit over as her body rose to full height. Her gaze raked her fluid lines as she turned from side to side. It was a soft ivory suit with vivid purple accents. She’d always worn ivory, it was almost a trademark. In other parts of the country, you were practically required to wear dark colors at this time of year, but it meant nothing on the coast. California, like Florida, was a pastel state. It was common to see pastel colors everywhere, at any time of year, so she was simply in fashion. Even Ross wore light-colored suits, his house decorated in pale colors. That’s why she’d chosen it, to appeal to Ross, to make him regret what he’d lost. It might not seem like much, and anyone knowing what she was doing might think she was wasting her time, but she’d read somewhere once that everything counted. In business, there were power moves, power looks, power plays. A red tie, a crisp white shirt—it all meant something. It was subliminal and an everyday thing in a dog-eat-dog world. She was going to try it, try stroking Ross’ psyche with colors. Yes, colors were a very important stimulant, as important as smells and tastes and such.

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That’s why her make-up had to be perfect, and her perfume the same brand that he had given her once. Finally leaning toward her mirror, she looked at her flawless make-up one last time. After smacking her red lips and baring her teeth for lipstick marks, she seemed satisfied that she’d done all she could to set the scene. With a broad turn, she grabbed her purse, and whirled away from the mirror to slam out of the room. **** Shania was slowly growing desperate. She wanted to throw something, yell, kick, scream, anything to let them know she wasn’t going to fade into the wallpaper and let them do this to her. For the first time, she understood Lance’s desperate attempts to get their attention. To rail against the injustice of being locked up, held captive by a monster of a woman! Suddenly she heard something downstairs, a slamming door. She ran to the window and looked out. She could see something moving in the moonlight under the cover of darkness. It was Lorna getting into her Rolls Royce. Where could she be going at this time of night? Out to a late dinner? A night on the town? Shania looked around wildly, knowing now would be the perfect time to try and get out. Now, while the witch was out of the house. But what about Dagmar? In her room, maybe. The house seemed to be in a deep hush with only a few lights on. Her gaze traveled upward, remembering the night she lay in Lance’s arms. Even though her memory was vague, she knew she’d never known such thrills, such ecstasy. She wanted to be with him tonight. So much, so very much! She paced, wondering what to do. Her heart was pounding, her mind in a whirl. All this was so new to her. She'd never had to fend for herself. She'd always had her fath—oh, my God, she had a father! How did she know that? Who was he? Where was he? Her mind refusing to rest, she looked around for a memory jolt. The room. The structure. It reminded her of something. And then her mind went back to the night she climbed the tower stairs. A medieval castle—small

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windows, arrow slits. Yes! The slitted windows. They were arrow slits! Used by archers during a siege on a castle. How did she know all this? Had she studied Medieval History in school? Suddenly her mind was filled with pictures of the structures of old English castles…clothes worn in those days…customs…yes, even food, drink. What was she, some kind of expert on such things? Becoming excited, she turned, circling around in place, looking closely at the round room, the dark beamed ceiling, the unusual windows. Apparently, this old mansion had been built on some kind of old English scale—days when tapestries hung in great colorful splendor, and secret passageways. Yes! Secret passageways! She held her breath, feeling close to something important—if she could only remember it! And then it came. Her trembling hands fluttered up to her face when she realized there might be a way out of here through the walls! She ran to the wall beside the small fireplace and pounded. She wiggled andirons, felt around on the uneven rock. Just when she'd almost given up, she found a button beneath the mantelpiece cleverly disguised in a curling design, barely discernible unless you knew it was there. When her fingers pressed the uneven object, an eerie whirrrr began, and a small portion of wall slowly opened. Cold, moldy air crept out of the crevice, wrapping her in its musty arms. There was such a stark difference in the temperature here where she stood, and the one in the shaft, she gave a slight shudder. She slowly moved toward the yawning passageway, but the cold darkness blinded her, and the dense air strangled her. She quickly backed away, coughing. What would she do? With no way to see, she couldn't take her chances in that tiny passage. She turned and looked around. She knew what she needed, but would she find one? She yanked open drawers, scrambled around inside each one until she found a small, slim black flashlight that looked just right for a woman's hand. She grabbed for it, clicked the button to try it, then hurried over to the opening in the wall when it worked. Putting her hand over her mouth and nose, she slowly moved into the cave-like structure, the light of the flashlight moving erratically. She was immediately

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surrounded by cobwebs, and the heavy smell of rock dust. This drew her attention to a stone stairway that seemed to be crumbling with age. The crude steps were littered with small chalky pebbles and sand. She lifted the flashlight and shined it as far as she could into the cold darkness of the tiny passage. Should she try the steps, find out where they led? She knew if she didn't, she wouldn't be able to rest. Now that she knew it was here, her curiosity would lead her into the narrow chamber eventually. With those thoughts tumbling through her mind, her foot fell on the first step, the sound of her scraping footstep piercing the moldy air. Slowly, so very slowly, she crept up one step after the other. She climbed at a steady pace, her hands gripping something cold—a steel, rather than stone, balustrade on either side of the narrow stairway. There was silence all around. She could hear the sound of her own breathing and her feet as they scraped against the steps. And then, all at once, the light from her room fell away and she was in complete darkness. It was then that she felt something beneath her foot and looked down. It felt like...rocks, boards? The pile that rattled with each movement of her feet, was nothing but a dark fuzzy outline of…What was it, she wondered as she quickly shifted the light downward on the…Oh, God, bones! Human bones! With fear gagging her, she clamped a hand over her mouth to keep a cry from piercing the night. Her first impulse was to plunge back down the stairs, fall on her bed and wrap herself up like a mummy. But she was frozen to the spot while horrible thoughts of death plagued her mind. Again, her eyes hesitantly slid down to the dirty, grime-laden skull...to the two holes and grinning teeth that sent an icy spear of horror along her spine. She took a moment to breathe deeply of the thick, musty air, and steel herself from any fear that wanted to defeat her. Finally, she forced her eyes away from the bones and turned them upward, thinking of the unusually shaped tower room, the slitted windows, and the dark vaulted ceiling where evil seemed to live. She slowly lifted her foot to find the next step—when she realized where this passageway must lead. ****

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The sound was unmistakable. Lance lunged forward, turning his head to the left, his eyes anchoring on the wall next to the fireplace. He listened closely. There it was again, scraping footsteps creeping along unsure, hesitant. But why were they coming from beyond the wall? And then suddenly the sound stopped, replaced by a muffled gasp. An eerie silence engulfed him. He waited a while until he heard the scuffling begin again, and rose from the bed. He moved cautiously along the flagstone floor toward the wall, his hands searching—for what, he wasn't quite sure. And then the knocking came...and a voice, a woman's voice. “Let me in! Please let me in!” My God, what was it, a ghost? Was someone trapped in the wall? His hands moved upward and he began to feel around on the jagged stone, pressing, pushing. “Who are you? I...” “It's Shania,” she said softly. “Look on the mantle. On the side there should be a button.” Lance's gaze shifted toward the mantle and he immediately saw it. Reaching over he pushed it, and with the creakiness of old age, the wall slowly opened. **** Shania looked up, seeing him standing there, his muscled legs parted in a defensive stance while the leaping flames in the fireplace reflected on his beautiful face and body. His shoulders and arms were thick with muscle, and the expression on his face was hungry and lustful. The glow of the undulating flames made him look sinful and dangerous, his eyes slanting slightly upward, his tangled hair, thick and curly. He stood looking at her, something lazily seductive in his electric blue eyes. He was a picture of dark, mysterious sensuality. “My God what are you doing inside a wall?” he rasped.

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“I was...I was looking for a way out—” she began, while wiping dust off her clothes. “And then it somehow came to me that a house like this must have secret passageways. You know, like those in ancient history.” “Shania, you could have been hurt climbing all the way up here through that...that...hole.” “I had to. Don't you see? I was suffocating in that room. You remember the night you went wild, don't you? I was beginning to feel like that, desperate to find a way out.” “God, how could I forget?” His scowl softened. “All right. I guess I understand. But promise me you'll be careful. You don't want to get trapped in there with no way out.” The memory of the bones she saw gave her a slight shiver. “I'll be careful. I promise.” He walked over to the hole in the wall and leaned into it, looking around. “Where else does it lead?” “I don't know, but this house must be full of these passageways, and I'm going to explore every one. I think...” All at once, he turned back to her and their eyes collided. She could feel the fire that leaped from his hungry gaze, and it spread all the way to her groin. Standing so close to him, heat rippled beneath her skin as she recognized the flush of sexual desire beginning in her groin. “I shouldn't have come,” she said, quickly turning away from him. “No?” he whispered, his hands turning to flame as they touched her shoulders. “Why did you come?” “I...” She shook her head, suddenly becoming dizzy. The room became a heated cave, and the longer she stayed near him the more she thought of sinfully lit bedrooms and hot, writhing bodies. She moved to turn away, feeling the danger of being near him. Everything in her wanted to touch him, to melt into his masculine smell, have it all around her, in her. She stiffened when she felt his hands on her shoulders as he turned her around to face him. Their eyes locked. He was silent as he looked at her, everything he wanted to say being said in his electric blue gaze. “I didn't come here for this,” she whispered.

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“No? What did you come for?” “I don't know,” she said, looking up at him. “I wasn't really sure where the passage would lead.” Her gaze fell to his eyes, and she saw it again. Something—something dangerous. “I'd better go.” Her long, thick red hair flew around her face as she turned to leave. He could see a wild innocence in her vivid green eyes, and stopped her. “Why?” “Because…I don’t know…we're here alone…late at night with no one around.” “Shania those are the very reasons why you should stay.” “But you didn't send for me.” “I've thought of nothing else since the night we were together.” “But—I'm afraid.” “Of me?” he said, gently leading her to the bed. “Shania, it's not as if we've never been together. Didn't you like it?” “Of course, I loved it.” “Then what's the problem?” “There's just something about you,” she said, lowering her eyes timidly. “I don't know. I feel...Well…so different somehow.” “Come on,” he whispered in her ear. “I'll be as tame as a kitten.” Her full lips twisted up into a teasing smile. “As Dagmar would say, there's cats—and then there's cats!” He chuckled. “You've come to know Dagmar well. I'll tell you what. Why don't you tell me how you discovered this hidden corridor, or whatever the hell they're called in these old mansions.” “And then what?” she asked, looking into his eyes. “Let me show you,” he said, catching her shoulders in a strong grip and leaning her backward on the bed. She closed her eyes as his lips took hers with savage intensity. He was so hungry he scared her! And then it was back—his masculine smell. It surrounded her, liquefying her into pure wanton need as his hands caressed her. He held her there for a long time; his slow, drugging kisses making her head spin. Softly his lips lifted and their heat brushed her brow, her face, and then her neck. A nervous fear climbed into her again as she felt his

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body, heavy and muscled, move over her, his hands releasing the straps of her halter. Little by little, he began undressing her. Oh, God, how she wanted him, wanted to feel his…and then a jealous anger filled her when she suddenly remembered Lorna’s words. I’ve had my birthday present. It was last night in the tower room. “You want me?” she whispered, trying to hold her anger in check. “You know it, baby,” came his flippant reply. Putting her hand over his eyes, she asked, “Who am I?” His kisses suddenly stopped, and he pulled her hand down from in front of his eyes. “What the hell is this?” “Who am I?” she demanded. “What's my name? You've apparently had so many women you get them mixed up. I come in here one night and Lorna Desmond comes in here the next. You fuck us both to kingdom come, and now it's my turn again.” She gave him an icy glare. “Lucky me.” Lance pulled back and sat up, raking his fingers through his hair. “So that's it. You're fucking jealous.” He chuckled. “God, leave it to me to get mixed up with a couple of fruitcakes.” “When she found out you and I had been together, I got locked in my room. Thanks for nothing!” “So, you shouldn't have told her!” “I didn’t have to tell her, she could see it! Anyone could! It was in my face, my eyes…all over me! And when she told me about her famous birthday present…” “Birthday present? Shania, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” “No, you wouldn’t.” “Hell, Shania,” he pleaded, “I don't want her. I want you!” It was easy to believe him when he pulled her to him and his mouth and tongue were scouring her neck and breasts. She wanted him to continue so badly, but every time she thought about him and Lorna being together a hot rage filled her, and again she pushed him away. “Dammit, Shania, don't tease me,” he said, breathing hard.

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“You want a woman?” she asked venomously. “Go get Lorna Desmond! She did it once with you, she'll do it again! Besides, she warned me away from you. She finds me in here and we're both dead!” “How the hell is she going to know, if you don't tell her?” “She has her ways. She also has a knife longer than your—” Suddenly he looked bigger than a mountain, and a stab of icy fear ran through Shania when she saw the look in his eyes. Slowly, she pushed away from him and began backing away. He advanced on her. “I should take you anyway—against the wall, on the floor, fuck the living hell out of you! Who’d know? Everyone's asleep. So you were fucked by the devil in the tower. Who could you tell? If you show them the passage way, they'll block it off. Then you'd never get out.” Her fear soared. She knew he was right. A sneer twisted his mouth. “How old are you Shania?” “Eight...Eighteen.” “God! A baby. You're nothing but a goddamned baby! I'm surprised you didn't call out for mama!” he said, mockingly. She slid against the wall, watching his outburst. He looked like a devil, he acted like one. He even made love like one. “Get the hell out! Now! Before I change my mind and throw your pure, virgin little body on the bed and have my way with you!” Shania scampered into the hole in the wall, welcoming the cold darkness. Before she could turn around, she heard the door slide to a close, managing only a glimpse of the roguish devil who stood among flames in an intimate little room that stood in the middle of Hell! **** The Rolls Royce wound through the dark streets of the city until it came to the high wall that surrounded Monarch Studios. The guard shack on one side of the drive was small and insignificant in comparison to the high, sprawling arch that spelled out the large-lettered, impressive name. The car slowly bumped up into the drive, the lot beyond the iron gate looking dark

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and lonely. After applying the brakes, Klaus looked out of the small window, his pale face scowling in the shimmering light of the moon. His manner was stiff and formal, his unsmiling face sinister, his eyes alert. Jud stepped out of the shack and slowly walked toward the car. Leaning over, he looked toward the back of the vehicle where he saw Lorna. Tipping his hat, he said, “Good evening, Ms. Desmond. I'm afraid I can't let you pass, the studio is closed.” “I've been invited here by Ross Hunter,” Lorna said, with a huff. “And what is all this business about not letting me pass? I've been coming here for years, Jud, you know that.” “I'm sorry, ma'am, but I have my orders. No one is supposed to pass through at this time of night.” “Jud, I have an appointment, and I can't be late. Now stop all this foolishness and let me pass.” She pulled a compact mirror out of her purse and looked into it, gently stroking her painted lips, and putting a few strands of hair in place. “For your information I'm about to be put under contract again.” She smirked, cutting her eyes toward him. “That's what this meeting is about.” Turning her eyes back toward the mirror, she turned her face this way and that to see if anything was amiss, then reached up to pull the filmy hood of her cape forward. It was a look she liked. The glimmering threads sparkled like stars, surrounding her face, giving her a glamorous look. “Call Ross, he's undoubtedly waiting for me now.” Closing the compact with a sharp click, she glanced down at her watch. “Jud, if you make me late—” “I'm sorry, ma'am, but it was Mr. Hunter who gave me the orders to keep you out. In fact, you aren't to be allowed on the lot at any time.” With those words he turned and walked back into the shack, expecting the car to back away. Lorna slammed her purse down. “Well, I should have expected something like this,” she hissed, her eyes shooting fire as they shifted toward Klaus. “Are you going to allow this, Klaus?” she hissed. “This meeting is very important to me. I must see him!”

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“No, mistress,” Klaus mumbled, his eyes cutting back toward Lorna. “I v’ill take care of it.” With a few subtle movements, Klaus pulled something out of his pocket, then stepped outside and walked up to the shack. Thinking Klaus was going to try and talk to Jud, she sat back, her eyes darting around at the eerie darkness. A chill crept up her arms as she looked at the vacant promenade, heavy tarp blowing in the whipping wind, and stray bits of paper scuttling along, getting trapped in bushes, or against closed doors—doors that had never been closed to her before. She never thought it would happen, but apparently it had. Well, after she and Ross have their little meeting, she thought, the doors will open again, and Jud will have a different set of orders to follow. New respect for her would shine in his eyes, and no matter what time of the day or night she wanted to come onto the lot, she would be allowed. Suddenly, her head jerked around when she heard a scuffle. She sat straighter, stretching her neck to see what was happening when she heard something heavy fall, and the gate open. Klaus stepped out of the shadowy shack, a knife dripping with blood in his hand. He hesitated at the car and took out a handkerchief to wipe the blade. “My God, what have you done?” she hissed, her eyes anchored on the bloody cloth. “I have taken care of the matter, Madam—as you have requested.” In only minutes, the car was smoothly weaving in and out of the promenade that would take them to Ross' office. “You fool!” Lorna hissed, urging herself forward and looking at Klaus through eyes filled with fear. “How do you expect to get away with this? With murder?” She looked back at the guard who was lying half in, and half out of the little shack, his blood coloring the ground. She turned back to Klaus, still ramrod straight, his face never losing the somber mask, his eyes glittering with sinister light. “Klaus, I don't know this side of you. I've never seen you hurt another human being.” His eyes, glittering with danger, shifted toward her. “Don't let it upset you, Madam. You v’ill have v’hat you v’ant, I v’ill see to it.”

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While Lorna's heart slowed, and her nerves calmed, she eyed him closely for the first time. Klaus might be exactly what she needed. She could keep him in the background until she needed him. If he would kill for her, he would do anything. She had the advantage. No one was around, and she could easily cover up this little incident. No one would ever suspect her, or her chauffeur of such a vile act. Yes, maybe it would work. Ten minutes later, she stood before Ross giving the performance of her life. “My God, Ross, he was lying there covered with blood when we drove in. Who would do such a thing?” When Ross heard her story, he grabbed for the phone. He babbled into it for several minutes, then turned to Lorna who sat in a chair, a shocked look on her face. “Lorna, I'm sorry,” he said, a pained expression on his face. “I know, Ross, I just…Well, it was such a surprise. I never expected anything like this.” Rising from his chair, he began pacing, raking his hand through his hair. “Hell, why didn't I get a security man for this job? They're trained for such as this. Jud...Hell Jud was so damned easy to take advantage of. Willing to work all hours, never seemed to have a life of his own. He could always be depended on to do anything that needed doing.” He turned back to Lorna. “Lorna, you must realize that we're going to have to call off this little meeting of ours.” Lorna jerked her head up and looked at him fiercely. “Ross, if you're worried about me, don't. I can—” “My God, Lorna, don't you see? The police are on their way. You'll have to give a statement, tell them what you saw. There's no way we can—” “I can tell you what I want in just a few words.” She hesitated, her eyes grinding into his. “I want a contract.” Ross sighed. “Lorna we've been over this...How many times?” “You don't understand, Ross. I know where you daughter is.” Ross whirled around. “What?” “I believe you heard me. I know where she is, and if you don't put me under contract—Well, it's quite possible you'll never see her again.”

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Ross crossed to her quickly, grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “You bitch! You goddamned—” Just then Klaus stepped forward in her defense. They both saw him at the same time, and the blood that stained his uniform seemed to glow eerily. Ross dropped his hands and backed up in fear. He recognized him from long ago. He'd been a stunt man at the studio. He remembered Klaus had been a big fan of Lorna's. Now they were together. He was just one more fool who had given up his own life for that of a famous star. His angry gaze cut toward Lorna, a chill coursing down his spine when he saw a demented glaze that told him she was crazy, both her and her bodyguard. “He killed Jud. I'll have him arrested—both of you!” “Not if you want to see your daughter again.” Ross' eyes widened. He felt dizzy. It was too much, too damned much! This crazy woman and her...her...stunt man. Finally, he turned and poured himself a drink. He gulped it down, feeling the heat pool in his stomach. With his back to her, he said, “Get him out, Lorna. Now!” “Then we can talk?” “Only because I seem to have no choice.” Lorna's eyes slid toward Klaus. “Klaus, wait for me outside.” Ross slowly relaxed, his eyes following Klaus as he hesitantly stepped through the door. The second the door closed, he whirled around to face her. “Is she all right?” “She's still healthy, if that's what you mean. She doesn't know who she is, though.” “My God, she's lost her memory?” Misery clouded his eyes. “Where is she? Do you have her?” “I'm not telling you anything else, Ross. And no, I don't have her,” she lied, “but—” “Then how the hell could you know anything about her?” “I know,” Lorna taunted, her voice almost a whisper.

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“I don't know what kind of game you think you're playing, Lorna, but I'll get her back. And when I do, she'll tell me everything.” Fear struck a cord in Lorna because she knew he was right. How could she return the girl alive? She'd blab the truth all over. There was no other way. She'd have to kill her. Yes, Lorna thought sadistically. And when she did, she'd tell Ross that she had lied, taken advantage of his situation. He would be furious, but he could do nothing. Meanwhile, she had to keep him from going to the police, make him think he would get her back unharmed. “Who is it?” he bellowed, jarring her out of her reverie. “Who's holding her captive, and for what? No one's called, demanded money. And you. What the hell could you possibly want? Money? You've got it! I'll give you anything you want, just name it!” “Ross, as you well know, my career was very good to me. Due to that and excellent investments I've got all the money I will ever need in this lifetime, so no, I don't want money.” She lifted her hand dramatically and reached upward, her eyes focused on something in the distance. “I want to be up there again.” “Up there?” He turned to see what she was staring at. “Up where, for God's sake?” She turned and looked at him. “Have you no imagination? In the stratosphere! I want to take my place in the cinema heaven! Oh, Ross, put me back up on that silver screen and you can have your daughter back. Healthy, strong, just like she was before she left.” His eyes narrowed on her. “And if I don't?” “I'll ship her off to China, you bastard!” And then with a pleading voice, she said, “Ross, why can't you see that you put me out to pasture in my prime. Anyone can see that I'm still beautiful, still—” “Lorna, of course you're still beautiful, but what I see before me now and what comes across on the screen are two different things. The camera picks up every little flaw, every line. Hell, that's why youth rules. You should know that. I'd love to put you back up there, but in the proper roles.”

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Jumping up from her chair, she paced a moment, then turned back to him. “By 'proper roles' you mean someone's mother, an old maid aunt, a mad woman who keeps her crippled sister locked up in her bedroom!” “So what? Bette Davis gave a fantastic performance in that role.” “Maybe, but it's a far reach from what she did at one time. I've seen them all step down from their thrones, settling for roles they would never have played otherwise. Everything from an aging psycho to an eccentric old aunt who everyone wants to lock up. These are crumbs, Ross, reserved for those that are on their way out.” “They're roles, Lorna. Good roles that stretch your acting ability. They give you—” “They're secondary roles that push you into the background,” she shouted as madness and passion swirled together in her eyes. She leaned forward glaring across the desk at him. “Well, it won't happen to me. Do you understand, Ross? It won't happen to me! No one is going to cover me in a pound of make-up designed to make me look like a demented child star who never grew up!” She glared at him, her eyes telling him that she would have her place back on the throne once again or he would pay dearly for it. “I'm sorry you feel that way, Lorna. It's true, you're being wasted every minute you aren't on that screen, but not in the roles you insist on playing.” “I'll play them—” she hissed, narrowing her eyes on him. “Or you'll never see your precious daughter again.” “But you'll be laughed right off the screen, Lorna. I don't want that to happen to you. You'd never live it down!” “Really, Ross. You don't give a damn about me. Say what you mean for God's sake. You don't want it to happen to you.” Lifting her chin in a haughty manner, she continued. “But it won't happen. Never in a million years.” Ross had finally come to the end. He didn’t know what else to say, and finally faced the truth. He would have to put Lorna Desmond back on the screen in the kind of roles she wanted to play, or—Suddenly an idea came to him. If she wouldn't believe him, maybe she would believe her own eyes. He lingered a moment as if he were still considering her words. It was an

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awful thing to do to anyone, but he had no choice as long as his daughter was at the mercy of this crazy bitch. He only hoped it would work. Finally his voice broke the awkward hush. “All right. I'll have the contract drawn up and sent out to you tomorrow. Is that agreed?” Lorna's eyes lit up. “Y-Yes, I…you're making the right decision, Ross, I promise.” “And my daughter?” Lorna hesitated, at a loss for words. He’d caught her off guard, but after several moments she was rescued by her old cunning, and she looked at him with narrowed eyes. “First, send the contract, and then find me a role, Ross. One I approve of—” Her fluttering hand lifted to her neck as if she were imagining how very lovely she would look on the screen again. “One that shows me off.” Her eyes, angled upward, and held a hint of amusement as she looked at him. “That's what you used to say. Do you remember? You always said you wanted to put me in roles that showed me off.” She smiled at the memory, then circled and swayed dramatically. “That's what I want now, Ross. I want a role that shows me off.” He watched her as she did a few pirouettes around the room, his plan already coming together in his mind. “Oh, it'll show you off, Lorna, I can promise you that.” Hearing his reassuring words, she suddenly stopped and a guilty look appeared on her face causing her to lower her eyes. “My...Now I…Well, I feel guilty about forcing you into this.” She hesitated a moment, then lifted her face, a bright sound to her voice. “But you'll thank me. See if you don't, Ross.” Her hips gave an exaggerated sway as she walked toward him, imagining herself bewitching. She stopped in front of him and looked up, hoping her look was coquettish. Softly, her hands traveled up his lapel in a flirtatious manner, her words low and husky. “Remember how it was, Ross? Once you liked me. You know, we—” He suddenly clamped his hands on hers and pushed them back down. “Let's don't bring up the past, Lorna. It's over, gone.” “I'm just as good now, Ross. Even better. Remember when I used to—”

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“Lorna, please. I believe our little meeting is adjourned. I'll be in contact with you concerning the contracts.” “But, why? I thought…Well, we clicked back then, why not now?” “Maybe it's because blackmail and sex don't mix,” he said sarcastically. “Call me strange, but I never have been able to get it up with someone who wants to kill my daughter.” “Kill?” she repeated, then casually turned to pick up her purse and walk to the door. Quickly turning, she struck a pose on the threshold and looked at him with her sexy, slumberous eyes. Playing the scene at top drama, she said, “Ross, don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't kill her. Unless—” All at once she gave him a blinding smile. “Never mind.” “Beautiful scene, Lorna,” Ross muttered. “Now exit stage left.” They never stop, he thought as he watched her dramatic exit. Once the spotlight hits them, every moment they live is a scene on a movie screen, a page in a screenplay. Hell, some of them can’t even carry on a conversation without a script in front of them. And now it had happened to Lorna Desmond, the woman who had once been his lover—his number one star.

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Chapter 8 A wild rush, a drum roll, the beginning of a symphony, an earthshattering orgasm! Oh, God, how could she stand it? In two short days her life had changed radically. The contract had arrived at her house as promised, and with it a note asking her to come to the studio today to hash over the details. Excitement swelled within her! But now, as she stood in the midst of it all, she couldn’t believe she was part of the cinema once again. She held her breath as she looked at the sound stage. Cables, cameras, and stage sets, some fully constructed, others unfinished and waiting in the shadows. It was a dream world with fabricated moonlight shining down on crenellated Grecian columns. False rocks, boulders, statues made only of cardboard. Yes, it was a made up world, but it had been her world. She loved it, luxuriated in it. When it had been taken away, it was like her death. A swift expulsion out of all this fairy land fascination and into the fires of Hell. But now she was back, given a second chance. She madly embraced it, couldn't get enough of it as her searching gaze moved upward, seeing stairs that went nowhere, ladders, and cables hanging from the ceiling like coiling snakes. And then she saw it—the spotlight. The big, wonderful eye that had shone down on her any number of times, in so many films. Yes, it was all so familiar. It would be as it was before, she told herself. No longer just a visitor, she was part of it once again. Oh, they would see! Yes, they would see the mistake they had made. She would make them see it, rub their faces in it! But something bothered her as her gaze darted around. Where was Ross? He should have met her when she arrived. “Ms. Desmond!”

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Lorna whirled around and saw an older woman with graying hair and a gentle smile hurrying toward her. “Oh, Ms. Desmond, how very wonderful to see you. My name is Verna Allred.” The woman thrust her hand forward. “I'm Mr. Hunter’s secretary. He sent me to find you since he couldn't meet you himself. He's in a meeting. You know about those meetings, I'm sure. He told me to have you join him as soon as you arrived.” “Oh, really?” Lorna said, her lips slanting upward in a surprised smile. “Yes, he wanted to welcome you to the studio himself, but he couldn’t pull himself away. You know Ross. Nothing is too good for his favorite star.” “His favorite st—?” “Oh, of course,” the woman said, laying it on thick. “They're in his office now. Please come with me.” “What do you mean…they?” “He’s got his whole staff in there…at least those that will be working on this picture.” “His whole staff?” she breathed, seeing the woman nod and smile in reply. My God! She was being invited to one of his meetings. She'd never had that honor, not even as a young starlet. Oh, there had been times she'd been invited into his office with its deep plush surroundings, but it had been for— other things. In those days, he'd treated her like a piece of meat, exploited her, used her to satisfy his appetites. Now, today, he was inviting her into his office as a colleague, giving her the respect she deserved instead of sticking his cock into her every chance he got. Yes, there was only one answer. He had come to his senses at last. Feeling a deep sense of satisfaction, she turned to follow the woman with her head held high. As they walked, her gaze darted, noticing the stares and the whispers. She was pleasantly surprised that she was attracting such an audience. She should have known it would happen. A star of her caliber doesn’t come along every day. It’s true, she wanted them to look at her, wanted to hear their gasps, wanted their eyes to follow her as she tugged on

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her expensive feathered wrap as if it were a smug cocoon. She couldn't discern the words, but she could hear the lisping whispers concealed behind a flurry of fingers. After all, much had happened. The death of Jud, the beautiful and famous Lorna Desmond coming back to work at Monarch Studios. Yes, many tongues would be wagging, but what could she expect? She always had been the topic of conversation in many circles, now she would be again. Oh, yes, this is what she wanted, this is what she was born for! To be the center of attention, the star, the primary attraction. With that thought in mind, she lifted her chin haughtily. While she walked, wispy feathers fluttered in the breeze, and her top lip stretched in a semblance of a smile while her conceited gaze secretly cut beneath half-closed lids toward those who watched from the sidelines. She felt a satisfied tremor blossom inside her when their eyes and mouths opened in amazement. Well, let them look. It was plain they'd never seen anything like her—never seen someone who was every inch a star! **** Ross sat at his desk, trying not to look nervous. He tried not to look as if his red and blue tie were choking the life out of him, and he tried not to be obvious as his gaze darted toward the big double doors she'd be walking through any moment now. With dread, his gaze shifted to his staff—to the intelligent eyes that looked toward him. The time had come to tell them something. Something, but not the truth. What he was proposing was insane, and he knew it. They'd think he'd lost his mind, and maybe he had. How would he come out of this without looking and sounding like a damned idiot? The clock betrayed him. It didn't stop on the hour and sit there—no. The minute hand jumped again and again. Time was getting away from him. She'd be here any minute! Finally, he took a deep breath, rose from his desk, skirted around it slowly until he was in front and leaning his hips against the edge comfortably. He still hesitated, slowly folding his arms across his chest, and

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lifting his gaze to anchor on the small group before him. They watched him, listening for the magic words that would roll off his lips. “Big changes,” he said simply, his words echoing around the cavernous room. The sprinkling of sophisticated, well-dressed men and women met his eyes. When they saw the scowl on his face, the tight set of his jaw and the thin, twitching line of his lips, they knew something was brewing. They waited patiently for the bomb to drop—and his next words did it. “I'm replacing Constance Padgett in Blazing Dawn.” “What?” Ericka Swann, Ross' second-in-command, called out. “Ross, when was this decision made? We haven't even discussed it!” “I know, Ericka, I'm sorry. I realize I'm pulling this on you at the last minute.” “Last minute?” Ericka snorted. “My God, Ross this is insane! The movie's half over!” “Wanna tell us why, Ross?” Kell Stewart, the director called out over the mutterings going on around him. “Some little starlet you got your eye on?” Ross felt a surge of anger and turned to Kell. “You bastard, I'll throw you out of here if you start any of that!” “What else are we to think? Hell, this decision seems to have been made overnight. Is that it, Ross, was this decision made overnight? You know, like in the bed of one of your protégé’s?” “No!” he bellowed out while raking his fingers through his hair. “Hell, don't you think I know how this sounds? It's insane. I know it.” “Then why do it?” Ericka asked. “Look, the decision's been made. The least you people could do is trust me. I know what I'm doing, and Connie's out. I'm bringing in another actress.” “Did you ever once think of discussing this with me?” Kell shouted. “I am the director after all.” “I know, Kell, and I apologize for that.”

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“Is Connie sick?” someone called out. “Has something happened to her?” “No, it's not that. Connie's fine. No need to worry.” “Then what is it?” Ericka challenged. “Look, I've told you everything I can. Connie...She's…She's just not right for the part.” “What the hell are you talking about?” Ericka shouted, her patience at an end. “Not right for the part? Ross, she’s perfect for the part and you know it. What is this? You're not making sense.” “Look,” Ross yelled. “I've made my decision.” “Can you at least tell us who's replacing her?” Ericka pleaded. Ross stiffened at the question, and his answer came out quickly, little more than a whisper. “I'm replacing her with Lorna Desmond.” His gaze darted around, seeing their surprise...No, not surprise, their absolute horror at having a fifty-year-old woman replacing a twenty-five year old actress in a leading role. Ross’ gaze shifted toward Ericka when she buried her face in her hands. Ross could only imagine what she was thinking—what any of them were thinking. This whole thing was not only embarrassing, but downright idiotic, and yet Ross held his position. “I'm sorry if you disagree, but that's my decision.” “Lorna Desmond in the role of a twenty-five year old heroine?” Kell looked around at the others. “It's...My God, it's ludicrous!” Ross looked at Kell, and said through clenched teeth, “It's all right, Kell, I have everything under control. I'll discuss this with you and Ericka later.” Ericka's face took on the darkness of a thundercloud. “Later, hell! Ross, nothing you can say will make this all right. Even if you replaced her with someone young enough to do it, there's no time. The film’s half done. My God, we'll have to start from scratch! Do you realize how much money this film will cost? And with Lorna Desmond in the star—” She lifted her hands and laughed insanely. “I'm dreaming, that's it. This is all a dream, right? Or a joke. You're playing a ridiculous joke on all of us, right?” “Ericka, hear me out.”

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“No, Ross. None of the clever words we all know you're famous for will ever convince me to star a fifty-year-old woman in a role for a twenty-fiveyear-old!” She impatiently raked her fingers through her thick hair that was as black and glossy as a raven's wing. “Have the contracts been signed?” “I received my copy yesterday.” Ericka's face crumpled. “My God, Ross, what were you thinking? Did she hold a gun on you, or something?” Blood drained from Ross' face and he abruptly turned away. Ericka looked at him, knowing he was hiding something. A profound silence filled the room and stretched, the tension mounting. “Ross, are you all right?” “Yes,” Ross muttered without turning around. “Ross, don't do this. Tell us the reason for this—the real reason.” Ross remained stiff, the look on his face a mixture of emotions. He knew Ericka was right. He should have gone to her, to Kell, to someone. But it had all happened so quickly. With everything that was going on, there just didn't seem to be time. As a result, he'd made a damned fool of himself, made them suspect he had a starlet on his couch and was willing to push Connie out and put in some little star-struck nympho. Oh, God, if it had only been that. That, he could easily fix, but this... As badly as he hated to do it, he'd have to tell them the truth, and the sooner, the better. All at once, he turned, his piercing eyes darting to each of them like a tormented animal. “No. No gun—” He hesitated, struggling, the silence thick enough to cut. “Only threats.” He sounded close to tears, and noticed Ericka had moved to come toward him. “Sit down Ericka,” Ross commanded. Wanting to hear what Ross had to say, Ericka slowly sank into her chair, all the while gazing at him, and the strange look he had on his face. The room suddenly fell into a hush, only one voice echoing throughout the hollow space. “She came to see me a couple of nights ago,” he began, his voice low and ominous. “Invaded the lot like the crazy woman she is and demanded I draw up a contract for her to come back and work at the studio.” He

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shrugged. “Under different circumstances I would have loved to have Lorna come back, but she wants to come back on her own terms.” “Terms? What terms?” Ericka asked. “Starring roles. No, not only starring roles, roles of young heroines, beautiful young heroines. The kind of roles she played as a young girl.” Kell exploded. “She's crazy, Ross. Don't you see it? Goddamned crazy!” Ignoring Kell’s assessment of Lorna, Ross continued. “For those of you who don't remember her, let me assure you she was not only beautiful, she was an outstanding actress. It's hard to get those two things together in one performer. Usually if an actress is beautiful, she can't act, and—” He shrugged. “Vice versa. You get the picture. But Lorna had it all. Beauty, brains, acting ability. For a long time she had the world at her feet, was a big box office draw and made one film right after the other. She never seemed to tire, and her performances seemed to improve with each picture. She was truly a star of the first caliber. And then she began aging. At first it wasn't too bad, but slowly it began to show on her face. We tried cutting down on the close-ups but it didn't do much good. Then we tried putting a thin, gauzy screen between her and the camera, much the same way the other studio did with Gary Cooper when he began to age. It worked, but only for a while. It was then that I realized we'd lost the young, beautiful Lorna we'd all come to love.” He picked up a pen and began to tap the desk. “With no choice left to me I began giving her roles for older women—mother roles, aging aunts, that sort of thing. It didn't take long for her to catch on, and that's when the fireworks began.” Throwing the pencil down, he slipped his hands in his pocket as he paced. “She walked off the lot thinking I’d call her back. I didn't. She did a lot of traveling at first, but apparently when she came back home, she began to miss the studio—all the attention she was accustomed to receiving. I think somewhere in there she must have realized the media was passing her by. The industry was changing fast. No one remembered her. Then she began visiting the lot. I saw no reason not to allow it if that's all she wanted. I sent word out to everyone that Lorna was to be treated like royalty when she came on the lot. That was my first mistake. She created scenes—first by

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telling the directors how to do their jobs, then brazenly stepping in front of the camera and trying to show the actresses how to play the scenes. I know that Kell here has had one hell of a time trying to do his job.” “You can say that again! That woman—” “Not now, Kell, please. Anyway,” he continued, “Lorna began trying to schedule time with me. The first time I saw her was a lesson for me. Since then I've made excuses, arranged for our meetings to be interrupted, anything to get her off my back. Well, this last time was the absolute worst. I've never seen her like she was then. Like Kell said, to think she hasn't aged a day, to come in here and demand a starring role—it is insane.” “But Ross, my God...What was the threat that made you agree to her terms?” A hurt look came into Ross' eyes. “You all know what I've been going through with Shania’s disappearance. Well, Lorna, she—” He hesitated. “She's using my daughter as a bargaining chip. Says she knows where Shania is.” He heard an audible gasp. “She alluded to the fact that Shania wouldn't stay very healthy unless I put her under contract again. You can see I had no choice.” Ericka urged forward, her left arm resting on the table as she peered at Ross. “But Ross, this won't work. She'll plainly see—” Their eyes collided in a knowing look. “Yes, she will—won't she?” Ross said as a slow, deceptive smile spread across his face. Understanding filled Ericka's eyes. “Ohhh, I see,” she replied with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You have no intention of honoring the contract.” “It was a dud, a prop. A lot of mumbo-jumbo that I knew Lorna wouldn't understand. I had Nelson help me draw it up. When I explained what I wanted, he did a beautiful job. He also knew what to do if she brought it to him to be explained to her. I'm thankful she didn't take it to her own legal counsel. She fell right into my trap when I offered her Nelson's services.”

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“Mmm, I must say that was brilliant,” Ericka responded. “I'm just hoping that when she sees herself on the screen—the wrinkles, the aging body, a grandmother in the arms of a twenty-something hero, she'll get the message without anyone having to say the words.” “The old witch ought to realize we're doing her a favor,” Kell growled. “I hope she sees it that way, but somehow I doubt it.” Rising from the edge of the desk, Ross' face revealed true concern. “What are you thinking, Ross?” Ericka asked. “I can't help but remember what Lorna was like as a young woman. I'm just so sorry it came to this.” He looked at Ericka. “I don't want to hurt her—” “But she has your daughter for God's sake!” the script girl called out. “How can you be so forgiving?” Ross turned to her. “She didn't say that she had her, just that she knew who did, or where she was, or something like that.” “Hell, it's the same thing,” Max replied. “She has to be crazy. Knowing your situation, who but a crazy person would hold it over your head to get what she wants? You've no reason to feel sorry, Ross. Whatever you dish out to her, she has coming.” “I want to come out of this clean, Max.” Ericka pointed at Ross. “Your problem is, you're too damned nice, Ross. The bitch is taking advantage. I've seen a lot of the older stars go through this, but you don't see them going around threatening the studio.” “It must be rough being in the spotlight so long, then one day waking up and finding out that the camera has turned on you. The spotlight gone. That big light trained on another face, another body.” “It happens to everyone, Ross,” Kell said unsympathetically. “I know. Look, when she comes in—” “She's coming in here?” Ericka said, alarmed. “Yes,” Ross said, then shifted his eyes and began talking to the others in the room. “I want all of you to act as if you're happy she's here. You know, stroke her ego, that sort of thing. Believe me, it'll only be for a little while.”

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They turned their heads looking at each other while murmuring their replies, then back toward the big wooden double doors that suddenly opened as if on cue. A heavy silence immediately filled the room as Ross’ stunned staff sat gaping at Lorna Desmond all decked out in feathers and glittering veils reminiscent of the forties. It was just like her, Ross thought, to make a grand entrance...like the parting of a curtain on opening night. **** She could feel it—the bold stares, the gawking, the wide-eyed gazes that literally raked her body as they looked her up and down. The attention was almost as warm as the spotlight as she stood there in her feathered hat, her outdated clothes, and her stiletto heels. With a haughty air, she turned her head slightly while drawing in a lung full of smoke from the stub held in her trim cigarette holder. She lifted her face, allowing the smoke to feather from her red, bold mouth, then noticed the secretary with an ashtray. “Thank you, dahling,” she said with the same husky voice she'd become famous for. After pressing her cigarette out, she lifted the long stem that held the ravaged butt and said, “Take care of this, will you?” “Yes, of course,” Verna said, taking the holder gingerly with two fingers as if she were afraid of touching it. Then, while balancing the holder and the ashtray, she closed the door behind her as Lorna stepped in. “Well, Ross,” Lorna said as she strode toward him with her hand outstretched, “at last you've come to your senses.” “Lorna, so happy to see you, dear.” Ross took her hand and brought it to his lips and kissed it. Who's the better actor here? he thought as he managed to keep from gagging. Then, as if she'd noticed them for the first time, she turned and looked down her nose at the office full of people. “Lorna, this is my staff. I wanted you to meet them. You won't remember everyone. Many have come on since you've been gone.” “Yes, a mistake, wasn't it Ross, dahling?”

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“Uh...Yes, a mistake.” “Well, we won't look back at those horrible, dark years. We'll just go on as if nothing ever happened. Right?” “Uh...Right,” he said, then cleared his throat. He led Lorna around the room, introducing her while she gave each one she approached a slanted, arrogant look along with her gloved hand which she offered limply. After enduring a flurry of hand-kissing, empty compliments and searching eyes, Lorna allowed him to lead her back to his desk. While she stood beside Ross, her eyes turned back to Ericka and found the woman staring at her. The look was cattish, her eyes narrowed. Hate rolled off the woman in hot, liquid waves. Maybe it was a woman-to-woman thing, but she knew the beautiful brunette disapproved of her. Not only that, Lorna thought, but she wants Ross. She wants him, and thinks—knows I'm hurting him. But how could she know? Unless…Lorna wondered what Ross had told them before she came in. Their eyes held, a communication of sorts going on between them. A challenge, a cat fight that the others were unaware of. Suddenly Lorna was pulled away by something Ross was saying. “I've already told the others that we'll begin working with you next week. Until then, we'll be building sets, getting camera's ready, costumes— you know the bit.” “But all that's been done. I was assuming I'd simply—” “A star of your quality, step into a roll meant only for a starlet? Why, Lorna, I wouldn't hear of it. No, you will have only the best, I insist upon it. Besides, dear, you need time to learn your lines.” “Oh, Ross, how could I have doubted you? Of course, I should have understood. But you mustn't worry, dahling, I know the lines by heart.” Then, reverting back to her starlet days, she gave Ross a flirtatious smile while cutting her eyes toward Ericka. “And for you, Ross, dear,” she said as if she were plunging a knife into someone's heart, “I will deliver them the way they should be delivered, in deep, clear, dulcet tones, not the harsh, irritating, nasally, wracking tones of Constance Padgett.”

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He turned and picked up a thick manuscript and handed it to her. “Here's the script. We'll begin with the scenes I’ve checked, then we'll look at the dailies and see what we need to fix.” **** Ross observed her as she looked down at the script. The room seemed to scream with the rustle of clothes and the lisping whispers of his staff. He felt like turning and yelling at them to be quiet. Hell, maybe it was him. His nerves were on edge, jumping up and down inside, too damned aware of the dirty trick they were playing on her. He knew if Lorna had any idea of what was in store for her, she'd cut his balls off first and ask questions later. Paying no attention to the movement in the room, Lorna's eyes devoured the cover on the script. “Mine at last,” she murmured as she brought the sheaf of papers to her breast and closed her eyes. “Blazing Dawn.” When she looked back up at Ross, he could see a sheen of unshed tears in her eyes, and felt a deep dread inside him for what he was doing to her— what he had to do to her. It was for her own good, he kept telling himself. Like taking medicine. It won't taste good, but she'll come out well and whole on the other side—at least he hoped she would. “Oh, Ross, I'm so pleased. You won't be sorry. I can act circles around that Constance Padgett. You'll see.” “I know you will,” he said as he stood and crossed over to her. Taking her arm gently, he led her to the door. Knocking on it, he attracted the attention of his secretary who opened the door almost immediately. “Ms. Allred, would you show Ms. Desmond out? She'll be back next week when we begin shooting.” “Yes sir.” Turning to Lorna in a friendly, professional way, she said, “Would you come with me, Ms. Desmond?” The woman reached out to touch her arm and usher her out, but Lorna recoiled. “Peasant,” Lorna muttered, then with a tossed head, a sniff, and an abrupt grab at her cigarette holder, she strode well ahead of the woman until she slammed through the outer office door.

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Ross looked down at his secretary. “Don't let her bother you, Verna. Like so many others, she's got a disease called Hollywood-itis.” The secretary chuckled. “I'm used to it, sir.” Ross turned back to his colleagues, then walked quickly to his desk. “Well, you've met the incomparable Lorna Desmond. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not,” he joked. “Next week you may be cursing me for it.” Leaning back against the shining wood, he looked at each and every one of them while rolling a pen between his palms. “Even though we all know this thing is only temporary, I want your full cooperation in getting things ready. I won't tolerate half measures, sloppy work or complaining. Your star is still Constance Padgett, so do your work as if you're doing it for her.” He looked over the crowd, seeing their skepticism. “You're dismissed.” Ericka stepped out of the crowd that had come to their feet and began shuffling out. “I don't like it, Ross. There's something evil about that woman. She gives me the creeps. I just hope to hell you know what you're doing.” “So do I,” Ross muttered while making a few notes on his copy of the script. Realizing Ericka was waiting for him, he lifted his head and said, “Ericka, could you give me a few minutes?” “Of course,” she said while lifting her arm and glancing at her watch. “But don't forget your next meeting. It starts in five minutes.” “Thanks. I'll be there,” Ross said as if his mind were on something else. As soon as Ericka left, the ambience of the room seemed to change. A heaviness had descended and an almost indiscernible dark, craggy profile slowly etched his face. There was still the commanding presence, the forceful manner, but he was no longer the nice guy everyone knew. His lips twisted up into a cunning smile, his shoulders lifted with an all-consuming purpose, and an evil glimmer danced in his eyes. His dark brows commanded his face, his crisp graying hair fell slightly forward, and you knew simply by looking, that this was a man you didn't cross. Before speaking, he smoothed his tie, burying it inside his jacket and then looked up at the nice little circle of men that came in as soon as the others had left. These men were invaluable. They did jobs for him that no one else could.

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They stood silently against the walls, their legs spaced apart, their hands clasped in front, their eyes glittering with expectation. Each one knew that Ross Hunter was a big man with lots of enemies. He had power. The conglomerate he headed was a multi-million dollar corporation, and someone was always coming along who wanted to topple it. That's why he had built a power structure from within. To protect it. Each rock, each stone, each tiny speck of dirt on the floor was his. It was all his. And he intended to keep it. As Ross stepped from behind his desk, the men's expressive eyes darted to each other, each wondering what the boss was thinking. What little surprise would he pull out of his hat that he needed their help with? It could be anything from a starlet on his couch—to murder. “I had a visitor two nights ago.” He eyed each one of them. “You all know who I'm talking about. The bitch inferred that she knew where Shania was. I'm not sure if she's got her, or if she just knows where she is. I do know one thing,” he said as his gaze continued to dart from one to the other. “If she hurts Shania, I'll kill the bitch with my own hands. At this point she has the absurd idea that she holds all of Monarch Studios in her grasp. I intend to show her she doesn’t.” “Weren't the two of you kind of—cozy at one time?” came a hesitant voice who wished he hadn't asked when he saw the look on Ross' face. “That was a long time ago,” Ross growled, his eyes shooting fire. “Better forgotten, if you know what I mean.” The man did know. They all knew. Ross was saying that he didn't intend to let his auld lang syne relationship get in the way of these men doing their jobs. In Ross' business, there was no room for sentimentality. It was the way things were. No matter the woman, no matter how beautiful, or even what they had meant to each other in the past, if she was in the way, she was dead! “Greg, you and Dave watch her house. The rest of you stay out of sight, but stay in contact in case they need backup. As soon as she leaves go in and search it. If you find Shania bring her to me and I’ll take things from there.”

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“Will anyone else be in the house?” “Only a housekeeper and a chauffer. She’s a lazy bitch that scares easily, so she shouldn’t give you too much trouble. Klaus is a different story. He’s the ridiculous zombie-like chauffer that drives her around. He’s the one who killed Jud, so watch out for him. He’s our biggest threat.” “I thought the police were handling this.” “Up to a point. I gave them the information as soon as Lorna left that night, but you know how cops are. Because I can’t produce any hard evidence they shrugged it off as circumstantial. The most they will do is question her, but it’s been two days and I’m fuckin’ tired of waiting for them to get their asses in gear. Your job is to get Shania out if she’s there…but leave Lorna alone. She’s mine. I want to take that bitch out myself…for lots of reasons.” He paused, letting the explosive words hang in the air until he finally added, “That’s all you need to know.” The men’s eyes darted and their minds raced, but each one knew better than to question him further. They moved to shuffle out, but Ross’s voice stopped them. “One more thing. With the script I gave her, Lorna will have her mind on other things, but I have to warn you, don’t underestimate her. She’s dangerous, too goddamned dangerous for you to get comfortable and let your guard down. I want a report every day. I want to know if she goes out, and where, and I want to know how many fuckin' times she goes to the bathroom. Understood? Remember. If Klaus somehow gets the idea something is going on he’ll blast the hell out of you first, and ask questions later. Be careful to stay out of sight until zero hour—and then go in like gangbusters.” When he saw the men nod, he looked down at his watch and said, “This meeting is over. Now go to work.” Ross silently picked up his briefcase and turned to leave. Walking down the long hall to another meeting, each step echoed on the expensive tile until he came to another door. Just before entering, another transformation took place. Once again he was Ross Hunter, the head of Monarch Studios—the nice guy in the light suit with the squared shoulders—the mogul—the CEO—the machine that had the answer to every question asked. He seemed

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to have become taller, his face handsomely chiseled, and his mouth full and soft once again. The change was indiscernible unless you knew what you were looking for, but no one ever did. No one ever looked close enough to know that Ross Hunter, the head of Monarch Studios had just emerged from a dark and dreadful place where he was—someone else.

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Chapter 9 The ghost floated about the room, a dark silhouette that blocked the glow from the crackling fireplace, then fell away. No, there it was again, moving quickly across the room. Through Lance's sleepy eyes, the fleeting form that seemed to weave and stretch had a pale face, black eyes and a mouth that yawned open. “V’ake up, now, you must v’ake up,” the ghost whispered in clipped tones. Lance tried to keep his heavy lids open, watching as the ghost floated across the room, picked up his red costume, then turned back to him. The indistinct shape came closer and closer, his hulking presence growing as he neared the bed. Lance was about to cry out when the specter whispered in the same clipped accent, “Come! You must get up and go!” It was then that Lance realized his black ghost was none other than the bald-headed, ramrod straight, chauffeur. All at once his cloudy eyes cleared and he sprang forward. “What the hell are you doing in here?” “I have come to set you free!” Not fully awake, Lance only stared. “Please,” Klaus said, grabbing Lance's arm. “V’e must not v’aste time. The mistress...the limousine…It v’ill be here soon. I v’ill tell her you escaped.” “Wait,” Lance barked, jerking his arm out of the man's grip. “Let me get this straight. You want me to leave? You're letting me go? Just like that?” “V’e are v’asting time. The limousine—” Lance frowned. “What the hell is this limousine you keep talking about?”

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“It is the studio's limousine. The mistress is being chauffeured by Monarch's limousine. You must hurry, it v’ill be here soon.” He couldn't believe it. Here it was, the opportunity he'd been waiting for. A clean getaway. No questions asked. No more tricks, or lies. No more pretending he was the Devil. So why did he hesitate? It was her—the witch—the star. He simply couldn't rid himself of the passionate desire to cut her heart out. That lovely vision burned into Lance. It was one he'd been seeing every day he’d been here. Beneath his handsome surface lay a hate as powerful as the sea, and as sharp as the coldest of blades. No, he wasn't about to just get up and leave. He wanted the bitch's blood! He slid his eyes toward Klaus, and a cruel smile played upon his lips as he said, “No thanks.” Klaus's eyes widened. “V’hat? Do you not understand? I am freeing you! You may go—run!” Lance rose from the bed, the sheet wrapped around his hips. “You can tell that she-devil mistress of yours that she won't get rid of me that easily.” “But she doesn't know,” Klaus sputtered. “You mean she has no idea...?” “Please…You must understand. V’hat I do, I do for her good only. She has been put under contract again at Monarch Studios. Many things v’ill change. She v’ill have no need of you.” “No need of me? Are you trying to tell me I'll be in the way?” “Please. I do not mean to be cruel, but frankly, yes. The mistress v’ill have other things on her mind, and since no harm has come to you—” Lance's rage leaped up inside him. “No harm? No friggin' harm?” he yelled. “I was shot up with a drug that kept me out for days. I was abducted, handcuffed to the bed, my wrists practically bleeding. I was molested, dammit, and you say no harm came to me?” He was seething as he said the next words. “I'm not leaving this place until that bitch pays for every last thing she's done to me!” He paced for a minute, his mind working. Finally, he turned back to Klaus. “So she wants me out of the way, huh? Oh, sure, I

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understand. She'll probably be entertaining a lot, and it would be a shame to have guests find out about the Devil she has locked in her tower.” “I see now. It is money you v’ant. I'm sure it can be arranged. How much—” “Forget it!” Lance shouted angrily. “She doesn't have enough!” Red hot coals of anger swirled through him as he anchored his eyes on Klaus. “Don't you see? Money wouldn't begin to cover it. No,” he said vehemently, “what I want is a chunk of her fine white flesh!” A flicker of something danced in Klaus's eyes. “It v’as a mistake. I make her apologies for her. But now you must go before she returns.” “I don't want apologies, I want suffering! Torment!” he shouted. “Can't you see she did this in a moment of v’eakness? The mistress— she has been lonely. You v’ere merely a diversion, a fantasy fulfilled. That is all over now.” “Is that a fact? You mean she abducted me from the Lucifer Club for a simple diversion? A night of sex with an exotic dancer? I heard she did it because the crazy bitch thought I was the friggin' Devil.” “It is the story she tells—her excuse. But v’e all know.” “Well, you have your opinion, and I have mine. As for me, I think the bitch is crazy!” “Think v’hat you v’ant, but please, it must remain a secret. If this v’ere to get out, she v’ould be ruined for all time. I implore you not to hold it against her.” “Not hold it against her? My God, man, she forced me up here into this godforsaken place, had her one night of bliss and now when things are going her way again, she decides to let me go,” he snapped his fingers. “Just like that. I don't think so!” “But you must understand. She v’ill be a star again. She v’as meant for the screen, to be loved and idolized. Now that she has that again, she cannot afford to have a scandal smudge her name.” “Are you kidding? You know as well as I do that Hollywood thrives on scandals!” Lance narrowed his eyes on Klaus, and his sensuous lips twitched in a cruel smile. “But don't worry, I have something else in mind.”

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Klaus paled. “Something else? V’hat? May I ask...?” “You'll find out soon enough, Siegfried, or whatever the hell your name is.” “Klaus, my name...” “Well, Klaus. You tell her for me, that she'll pay for what she's done. And by the time I'm through with her, she'll wish to hell I was the Devil because hell hath no fury like an exotic dancer who gets abducted and crammed into a tower room for no good reason!” A gasp escaped Klaus's throat. “She is not to be harmed. I am her protector. I know it v’as wrong, but it must stay hidden! She must be given this chance.” “It's a lie, don't you see that? Hell, I don't know the reason why they're doing it, but Monarch Studios wouldn't have her back.” “You are wrong!” Klaus bellowed, his eyes burning as he looked at Lance. “They v’ant her, they do! She v’ill be a star again!” All at once his voice became raspy and emotional, and his large hands clenched into fists. “And if you touch her, you v’ill answer to me.” With his eyes boring into Klaus, he said, his voice soft and guttural, “So be it!” The two glared at each other for several seconds, and then as if coming to a decision, Klaus began digging through his pocket. Lance stiffened. He expected to see a gun, or a knife, but instead the chauffeur extracted a key. He looked up at Klaus when he extended it to him. “What's this?” “The key to this room.” His dark eyes suddenly grew darker. “I v’ould advise you to think over v’hat I have said and decide to leave. If so—” Klaus insistently pushed the key toward Lance. “You v’ill need this.” Lance reached out and took it. “Won't they know it's gone?” “I had a copy made. I v’ill expect you to use it—soon.” “And if I don't?” “I v’ill be watching.” “Fine. I hope you enjoy the show, because there's going to be one hell of a performance by yours truly.”

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“I—” “Save your breath, Stuttgart. The damage has been done.” Holding the key up in front of Klaus' face, he continued. “By giving me this key, you've just done your part in—” Just then Klaus reached out to grab the key, but Lance was quicker, jerking it back out of his reach. “As I was saying, you've just done your part in ensuring that our—and I use the word loosely—star pays her dues.” Klaus bristled with anger. “I make a mistake. I thought you v’anted to leave. I see I v’as wrong. Instead you v’ant to hurt the mistress.” “Yeah, I wonder why? I'm a cad, ain't I?” he said sarcastically. “Now I see the kind of man you are.” “I'm no different from you, or millions of others,” he said, clenching his teeth in anger. “I want that bitch to pay. Can I help it if the price is high?” “Clever—you are so clever. V’ell, I can toss around a few threats of my own.” His pale face became darkened with anger, and his voice deep and guttural. “If you hurt her, I v’ill kill you. Do you hear? Do you understand? Does the smart man understand plain English?” “You never spoke of word of plain English in your life, but you can bet I understand, Adolph. You were right on when you called me smart, because I've got you all figured out.” He looked back down at the key and again held it up toward Klaus. “You knew what I had in mind before you gave me this key.” His laugh was evil. “Could it be that you're doing a bit of acting yourself? No, Klaus, I don't think you really want it back. You gave it to me because you knew just what I’d do with it. I know you'd never admit it, but maybe somewhere way back in the deep dungeon of your mind, you want her to pay.” He could tell by the look on Klaus's face he had scored a home run, so he urged himself closer. “What is it you want her to pay for, Klaus? For not loving you? For using you? For ruining you for any other woman? Just think. If it hadn't been for Lorna, maybe today you would have had a family. You know, a wife, children? Just think, because of her you've spent your whole fuckin' life being a...What? A lackey? A paid escort? A paid lover? A

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lap-dog? A fool? No, you can't bring yourself to hurt her, but maybe you think…no, maybe you’re hoping I will.” “Ridiculous! I v’ill vaste no more time v’ith you.” “Sure,” Lance said, “I'll do your dirty work for you, but you've got to do something for me.” Klaus stood silent for a moment, then his speech became hesitant and disjointed. “N-No...I...I am not part of this.” “All I want you to do is keep an eye on the girl. She's a victim of that bitch as well. Don't let her get hurt. Keep her out of harm's way.” Just then a loud sound echoed up the twisted stairway from the front door. Klaus pushed his way past Lance and looked out the window. “She is here. It is Monarch's limousine out in front.” He turned and strode quickly toward the door, hesitating as he touched the knob. “I v’ill do as you asked—about the girl, I mean.” He turned his head and looked over his shoulder at Lance. The eyes of the two men met and fused for just a moment, then Klaus turned slowly toward Lance. “You must understand that I had to say the things I did. It v’as my fault I let her get under my skin, but I do not know how to bring it to an end. I've done many things for her— things I knew v’ere not right like the night I abducted you. But murder—” “Murder?” Lance gasped. “My God, you—” “You do not need to know.” “Hell, man, you've all but confessed!” “All right,” Klaus said, his voice breaking with the admission. “Yes, I...murdered someone for her.” He hesitated, then lowered his eyes, the memory of it haunting him. “It v’as then that I knew I had to get away. Something is wrong with her, and each day it seems to get v’orse. I do not know how to help her. Maybe—” His eyes lifted and looked at Lance, his voice fading into a low whisper. “Maybe this is the way.” “Why do you stay? Why don't you just pack your bags and go?” “Don't you see? I am a prisoner myself. She v’ould never release me.” “I don't understand. You're not locked up. You're free to come and go as you please.”

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“I think they call those like myself psychological prisoners.” His eyes lowered in shame. “I don't suppose you understand, but that is her sin, you see. Gathering those around her who worship her. She fills a need...Becomes an obsession to them.” “Dagmar worships her?” “She did at one time, and quite possibly she still does. At the very least Dagmar has become so dependent on her she v’ould die without her.” “Yes, I suppose she would. Dagmar told me a little of her story once, but she never mentioned how the two of them met.” “It was v’ile Madam was in the height of her career. She v’as on a personal appearance tour and late one night v’en leaving the theater she saw Dagmar begging pennies on the street. She stood basking in Dagmar's praise of her beauty and talent, and before her tour v’as over, she brought her home. For a long time Dagmar filled the need Madam had, but over the years the praise has slowly died, and now Dagmar is nothing more than baggage who has attached herself to Madam. I somehow feel the same. Rather than try to escape the glittering spider v’eb both of us have found ourselves caught in, v’e have chosen to stay—hanging tight to a brightly glittering star that has long since burned out.” Something about the story sounded familiar, and on a hunch, he asked, “The movie that was playing at the theater during that tour—was there a woman in the cast with the name, Dagmar?” “No, but the character Madam played v’as named Dagmar.” His eyes clouded as he looked back into the past. “Yes, she v’as so beautiful in that movie. Clothed in ermine furs, satin evening gowns...God, she v’as fabulous as Dagmar de Loraine.” He looked back at Lance. “It v’as the movie that made her. From there she sailed steadily upward into the stratosphere of superstardom.” “Well, I'll be damned,” Lance muttered to himself. So Lorna was the unbelievably beautiful woman Dagmar had seen on that billboard. Well, why not? If she can't be Lorna Desmond, she can at least take the name of one of the characters she played. No wonder the poor soul was still here. A long time ago Lorna had become not only an obsession, but an icon to

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Dagmar. She was one of the weak ones, just like...He turned and looked at Klaus, and asked, “Are there others?” “None that are still alive.” “You mean she...?” “No, nothing like that. I simply mean some have died of old age, others came to their senses and left a long time ago. It is only the weak ones...Of course there are those she sought out for such a purpose. Like Ross Hunter. Even v’hen she knew she v’as becoming too old to play the roll of the heroine upon the screen, she still never thought she v’ould have to step down. Their affair had been going on many years, and she mistakenly thought she had him tied to her with sex, but he v’as too strong to fall under her spell. He had everything—didn't need her. By this time she had lost so many that the shock of losing both the spotlight and Ross Hunter seems to have unbalanced her.” Klaus looked at Lance pleadingly. “She doesn't mean...If only she stopped to realize...” “Give it a rest, Klaus, we all know she's damned crazy!” “You must remember. She v’as a superstar. Used to having everything her own v’ay. She never even thought anyone v’ould say no to her. I don't think she's calculating enough—” “Don't bet money on it.” Lance growled. “She knows what she's doing.” “All she v’ants is to have people around her who remember her.” “Don't make excuses for her, Klaus. Don't you see that's why you're still here? Both you and Dagmar should have been out of this mausoleum a long time ago. Instead you listened to her put you down, make you feel like misfits, that the world out there wouldn't accept you.” He looked closely at Klaus for a reaction. “Hell, man, can't you see it? It's plain to me! The truth is, she's got her claws into you so deep, it hurts to pull yourself free.” Klaus jerked his head up, the look on his face telling Lance he had hit a nerve. With that he turned quickly and opened the door where he paused a moment. “V’e understand each other?” Lance stared at Klaus, his eyes glowing in the gloom. “We understand each other.”

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After Klaus had left, Lance looked down at the key, turning it in his hand as if he'd never seen one. Then his eyes shifted to the sheet wrapped around his hips. He had no clothes with him except his Devil costume that was now lying on the bed. He glanced over at it, remembering the night he was abducted. And she thought I was the Devil! he mused. No way in hell! The only devil I know of is a friggin’ woman by the name of Lorna Desmond!

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Chapter 10 She felt them—the touch of many tiny kisses. The strange lips, the muttered words of praise from her fans. It was all so familiar. In the back of her mind, she could hear the shouts of adulation. Colorful images floated across the blank screen of her mind, making her eyelashes flutter. And then she was pulled away, floating in some netherworld for a brief second before finding herself standing before an old cinema building, the marquee boldly announcing the name of her movie, Until Forever. She looked around at the crowds of screaming fans held back by a red velvet rope. Rows of cars stretched into the darkness, each one inching to a stop beneath the shimmering lights where the red carpet ended. She watched the beautiful people emerge, waving at the fans, then walking toward the entrance where eager hands and smiling faces were there to receive them. They were faces she'd seen before, people she'd known, people who were now dead. And then a limousine she recognized pulled up. The chauffeur emerged from the car and came around to open the door. When she saw him, she gasped. He was nothing more than a shadowed being, and when he passed in front of the headlights they pierced his insubstantial body. She watched as he made his way to the side door and opened it. In only seconds, someone emerged—a woman with wild hair. All at once the woman turned and looked at her as if she knew she was there. Lorna pressed her hands to her cheeks, her mouth falling open in shock. She was a walking corpse—her face skeletal, her eyes deep pools of darkness. Her sparkling dress was draping over a skeletal shape, the low cut gown with spaghetti straps revealing a caved in chest. Lorna somehow knew that the woman was her— as she might someday appear—in her coffin.

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All at once, everything changed and they were all ghosts, each one in different stages of decay. They turned to look at her with dark, unseeing eyes, their clothes torn and hanging from their bodies, patches of hair growing from skulls, and shadowed skin. Each one seemed to float, as light as the breeze that rides the night air. She began backing up, but they seemed to close around her. She turned, bumping into them as she tried to find a way out, but they continued to crowd around her, forcing her to look at them—one dead face after another looming up before her. “Let me go!” she screamed. “Get out of my way!” As they pressed around her, she could smell the decay of each dead body as she pushed past them. Suddenly she was surrounded by the night, the lights gone, the old theater dark, the crowded, busy streets of only a moment ago, vacant. She looked up into the overhang to see broken light bulbs, one blinking as it sizzled and sputtered. There were dancing cobwebs stretching from one corner to another, posters tattered and torn, pieces hanging from the building and moving slightly in the night air. Looking around, she saw broken asphalt, crumbling curbs, words spread out on the marquee with letters missing, some leaning at a precarious angle. Above the marquee was a vertical sign that told her the theater was called Images. She recognized it immediately as a theater on one of her personal appearance tours. Today, it was stuck somewhere in her past. Like her it was old, inhabited by ghosts, and she was one of them. A loud sound startled her, and she lunged forward. Looking around, she saw darkness, then realized she had her night mask on and began scratching at her face to remove it. Her eyes were wide when she tore it off and saw her own room. In a flash, she realized she'd been dreaming. “Thank God,” she muttered, then wilted with relief while feeling around on her face to assure herself of her soft flesh. When the whirling darkness of the dream tried to intrude on her waking hours, she pushed the horrible picture from her mind, trying to forget that it hadn't been a dream. No, it was a nightmare! A big, ugly, horrible nightmare! And then she heard it again. It was a knock on her door. No, not a knock. Someone was banging!

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“Come in!” she called impatiently. When no one responded, she pulled back the covers and hurried to the door and swung it open. No one was there. She stepped out into the hall and took a step forward, her thin gown clinging to her every curve, outlining her taut nipples and revealing every shadow and valley of her body. Suddenly, a pain stabbed her head and she reached up and rubbed her forehead. My God, what is happening to me, she asked herself when she realized the banging she'd heard was the crashing thunder of a stormy day. **** For the next few days, Lorna buried herself in her manuscript learning every word of dialogue, stage direction, and movement she had to make to bring the part to life. She would stroll through the house with the train of her dressing gown trailing behind quoting the lines with her heavily ringed hands flailing about dramatically. The smoke from her slim black cigarette holder floated erratically as her hand moved through the air. “Mmmm, yes, very good if I do say so myself,” she muttered, sitting herself on the arm of the couch. Bringing the holder up to her mouth, she clenched the slim tip with her teeth while she turned page after page, going to her next round of dialogue. Finding the page, she poured over it for a moment, then looked up as if looking at some invisible being in the room. Suddenly, she rose from the arm of the couch and strode toward him in a laughably dramatic demeanor, and in a deep, melodramatic voice said, “You come and go at all hours of the night. Don't lie to me, Jonathan. I strongly suspect you've been seeing someone behind my back.” “Don't be ridiculous, Charlotte,” the imaginary character said while leaning over and grinding out his cigarette in an ashtray. “It's my work; you know that.” “You pig!” she snapped, raising an imaginary gun and aiming it at his heart. “Do you—” She hesitated. “Damn! I can never remember that line.”

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Frowning, she thought for a moment, then brought the manuscript up and scanned the words for her place. From her peripheral vision, she noticed someone in the doorway, watching her. Lifting her head up sharply, she saw Dagmar leaning against the door frame, laughing. “What, may I ask, do you find so funny?” “It's you—traipsin' all aroun' this room like you is talkin' to somebody when they ain't nobody there.” “I'm rehearsing my role.” “I knows whatcha doin'. I jus' says it looks funny, thas all.” “What do you want? Can't you see how busy I am?” Just then the telephone gave a shrill ring, and both women looked toward it. Dagmar was making her way toward it when Lorna said, “No! No, I'll get it. It might be the studio.” Dropping the script, she hurried toward it, then suddenly stopped and looked at Dagmar. “What if it's Ross?” she whispered, her beringed fingers trembling as they pressed against her soft, powdered cheek. “What will I say to him?” She looked beseechingly at Dagmar. “He said he would call...He said—” “Oh, for God's sake,” Dagmar mumbled, then pushed her way past Lorna and grabbed for the phone. “Good morning, Desmond residence.” The gentle voice of Ross' secretary spoke softly. “Monarch Studios calling for Ms. Lorna Desmond, please.” “I'll see if she's available,” Dagmar said while sliding her eyes toward Lorna. “It's the studio. You here, or what?” Lorna's nervous look suddenly turned to a frown. “The studio? You mean, Ross, don't you?” “No ma'am. It's a woman. I think it might be his secretary.” “What?” Lorna bellowed, then grabbed the phone. “Yes, this is Lorna Desmond, who is this?” “Yes, Ms. Desmond, this is Verna Allred, Mr. Hunter’s secretary. He wanted me to—” “What? Why didn't he call himself?” “Well, Ms. Desmond, he's busy getting things ready for your arrival. He had me call you to tell—” The secretary, knowing Lorna Desmond's history,

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changed her words. “Uh, ask if it would be convenient for you to come in tomorrow morning. The shooting of the first scene will be around eleven.” “Eleven?” Lorna repeated, perplexed. She wondered if she'd heard her correctly. She remembered when she had to be there long before the sun came up, and all the long hours she spent in make-up and wardrobe, only to wait around the set before they could shoot even one scene. “I don't understand, why so late?” “Oh. I'm sorry, I thought you knew. No, he asks that you get here at eight so they can be prepared to shoot at eleven. You're to go directly to Wardrobe, then Make-up, and then by the time you're ready, the shooting will start. Is that convenient?” “Uh...yes, I suppose,” Lorna said, still feeling the hour was a trifle late. Something wasn't right, she thought, but didn't question the secretary any further. She'd never heard of any picture studio losing precious hours of shooting time. She just wished Ross had called her. He could explain it, she was sure. Just then she lifted her gaze, and saw something that made a chill dance up her spine. “What's wrong?” Dagmar asked, seeing her quickly push aside the drapes. “It’s a car,” Lorna replied. “A car?” Dagmar said and strode to the window and looked out. “I wonder how long it’s been there?” “A couple of days at least,” Dagmar said. “What?” Lorna bellowed, her voice becoming shrill. “You pathetic old dishrag! Why didn’t you tell me?” Dagmar shrugged. “It ain’t doin’ nothin’—jus’ sittin’ there.” “Don’t you understand what this means? Ross has got his goons watching the house!” Lorna began to pace while wringing her hands. “I remember it so well. He used to tell me about his…he called them torpedoes. He refused to call himself a gangster, but he had all the earmarks—played by their rules.” She turned and looked back at the window. “And now he’s turned them on me!”

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Pressing her forehead, she felt the shooting pain, and turned to Dagmar. “Oh, God, the pain is back. Quick. Get me some aspirin. No. Valium. No…” She didn’t know what she was saying. She felt mixed up…confused. “Shania has to be moved. Take care of it, and hurry.” “Moved? Where?” “The basement. Only for a little while. Now, get moving!” “Look, what the hell do you want? Pills or what? I can only do one thing at a time.” “I’ll get the pills,” she spat, frowning with the pain. “You just take care of Shania.” In another part of the house A slim bone of light stretched from the door of the library to the middle of the floor, giving Shania a chill as she quietly entered the room. The different lengths of shadows hung, leaned, and pooled as she walked deeper into the area, her nose twitching at the musty smells she dared not identify. She looked around for a moment before her darting eyes finally lowered to a drawer in an end table. Moving stealthily, she crept across the room and opened it. She didn't know what she expected, but certainly not a collection of sex toys, a tube of lubricant, and an empty canister of pills. She picked the pill bottle up and looked at the prescription label. Halcion. My God, who was taking Halcion? She didn't know a lot about it—only that she’d heard it was dangerous. She lifted her eyes and looked around the room. On a wet bar, she saw an uncapped bottle of wine—almost full, a distant light causing a slight shimmer of deep red that somehow seemed extremely sensual. Beside it was a glass and another canister of pills lying on its side, the white tablets spilled out. Apparently someone was taking pills, and a lot of them. Lorna had been complaining of headaches of late. Was she an addict, or simply trying to deal with stress? Her eyes shifted toward the books that crammed the shelves of the library. Through the dim shadows, she examined the titles of the books, then

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moved across the room and ran her fingers along cracked spines. Reincarnation books, ghost stories, worn paperbacks of romance novels— her hands quickly stopped. She'd always had a weakness, and reached for one with a name she recognized—Jackie Rose. She pulled it out and saw the title. Warrior's Captive. Her fingers tingled. She wanted to take it so badly, but...No, she shouldn't. They weren't good for her, at least she seemed to remember someone telling her that. Forcing her eyes away, she saw books that dealt with mysteries, dreams, witches, moon magick, a book of spells—it went on and on. It wasn't that she felt no curiosity about these things, it was exactly the opposite. Something inside her made her want to gobble them up with one bite, but somewhere in her mind she saw a different library, a library that was filled with leather bound books written by the old masters. Books on archaeology, marine life, and...What was it? Plants! Plants of all kinds. Yes, now that she thought of it, she seemed to remember pictures on the walls of exotic plant life—gardens that stretched for miles. But no feminine touches such as fashion magazines, inside plants, or pantyhose hanging in the bathroom. Everything seemed so pristine. Nothing out of place. She frowned, a picture forming in her mind. It was more books—the mechanics of moviemaking, a biography of stars, both current and those of old. She concentrated, seeing everything in a light color, and something that glittered when light fell on it. What was it? Something silver? Chrome? Yes, chrome! Everything seemed so cold, so formal. With the pictures vivid in her mind, she looked around, seeing the contrast between the two rooms, and knew that compared to that, this was a...Yes, a trash library that had nothing educational in it, nothing to broaden the mind. As she moved along the shelves, she saw books on arousal, sexual positions, the art of caress to bring on stimulation, even the sexual practices of those born in royalty right down to the criminal mind. Plainly, it was a library that appealed to the senses. Slowly, Shania began getting an accurate picture of the old diva. She took pills to get through her day, took pills to sleep, and with alcohol it seemed, which was a dangerous combination. She liked books that stirred the senses. With a guilty feeling, and a glance back toward the romance

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novels, Shania knew she wasn't adverse to it herself. But still she seemed to remember someone constantly harping at her on the value of education, who had filled a library with all the resources she would need. In her mind's eye, she saw a Thesaurus...A tilted table only big enough for the display of a large dictionary, a shelf full of encyclopedias, information on everything from a to z. But who lived in that house? Who was the shadowy being who haunted her dreams, the voice in the distance that called to her? She couldn't help but feel revulsion for her surroundings, knowing that the woman who had locked her in her room had nothing in common with wherever she came from. But how could she actually know that since she couldn't even remember who she was? Without thinking about it very long, she knew the answer. It was because some things just naturally fell into place. She might not know where she belonged, where she came from, or who she was, but knew she must have come from someone who had raised her to have good taste. That would mean...What? Money? The library she saw in her memory certainly wasn't shabby, and for her to remember it must mean it played a very important role in her life. It’s here…somewhere in this city, but why couldn’t she put a face or a name with it? Sliding her eyes back toward the worn paperbacks, she wondered if the lessons taught to her had done any good as she reached out and removed the novel that had caught her eye. And then the truth emerged. Good taste is fine, she thought, helping her to resist much of what the kinky library offered, but when confronted with what she knew would be a hot romance novel by a great erotica writer like Jackie Rose, good taste be damned! And men...She knew she liked them. The dark, sexy man on the front cover made her think about Lance and the night they had together in the old tower room. She was forced into the room, true, but she was glad. She remembered touching him—his muscled body, his magnificent legs, his swarthy skin, his...Just then a line in the book caught her eye and Shania gasped. Flipping through the pages of the book, she read some of the words, her eyes anchoring on the explicit phrases, each word causing her good girl image to give way to the bad girl inside her. Finally, she clutched the book to her breast and closed her eyes, imagining her night with Lance. She lifted

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her eyes toward the tower and became uncomfortably warm when she remembered his repeated thrusts inside her, and what it did to her. She tried to picture the hero of the novel, his body, his eyes, his hair, but...Oh, God, she couldn't see anyone but him, no one's eyes but his. Electric blue, they were—glowing in the dark almost as if they had a light behind them. And when she felt the heat that radiated from them, she could feel herself melting. She wanted to go to him, to be with him again, but she couldn't let herself become just another conquest, a woman whose name he couldn't even remember. She wanted to be special. When he became hungry, he didn't want her. Any woman would do. He proved that when the very next night he'd slept with Lorna. Why did it matter to her? Had she been raised to be a good girl? To believe one man, one woman forever? She didn't know. She only knew that when she'd learned about Lorna, she saw him as a male stud making countless women happy. She didn't understand her feelings, but she couldn't help it. Maybe she'd taken their lovemaking too seriously. Maybe it hadn't meant as much to him as it had to her. Somewhere, someone had taught her to be a good girl. And a good girl she'd have to be! Her eyes slid over to the panel she’d come in through. Since the first time she’d gone exploring inside the walls, she’d found other crawl spaces, narrow corridors that wound around, taking her to almost anyplace in the house she wanted to go. She was no longer a prisoner, at least not in the accepted sense. Her intuition and determination had taken care of that. Now if she could only free her mind. It’s why she roamed the house—trying to remember, trying to give her mind the nudge it needed, and it seemed to be working. Looking around the library had shown her that. Otherwise, how had she remembered another library—somewhere? All at once the floor creaked, as if the house were settling. No, it wasn’t that, Shania thought as she ran to hide inside the narrow opening she had climbed through. No, it was footsteps, someone’s weight causing the boards to moan with stress as they walked across them. She just had time to close the panel, disappearing into the wall.

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Lorna’s shadow interrupted the bone of light that still lay across the floor. With a quick push of her hand, she pushed on the door and the light widened. Her silhouette moved into the room, and then stopped suddenly, looking around as if she could sense a presence. When she saw no one, she flipped on the lights, her attention being taken by an icy buzz overhead. The light that had poured over her only seconds before, now left craters of shadows, carving out a sinister look on her face. Her eyes narrowed while critically examining a dark section where the indirect lighting had apparently burned out. Shadows seemed to ooze from the corners. Making a mental note to have the light taken care of, she saw the open canister of pills and lunged for them. Pouring several out into her hand, she lifted them to her mouth and grasped almost desperately for the wine. Closing her eyes she waited impatiently for them to take effect. At last opening her eyes, she looked around. Noticing no changes in the room, she turned to leave. Just before passing through the door, her eyes fell on the gaping hole left by a missing romance novel. Someone had been in here, she knew it! Who could have taken it? There was only her and Dagmar, and of course, Klaus, but neither of them would have taken it. She looked around, thinking it might have fallen out, or had been pulled off the shelf and not replaced. She looked around, expecting to see it lying on the couch, or on a table. But it wasn’t there. Someone had been in here. Her eyes looked upward at the tower rooms. It must have been one of them. No, not the girl, she wouldn’t have the sense to— A romance novel. Of course! It must have been her. Apparently the girl was smarter than Lorna had given her credit for. Somehow she’d found her way out... Suddenly, Lorna felt foolish. Her imagination running wild. Dagmar must have taken the novel to her. Of course! She was bored, asking for something to read. It was innocent, all of it! Or was it?

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Just then she heard the scraping of a footstep, and her eyes quickly darted toward the wall from where it came. A chill danced up her spine. Some very strange things had been going on in this house lately, and she looked down at the canister of pills in her hand. The pills were strong, were they causing her to imagine things? It didn’t matter. She needed them, and the wine. Shifting her eyes, she saw its deep sultry color. The red sparkle, the sensuous shape of the bottle neck—like a—my God, it was turning in to a— She gasped at the sensuous throb she saw. It was alive! She suddenly had the urge to ram it up inside her! And then it seemed to be calling to her. Walking toward the wet bar she reached out and grabbed it to take back with her. She felt a slight dizziness and smiled. She knew the pills were at last taking affect. Closing her eyes, she enjoyed the relief she felt—relief from these damnable headaches! She knew what it was; it was stress. She was nervous. Her! A star! She could already feel the hot lights, the director’s voice as he spoke from beyond those lights, lights that blinded her, lights that revealed every little thing. Could she do it? She’d been away too long. Maybe she’d ask Ross for a few more days, days she needed to get herself together. Better still, maybe she should just take the girl to Ross with her apologies. No, she couldn’t. A murder had been committed to get this part, threats made. She couldn’t back down now. It would humiliate her! Suddenly she felt a wave of euphoria, and a slow smile stretched her mouth, her lids becoming slumberous. She thought of Lance, and looked upward at the tower room. Had she no pride? Would she go to him, even though he had humiliated her? He’d made it clear that he’d rather have Shania. Beautiful, yes, but an inexperienced little school girl—a baby! Slamming the pills and the wine down, she strode toward the door on her way to the stairs where she looked up into the darkness of the tower. From where she stood, the shadows looked deep with mystery, and she pictured him among them, lying on the bed with a thin sheet covering him, his cock stiff and waiting. She needed what he could give her. Maybe while lying in his arms she could believe she was still a star in the cinema heaven!

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**** She entered the tower room hesitantly, her eyes finding his among the mysterious shadows where he lay. Their electric blue color blazed, but he said nothing. The moment the door closed a spear of erotic electricity danced between them, and Lorna could feel a surge of untamed desire fill her, and almost moaned. No words were necessary. They both knew why she was there. She could feel the rake of his gaze as it roamed over her, and sparks flew. Her eyes lowered to the bulge beneath the thin sheet, and saw him hard and full of lust. As if that sight were her cue, she walked to the bed, and without a word, gently lowered her robe. “Bitch,” he whispered as he reached out and jerked her to him. The minute she fell to the bed he mounted her like a hungry bear, the sheet pulled from around his hips, his cock hard as stone and ready to enter. She lay in a white Halcion haze while Lance devoured her breasts with tongue and teeth. The loose thrust of his hips brought lush shivers of delight coursing through her. In answer to his movements, her hips thrust forward wantonly, her nails digging into his back, causing a series of burning red scars to trail across his swarthy skin. She could feel herself hovering on the edge of fierce delight, her husky, “Oh, yes!” filtering into the dark hall and down the steps. She wanted it to go on forever, this lusty haze that could only be had with a bottle of white pills and a man! The bed bumped while the two bodies tumbled and rolled. As the sensation lifted her ever upward, she raised her knees higher and higher, then gasped at the hellish feeling that caused her inhibitions to melt into the fire that raged inside her body. “Don’t stop!” she begged Lance. “Harder! God, harder! Harder!” **** Lance’s harsh, aggressive movements made sweat creep down his face, but still he couldn’t seem to satisfy her. And then, as a last resort, he uttered a string of obscenities that he knew would trigger a wildness inside her. She

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bucked, groaned, and clenched him tight until, finally, he heard the breath catch in her throat, and her cunt pulse hellishly around him. He dared not stop, but continued to plunge into her, urging her to come over and over again, each new climax taking her higher and higher. She was wild, uninhibited, a red hot cauldron of passion. He savored the throbbing of her cunt as it caressed his hard, sensitive cock like invisible fingers, a licking tongue, the hungry lips of a drawing, suckling whore. Yes, it was a living thing that surrounded his massive, pulsing rod—a blanket of velvety darkness squeezing him tight, pushing, pulling over and over until he at last exploded, his hot liquid flooding her. His orgasm was hot, fierce and brutal, draining him of every bit of strength he had left. Forcing himself to move, he rolled away from her, his breath ragged and heavy, his magnificent body gleaming with a sheen of sweat. Only a few minutes had passed before Lorna opened the door softly and slipped out and went to her room. The rest of Lorna’s night was spent reaching for a dream, running from a nightmare, until the dawn came and she had to face the spotlight—and what it might reveal! **** The light was low. An intimate feeling surrounded Shania as she read page after steamy page of her novel. While dreamily caught up in the adventures of the hero and heroine, a sudden noise lifted her gaze. It was just outside her door—footsteps—a key gently scraping the lock—the knob turning slowly—the squeak of her door. She slowly put the book aside and sat forward, her breath caught in her throat—and then a new fear crept inside her. There stood Dagmar carrying a rope, a knife—and a determined look on her face.

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Chapter 11 Ice cubes crackled, the sharp, brittle sound piercing the early morning silence of the room. A series of subdued clicks passed the seconds away. Was it only seconds? It seemed like hours. And then at last the Ding! of the timer went off. With a surprising swiftness, Lorna lifted her face out of a basin full of ice cubes. After quickly reaching for a towel and drying herself off, she looked into the mirror and saw tight skin, glittering midnight eyes and a pink mouth she pushed into a pout. Lifting a hand, she patted the soft skin beneath her chin. It seemed tight and cold. Going about her usual routine, she shuffled about and put the timer away until the next morning when she would go through it all again. She pulled the black silk wrapper from around her naked body and let it drop in a silken pool on the floor, then unwrapped the pristine white terry cloth turban from around her hair. She then stepped into her bedroom to begin dressing and applying her make-up. She luxuriated in the feel of her French silk underwear as she flung open the doors to her large, walk-in closet. She stepped in and ran a hand along her outfits until she came to her favorite English Grey suit, accented with burgundy silk. She pulled it out carefully, her hand caressing the rich material. There was only one thing she loved better than silk, and that was satin. She kept her bed swathed in the sensual material. The way it felt against her skin made her feel young, desirable and sexy! A smile tugged at her bold red lips. She had awakened this morning completely satisfied and calm. The pills had worked—and so had Lance.

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She took a chance going to him, thinking she might come out feeling less like a star, and more like a trollop, but he'd been magnificent. He was a devil all right, a beautiful devil that she used to her satisfaction, just like a sex toy. Yes, that's what he was, a sex toy, a beautiful sex toy. She was frenzied last night, she knew, but she was desperate to get through the first day on the set. Well, it had all been taken care of. She was on her way. And once she was back up there in the spotlight, she would soar! A knock sounded just as she was putting on the finishing touches. The quick clasp of her earrings, the smoothing down of a wisp of hair, a smudge of lipstick wiped off her teeth, and it was done. She stood back then, and looked at herself. She liked what she saw. “Come in!” she called out with a smug look on her face. The door opened and Dagmar leaned against the door frame, eating a wedge of toast. “Limousine's here.” Lorna slid her slumberous eyes from the reflection in the mirror to Dagmar. “Well, what do you think? Do I look like Lorna Desmond?” “Which Lorna Desmond you talkin' 'bout? The Lorna Desmond that once graced the silver screen, or the one that keeps innocent people locked up?” Lorna's eyes clouded over with anger. “You are not going to ruin my day,” she hissed. “I'm going back up on that screen, and when I do, my fans will idolize me again!” “Yeah, I guess they gonna have to dust off your star in front of that, uh, whatcha call it, Chinese Theater.” “That's Mann's Chinese Theater to those less informed,” Lorna said, placing her hat on her head at just the right angle. “Yes, perhaps they'll dust it off. Or—” she slid her arrogant eyes back toward Dagmar. “Perhaps they'll put another there for the return of the magnificently talented Lorna Desmond.” “Yeah, and maybe they'll remake The Wizard of Oz and cast you as Dorothy!” Dagmar's raspy laugh came out sounding like a rusty bed spring. Lorna growled, then grabbed at her outdated feather boa and draped it around her arms. “I'm surrounded by those jealous of my talent.” With her

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matching purse and gloves clutched tightly in her hands, she lifted her chin and looked down her nose at herself in the mirror. “Well, let them suffer. I'll show them. I'll show them all!” With that she pushed past Dagmar and ducked out of the room, the irritating sound of laughter trailing after her. “Bitch!” she mumbled as she made a swift turn and headed for the stairs. Stepping lightly down each step, she suddenly came to a stop. Without turning around, she asked, “Did you take care of Shania like I told you to?” “Yesum, sho’ did.” Lorna’s smile returned, and she looked back at Dagmar. “I want dinner early tonight. I feel like celebrating!” Dagmar followed her into the parlor and leaned against the wall with her arms folded in front of her. “Fine, jus' don't go snatchin' some other poor sucker. We’s runnin' out of room.” “Don't give me orders, you—” She looked back at Dagmar, seeing the tattered dress, dirty apron, and baggy hose. “You pig!” With that she grabbed the well-used manuscript, stalked to the door, pulled it toward her forcefully then hurried out, not caring as it slammed against the wall with a shudder. Dagmar threw her head back and laughed even harder. The irreverent, raucous laughter followed Lorna all the way to the limousine. The stabbing sound pierced her head, causing a pain to cut deep into her psyche. She pressed her fingers on her forehead, becoming disoriented. She stumbled, but quickly caught herself and lunged past the chauffeur to plunge into the welcome darkness of the automobile. She leaned her head back on the soft leather of the upholstery, her eyes closed. What was she doing? What made her think she could just waltz into the studio and take up where she'd left off? She glanced down at the script. Did she know her lines? She couldn't remember a one, and the thought terrified her. Surely they'd make allowances for a star! No. No, I'm fooling myself, she thought. There was no one at the studio who would remember her—only Ross. She realized for the first time how protected she'd been in the past, how much she depended on her status as a star. In those days her sins must have

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been many, but she was forgiven because of who she was. And now, who would forgive her? No one. Now they expected her to act like the star she'd kept telling everyone she was. No, she wasn't prepared, and nothing could ever make her prepared. No pills, sex, nothing! This—this can't be happening to me! she thought, I'm Lorna Desmond, a superstar! They have to recognize a star! They must! It's in the rules somewhere, isn't it? She quickly began scrambling for her compact mirror and thrust it upward and looked at herself. The moment she saw her own image, she felt an instant calm. At least I have my beauty! She thought as she began fingering her hair. Then she looked down at herself—at her Dior outfit, her Fendi accessories, and knew she'd survive. She must! She'd done it once, she could do it again. Like the gentle, demure Blanche DuBois, she would “depend upon the kindness of strangers.” Maybe there would be no red carpets, no fanfare, no adoration from her fans, but she'd endure. She must! She— Suddenly, she saw the large façade of the studio looming up in the distance and knew it was a lie, all of it—nothing but a lie! Her breath began shuddering in her lungs, the prickly little fear still there. She felt so alone, so vulnerable. Her breath became short, and as always, she looked forward, expecting to see Klaus, but a stranger sat at the wheel. Klaus wasn't there to hold onto, to tell her lies, to stroke her ego. No one was there. No one! **** Kell frowned down at his watch. Lorna's 'getting into character' had taken a lot longer than he'd anticipated. Her trips to the bathroom interrupted shooting, the length of each visit taking longer than the film itself. He'd sent numerous gofers to knock on the bathroom door, but it did no good. Finally, Debra Songville, one of the extras, came running out of the shadowy hall where the bathrooms were, her face pale and frightened. “She's throwing up!” “My God, is she sick?” “She isn't sick, she's terrified!”

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At the news, Kell wiped his hand down his face and turned his eyes upward as he counted to ten. Then he calmly turned to Debra. “You must be wrong. She's an experienced actress for God's sake!” “All right.” Debra turned and pointed back towards the ladies room, “You go in there and tell me what that retching is all about!” Kell raked his fingers through his hair knowing if he ever got through this day it would be a miracle. Finally, he looked up and saw Lorna coming toward him. She was ridiculously clad in a hoop skirt and, of all things, bloomers! Kell groaned. The woman looked like she belonged in a horror movie playing a demented southern belle. She made him think of Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? Her character was bizarre, but at least that was fiction. God, this was real! Putting a look on his face that told her he was delighted to be working with her, he reached out his hand and led her onto the set. “I hope you're feeling all right, Darling,” he said, trying to keep his voice from sounding sarcastic. “Need a break? If you're not well, we can do this another day.” God, the lies he was telling! He was a better actor than anyone on this set! Lorna smiled, his warm manner calming her. “You're very kind, Kell, but I'm ready now.” “Fine, dear. Take your place, please.” They shot scene after scene until at last, the day was over. At her objection, Ross had said he didn't want to overtire her, and ordered an immediate development of the film. Usually it was the next day before the dailies were viewed, but everyone seemed anxious to see what they would reveal, so Lorna had taken time only to change out of her costume before she settled down to wait. The minutes seemed to stretch, and she continuously looked down at her watch. What was taking so long? She paced back and forth, anxious, yet dreading the final hour that she would sit in that dark room and see her image upon the screen again. Of course there would be some changes—it had been years, after all. But nothing of consequence she was sure. And then suddenly she heard Ross walk up. She

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whirled around, knowing what his visit meant. He was here to tell her that the dailies had been loaded and he was ready to escort her to the film room. As they walked together, his hand pressed warmly against the small of her back. She dared to believe he was being familiar. Possibly, he'd already seen the dailies, and had fallen in love with her all over again. She felt like a queen being escorted into the shadowy room with Ross at her side. The hush was heavy, the darkness warm. She looked around, seeing only Kell, Make Up and Costumes, but the technical staff was missing. She turned to Ross. “Where are all the others?” “The first run is all about you, Lorna. Close-ups, make-up, costume changes—that sort of thing.” He turned then, and gave a signal to begin. Lorna's palms became sweaty. She wasn't aware of the speaking glances shared by Ross and Kell behind her back. The order given, they both waited patiently, each dreading the inevitable. They both knew there was nothing worse than a pissed-off diva who was no longer in the spotlight, but it was the only way, so they both steeled themselves for what was to come. With a sudden flash, the room filled with flickering shadows. A face immediately spread across the giant screen, and Lorna froze! She was looking up into a face full of wrinkles, sagging skin, pounds of powder, thick, false eyelashes that drooped, glaring lipstick that spiked in the wrinkles around her mouth. She felt trapped. Trapped in this cinema hell staring at a stupid, silly old woman trying to be young again! Her walk, her talk, the way she moved—it was humiliating! The slim bodies of the starlets around her, with their smooth faces, their youthful appearance...She looked like their mother, and yet she was supposed to be one of them! The shock was more than she could stand, and a squealing whisper began rising in her throat. The more she saw, the louder the tormented sound became until at last she saw herself in bed with a boy that could have been her son—her grandson! Her body was flabby—old! All at once, a sound erupted from out of the darkness. “Nooooooooo!” She immediately jumped up from her chair and whirled on Ross. “What are you doing to me? I trusted you, Ross. Why would you? Why, Ross?”

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Ross quickly rose from his chair and indicated the screen. “What you see up there is not a trick, Lorna, it’s an old diva passed her prime. Don't you see? It proves what I've been telling you all this time! It's over, Lorna! Over!” “No!” Lorna whispered, closing her eyes and holding her head as if it were in pain. “It...it's the make-up. Yes, that's it—the make-up.” “Is it?” Ross called out to the camera man behind him. “Neil, skip the next few scenes and put on the other one I gave you.” Almost immediately, the breathtaking music that Lorna remembered from long ago filled the small space. She turned quickly and saw herself doing a nightclub scene. She remembered the scene well. She was supposed to be in a club in Paris, and had studied with a coach night and day to get her accent right. When she sang that song, it was perfect. Her body was slim, curvy, and her face young. She could immediately see the difference in yesterday and today, and yet she couldn't let herself believe it, not any of it. When had it happened? When had she gotten so old? And why didn't she see it? Before she knew what was happening, the goddess of the silver screen was gone and she was again slapped in the face by today's dailies— fluttering lashes, long curls, coquettish looks, and bold pursing lips on a woman of fifty! The wrinkles glared at her. The pale, powdery face made her look dead, and the garish lipstick oozed up into the cracks like blood. The woman on the screen couldn't be her, she was old—old—old! It was all too much! “It can't be!” She wailed, “God, it can't be! It's not me, I know it's not!” And then she crumpled. Ross quickly reached for her and gently sat her down in her chair. She sucked in her breath, her chest heaving. She wanted to breathe. She needed to breathe, but the shock had been too much. She panted, her nostrils flaring, but she couldn't fill her lungs. She'd die if she couldn't get air, and then she lifted her eyes, looking at those before her, watching her as if she were a circus freak. “Lorna,” Ross said, his voice soft and calming as he spoke. “If you would agree, we could still turn this around—make it into a horror film

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similar to the one Bette Davis did. You would be back on the screen again, but in something you could handle. Why don't you—” Lorna gasped at what he was saying. “Are you insane?” she yelled. “Me, Lorna Desmond, reduced to playing some over-the-hill actress that—” and then she realized what they were doing. “You tricked me. You...You bastard! You tricked me!” “Only to help you, Lorna.” He indicated the screen. “If you’d let me, I could have you back up on that screen, and in roles suitable for a woman your age. Roles that are written just for you. You'd be terrific, Lorna, find a whole new audience. You still have talent, wonderful talent.” Lorna wasn't listening to his words. All she could think of was what they had done to her. Deep inside, a volcano of hatred began bubbling, wanting to spew out on all of them. And given time, it would. She found herself longing for the subtle music of sharp knives, their blades grinding together. The smooth, gleaming steel of a gun. The wispy smoke of a newly fired weapon. Hoisting herself out of Ross' arms, she looked around at the others. “You all think you're so smart.” She backed away from their shocked faces and began shouting sick little names at them, tears dribbling out of her eyes. “Well, you'll be sorry,” she hissed, her words cutting deep as she flung threats like stones. “All of you. You'll pay, do you hear that? You'll pay dearly!” And then she turned on Ross, the one man who was responsible for all of this. She knew how to hurt him, and she would! “And you. How stupid do you think I am? Do you think after this debauchery I'd give your daughter back?” Her heavily made up face had a garish, macabre look in the flickering shadows as she glared at him. Her thoughts then went to the sweet, innocent Shania, and knew that after today, Ross would never see her again. “Your daughter is going to die, Ross! I'll see to it! I'll kill her in her sleep! I'll—” “My God, you do have her!”

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“Yes, I have her. I could have given her back at any time, but I used your grief as a stepping stone.” She watched him as her words sunk in, each one stabbing him like a knife. “You’re either lying, or you’ve already killed her. I had my boys search your house, Lorna, and Shania wasn’t found.” “That’s because I’m smarter than you, Ross. I knew what you were up to and moved her. You’ll never know where.” “If she’s not there, then where the hell is she?” “In a place you’ll never think to look, Ross. After this little episode I'm going to kill the bitch, and with every plunge of my knife, I'll laugh. Do you hear me? I'll laugh! At you, and your misery!” “But Lorna! After all we've been to each other, I can't believe you'd—” “It seems I remember saying the same thing to you once.” Lorna's eyes poured out her hate. “I was desperate, begging. Like you are now, Ross. Do you know what you said? “Lorna that was a long time ago!” she mimicked. “Those were your words, Ross, and now is my chance to throw them back in your face! It was a long time ago, Ross, and it doesn't mean a fucking thing today!” The pounding in her head got worse. She could hear her own voice echoing around the room—the obscenities, the shrewish voice. And then she found herself at the door. Looking back at them, an evil smile twisted her face and her voice became a whispered rasp. “One more thing—” Her gaze raked across each one of them who looked at her now as if she were mad— and she was. “The next time you close your eyes—you may never open them again!” With one last look toward the horrible moving picture on the screen, and hearing the exaggerated, overemotional dialogue coming out of those garish red lips, she groaned. Her misery at its peak, she ran screaming onto the lot and down the promenade while everyone watched. How she got home, she didn't know, but the next thing she knew, she was tearing through the house like a maniac. Opening drawers, then closing them. She was looking for something—a weapon, something that would fit in her hand like a second skin.

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And then she found it. They had killed a dream, now she was going to kill a nightmare. With the knife in her hand, her glassy eyes looked down toward the cellar where she knew Shania was. She was a picture of madness in the wrinkled Dior outfit that hung limply on her, and the dark blonde strands of her hair flying wildly around her face. Moving quickly, she slammed out of the kitchen and headed outside where a jungle of roots and shrubs stood. Pulling them back, she found the door and descended, her eyes piercing the dim shadows. One foot, and then the other scraped along the steps, her body leaning drunkenly against the cement wall—until she at last stood in the leaning shadows. With a quick movement, she rattled the key in the lock, then pushed the door open, slamming it against the wall. **** Shania gave a start at the intrusion. Her eyes widened when she saw Lorna standing before her in her wrinkled finery, her tangled hair hanging limply in her face, and the knife. She couldn't take her eyes off the knife that waved threateningly toward her. She rose from the chair and backed away until Lorna stood over her, madness shining in her eyes. “You little bitch, it's all over for you—you and your father. But first you—yes, you—and then, him.” Lorna hissed. Sheer black fright catapulted within her. “No!” Shania whispered, her sobs catching in her throat. “Please, don't do this!” Slowly, she raised her arm to somehow shield herself while she slid along the wall, trying to escape the madness that stood before her. The glittering, trembling blade climbed upward. “They'll pay,” Lorna sobbed. “All of them, but it begins with you.” “But I don't understand. Please, just—” “You don't need to understand,” Lorna barked as she reached out and grabbed the girl's wrist and dragged her, bucking and yelling. Throwing her down on the wrinkled pallet, she was just about to plunge the knife in her when she heard a voice behind her.

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“Seems to me you is killin' the goose that lays the golden egg.” Lorna whirled around and saw Dagmar. “You'd better tell me what you're talking about, or you'll be next.” “The devil—upstairs. He likes her. Could be if you kill her, he might not like it. He likes a little pussy now and again. Don't you think he might like a little plaything to keep him happy?” Lorna turned and looked down at Shania, and then an evil smile creased her face. With her eyes glittering like shards of glass, she yanked her upward. “You're coming with me.” “Don't!” Shania yelled, her fingers digging into Lorna's hands, trying to pry them off her. But Lorna's fingers were like cords of steel as she continued, with effort, to drag the girl behind her. Shania grabbed at anything she could find—fixtures…pipes…the door frame, anything she could grasp along the way, but it did no good. Finally, she slid her feet along the floor, screaming. “No, no, no! Please!” Lorna was deaf to her cries as she continued to drag her up the cement steps. “Dagmar! Help!” she shouted. “You bitch!” Lorna yelled, then pushed Shania down on the steps and gave her a backhanded slap that knocked her out. Lorna's cold eyes watched the girl go limp. Leaning over her, she looked down into her perfect face as if she might kiss her. “You'll pay,” she whispered as she noticed the blood creeping down her chin. “You'll pay like the rest of them. But only after I'm through with you.” Her eyes roamed over her young face, and remembered her own image upon that traitorous silver screen. “Not a line, not a gray hair. Eighteen—” Lorna sobbed, the sound coming from deep inside. “My God, to be eighteen again! To have hair that glows like a sunset and skin as soft as velvet.” Lorna raised a sharp nail and softly scratched it down the side of her cheek, making a faint little trail. “But if something were to happen to that skin—” Shania's body pressing against her triggered something in Lorna. She felt a forbidden ache begin in her groin as her eyes lowered to a pair of breasts that were firm, yet soft. A waistline that was trim, hips that flared seductively. Her hands moved

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slowly up to the young, firm breasts and squeezed curiously. Immediately, the small flame grew into a raging firestorm. God, what was happening to her? She wanted to fuck the little bitch! Leaning over, she smelled the clean smell of her neck, her tongue reaching out to touch her lightly. She moaned. She was boiling! Reaching down, she pulled at the low neckline of her sweater and saw a beautiful, round breast with a perfect nipple. As if mesmerized, she leaned toward it, her mouth covering it as if she were starving. Her breath was quick and short. She whimpered, the fire in her groin... “What the hell are you doin'?” Her head jerked upward at the sound. It was Dagmar. Damned bitch! she thought. “Go!” she yelled. “Get the fuck out of here!” “And leave you here to—” “I won't touch her!” With a grumble, Dagmar reluctantly turned and left, her heavy body lurching in the shadows, her feet treading on each step. Lorna's eyes cut back toward Shania. What had made her do it? Was she slowly going crazy? Was her lust for sex growing so wide she didn't care who she fucked? Feeling overwhelmed, she rubbed her forehead, the headaches were more intense now. Lorna turned and looked up. Only a few more steps. Moving to get up, she grabbed Shania and pulled her along, her body heavy and limp. She dragged her over grass and rocks, through gardens, knocking over lawn furniture and fountains until she at last reached the house. Lorna finally stopped, her chest heaving until she was at last there. She rattled the key in the lock and pushed it open. Just as she expected, he was lying back against the headboard like a lifesized centerfold, the ever-present sheet in place. But something was different. His gaze was cunning, as if he knew something she didn’t. No longer did he threaten her, forcing her to remind him that one press of the amulet would bring Klaus to her rescue. Now he seemed dangerously docile, and she could almost see the cogs and wheels turning inside his head—as if he were making plans.

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**** Lance's eyes widened at what he saw. The woman looked wild. Her eyes were glittering, her outfit wrinkled, torn, and hanging half on, half off her body. And in her arms was Shania. Asleep? Or dead? Brutally throwing her to the floor, Lorna growled, “Take her! She's my sacrifice to you. In return, I want beauty, youth. You can have my soul, anything I have. Take everything. I'll start over again. I want fame, adoration. I want to soar again, to the very heights. And I will.” Lance stared at Shania as she lay motionless on the floor. “What the hell did you do to her? She's bleeding.” Lorna's evil smile twisted. “I hit her. She resisted me, so I hit her!” Lance's mind began working quickly, his words hesitant, searching. “You stupid bitch, don't...Don't you know anything? A s-sacrifice must always be without spot or blemish. You shouldn't have touched her. I can't accept anything that's imperfect.” “She’s only eighteen, for God’s sake! How corrupt could she be? She’s young, she’s pure and she’s beautiful, and she’s as near to perfection as you’ll find in this miserable world.” Lorna’s voice lowered until it became a wicked rasp. “So take her! But don’t forget the deal—this sacrifice and my soul for youth and stardom.” Then, with a dramatic sweep of her body, she left the room. Looking down at Shania, Lance heard a moan. He quickly went to her. When he tried to lift her, she began fighting. “Shania, it's okay. It's Lance. You're safe, but you've been hurt.” He lifted her and sat her on the bed, then brought something out of the bathroom and treated the cut on her lip. “What happened? The last thing I remember was—” “I know. Lorna lugging you up the steps.” “I tried to get away, but she hit me.” She looked around. “She brought me in here? To you? Why?”

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Lance's snicker had a sinister tone. “Because, my dear, I am the Devil, and you the beautiful sacrifice she made to me. For certain favors, of course.” “Whaaat?” “She's crazy as a friggin’ loon. Finally gone over the edge,” he said as he made a whistling sound and simulated a falling body with his hand. “This little game of hers has gotten serious. Use the passageway and get back down to your room and stay there. Don't come out for anything. I was going to give the old witch a taste of Hell she wouldn't forget, but in view of her state of mind I think I may need to change my plans.” “You mean—leave?” “Yes, leave. Do you have a better idea?” “When? How soon?” she asked anxiously. Lance's eyes took on a troubled look. “I'm not sure. It'll have to be soon, but I have to take care of a few things first.” A sudden flood of tears gushed out of Shania, and she buried her face against Lance's naked chest. “God, Lance, how did I get into such a mess?” Lance gently lifted her chin and looked down into her frightened eyes. A protectiveness he had never felt before came upon him. “You have nothing to worry about, Princess,” he whispered. “I'll take care of you.” Tenderly he kissed her, then without moving his lips, he spoke against them. “Put yourself in my hands. You won't be sorry, I promise.” **** “Lance, please, we shouldn't—” she said, trying to resist, but felt her heart flutter with the thrill of his lips on hers. She felt herself being gently pushed down on the bed, the sound of his voice warm and sexy. He was so potent, so compelling, she felt herself melting beneath him. His body was hard, his lips soft, but ravenous, causing a delightful shiver of wanting to streak through her. His hands squeezed her breasts, his thumbs flicking the nipples causing them to tingle while a hot

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ache grew in her stomach, sinking into her cunt like the spreading of a fire. The feeling parted her thighs, and she felt him settle himself between them. “Oh, God!” she breathed out as the shock of his hardness pressed into her. He ripped at her clothes, his smooth flesh touching hers when she was finally naked. The warmth of his arms, his lips, his smell, it was all so male. Softly, his breath fanned her face, his lips seeking hers. Opening her up, his tongue plowed into her mouth, pulling her into the passion of his kiss. She moaned and writhed, the kiss sending the pit of her stomach into a wild whirl that had her gasping and crying out. Finally his lips moved away to nuzzle her ear. Nibbling, he started at her earlobe, his lips searing a wet path down her neck, over her shoulder biting gently at the skin. For delicious minutes he used lips, teeth and tongue to make is way down—over her breasts, her stomach and then to the core of her. Once there, the heated lips of her sex parted under his mouth. Without warning, he pushed his tongue inside, turning her to a wild wanton! As he flicked her nub over and over again, she tumbled ecstatically, gusts of desire filling her, one after the other until her body was solid flame. She abandoned herself to the swirl of sensation as he lifted himself and lay over her. His raw act of possession began. Passion inched through her veins like a fire out of control. She could hear the savage rumble of his desire as it pushed up through his throat, his breath ragged and shallow. Feeling his cock at the threshold of her cunt, she'd never felt such a wild desire, and lifted her thighs opening herself wider. With a groan, he thrust himself inside and with a primal grunt began plunging harder and harder, as if to quench the fire that raged between them. A moan of ecstasy slipped through her lips as the hardness of his thighs brushed against hers over and over again. With cries, moans, and whimpers he continued the primitive thrust, grinding into her time and again, causing her eager response to match his. Shivers of delight followed his every touch as he took her to the peak of desire where hot tides of passion raged through both of them causing their bodies to roll and tumble. She clung to him, her

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legs clutching him while she gasped in sweet agony. And then she shattered, feeling as if the world spun and careened on its axis. When he felt her shatter, Lance moaned and his plunges became deeper and harder, feeling the ecstatic vibration of liquid fire rising inside him. He couldn't stop. It wasn't enough! His mouth devoured her breasts, his tongue exploring the rosy peaks of her nipples, his hands moving along the soft lines of her back, her hips and her waist. And then he felt the sweet agony he was waiting for and moved his hands to her hips and lifted her up tighter against him as he continued to plunge like a wild man. And then it happened! He groaned, his pleasure pure and explosive! While they lay suspended in a euphoria of erotic pleasure, Lance took her in his arms, knowing she was coming to mean a lot to him. She was young and so vulnerable. She filled him with a sweetness he had never known. With Lorna, it was an act of raw passion, but with Shania, he felt something deep. He could never hurt her, and would kill anyone who tried! **** Hot blood spurted black and sticky. “Oh, God,” Shania gasped, as she stared down at the sickening strawberry syrup that spread across her pancakes. She abruptly pushed the plate away. Dagmar whirled at the sound. “What is it chile?” she whispered. “I saw...I saw a house. Shadowy. Desolate.” Dagmar's eyes turned suddenly dark, like a night with no moon. “You— you know such a house?” “No, I...I don't. At least I don't think so. There was blood,” she whispered, her voice low and foreboding, “sinking down between plank boards, and a...a man—” She rubbed her head, her brow furrowing, and her eyes closing as if she felt pain. “His name...Who he is...I-I can't...” “Don't worry none, it'll come,” Dagmar whispered, fear in her voice. “It was horrible!” She looked up at Dagmar, and whispered, “Could he be the one I was running away from?”

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A chill skidded down Dagmar's spine. “Ain't nothin'. F’get it, and eat.” Shania looked down at the red syrup as it oozed down the pancake and pooled around it like blood. “I...c-can't.” “I ain't never seen such finicky women,” Dagmar murmured, scooping up the tray and heading for the door. “Dagmar,” Shania whispered. Dagmar stopped and turned. “Yeah, what is it this time?” “The other night...When she attacked me. I haven't seen her again. What’s going on?” “You know what she said. She ain't got no more reason to keep you alive. Her day at Monarch Studios didn't go too well, and now she's on the warpath. Beginning with you. “Me? Why me?” “It ain't you personally, it's who you are.” Dagmar felt mean. No reason to keep the truth from her anymore, so she continued, her voice low and ominous, and her eyes narrowed on Shania. “Yo' name is Shania Hunter. Yo' father, Ross Hunter is the head man over at Monarch Studios. Since you showed up here that night, you been reported missin'. It took her a few days, but she finally come up with a plan to blackmail him. Tol’ him she’d keep you healthy if'en he put her back under contract again.” “Did he do it?” Shania whispered. “My God, Dagmar, tell me! Am I going to die? Is she going to kill me?” “He did it all right, but...Well, it didn't work out too well. Don't know the details, but ever since that day, Missus ain't been quite herself.” “What's going to happen?” Dagmar hesitated slightly, and then spoke soft, her voice edged with dread. “Last night you was marked as a sacrifice. That devil upstairs tol’ her the ritual could only be done beneath a full moon. That night, at the witching hour, the Devil will claim his rights to her soul, and when that happens she won't have no more reason to keep you alive.” “When—” Shania began nervously. “When is the next full moon?” “In about a week and a half.”

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“But this is nonsense. Lance is no devil. It's insane! She can't do this! She can't—” “She can do any damned thing she wants! And you know why? Because nobody in this house has the goddamned guts to tell her she can't!” “Lance isn't afraid of her, I can tell.” “No, he ain't afraid. But Lance is smart and he ain’t no coward. He didn’t turn ass and run when he had the chance, he's bidin' his time…gettin’ his revenge. He ain't tol' her he is the Devil, but he ain't tol' her he ain't. You oughta see the bitch. Bowin', down to him.” Dagmar snorted. “Shit! Payin' homage to a friggin exotic dancer. If'en that ain't crazy, then I don't know what crazy is!” “Dagmar, maybe you should try and talk to her—suggest she get help.” Dagmar looked at her with disbelief. “Why, gal, if'en I did that I wouldn't live to see the next sunrise. No sir, not me. You tell her if you want, but I wouldn't advise it. 'Sides, they ain't no help for someone as crazy as she is. Why, ever since she come back from the studio the other day she's been on the warpath. And when she ain't, she jus' stumbles around this old mausoleum like a ghost. Don't fix her hair, put on no make-up. Now, that alone ain't nothin' like her. Been keeping her nose buried in them books. I know what's goin' on 'cause I sneaks around, keeps my eyes on her. She’s got no good on her mind, and we have to be ready for anything.” Dagmar's black eyes anchored on Shania, and her voice became a low rasp. “As to that devil upstairs—done talked to him, and he's on our side.” She looked up at Dagmar, her eyes full of panic. “Only a week and a half...I'm frightened!” Dagmar grabbed Shania's shoulders. “Well, snap out of it! Don't you see if'en you don't keep a cool head, she might jus' take it in her crazy mind to kill you? Give her a reason to keep you alive. Be that devil's plaything. Cause if'en you don't...” ****

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That night, Lorna looked out her window at the night sky, her fingers itching to hold that ax again. When she saw the blood spurt and the head fall away from the body, she felt triumph, a feeling she would feel time and again—until they were all gone. The best part was when her loyal servant had given her an alibi for the night in question. She remembered the look on Klaus' face when the Police had questioned him. He looked past them into her pale, colorless and granite-like face. Not knowing what he would say, her eyes bored into him, silently reminding him of the night he had killed for her. The strength in his face momentarily gave way to a stab of remembrance, of the vivid splashes of blood as they ran down the walls of the little shack that stood small and unobtrusive at the entrance of Monarch Studios. Her eyes gained strength as they told him in their own threatening way that she had come to his defense with her smooth lies—that he was as guilty as she, and they had to protect each other. Her lips twisted up into a sneering smile when he turned to them and said the mistress had been with him that night—the night she asked him for the keys, and he had given them to her with a question in his eyes, a question that remained unanswered until now. She was covered with blood when she returned. Now he knew where the blood had come from, even though he hadn't asked. He simply washed it away with his undying loyalty. She remembered the night, though vaguely, of shadows that gathered like pools while she crept through them with an ax in her hand, her eyes glittering with a demented shine. It would take time, but she would eliminate everyone in that film room. The ones who looked at her with pity in their eyes, the ones who said that it was too late for her. Let Ross call out his goons…those rats in blue…hell, let him call out a SWAT Team. They wouldn’t be able to touch her! She was Lorna Desmond, and those she couldn’t charm hadn’t been born! The voices came back…swirling in her head. A diva past her prime...A stupid old woman...A faded belle!

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Well, let them call her anything they want. She would lay low for a while, let them snuggle down into a false sense of security. And then she would strike again and it would be all the more spectacular. And that's what she wanted, a spectacular. Like her movies. She may never make another one, but she'd go out with shooting stars! That night she slept without pills—or Klaus, and as the sand ma...No, not the sand man. In Lorna's case, her soul was no longer her own, and was visited by the dream demon. He didn't give her nice little dreams of fluffy white clouds and pretty flowers, instead she found herself standing on a stage with a knife in her hand—a small figure before a large silver screen. She looked mad. Her eyes were glazed and red-rimmed, her glinting hair frizzy and fly-away. With frenzied movements, she began violently stabbing at the screen that had turned on her, rejected her. With each plunge of the knife, the screen ripped. Violence tore at her soul while her hand plunged again, and again—the screen shredding. And then, all at once, out of the cuts and tears, blood began to seep through. Blood from cardboard characters that continued to speak and move around on the tattered screen. It pooled on the floor, stained her clothes. She immediately realized it was her up there on the screen—her own blood. Her terrifying act of murder had turned on her, and she was stabbing herself! Suddenly a scream ripped from her throat. Her bloody hands that now had a life of their own flailed frantically, stabbing herself insanely, the blood spurting and pooling all around her. She lunged forward, her scream piercing the dark night. She pulled at her hair, scratched her face—trying to get the horrible picture out of her mind. She didn't have to go to some cheap fortune-teller to know what it meant. As she killed, as she destroyed, she was being destroyed as well. It was the madness, the insanity, the lunacy that was killing her! Destroying her! And this dream. My God, this dream was the prediction of her doom— her descent into Hell!

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Chapter 12 Ross' office was dark, his clothes scattered over the floor in a tangled mess. He was almost lying down in one of the office chairs with his legs stretched open in a wide, wanton-like pose while sweat poured from his face. His head hung languidly over the back, his eyes closed in passion, his jaw slack while the young, unknown starlet dug her nails into his muscled thighs. With all the expertise of a professional, she clamped her mouth on his cock, lapping his juices, and sucking and sighing ecstatically. She pulled and tugged, licked and ate gloriously while he moaned out his pleasure. As the hot, torrid feeling that swirled around in his groin began to slowly climb, he desperately grabbed her head, straining his hips forward, struggling to go still deeper into her throat. Subtle grunts and groans erupted from deep inside him as he pushed, his breathing labored, his thrusting hips causing the chair to squeak and groan, joining the sounds of passion that filled the dark room. To his relief, he could feel his cock sliding even deeper, his balls slapping crudely against her delicate chin. By this time, an orgasm had begun to build, and it would be only seconds until he spent himself into her eager mouth. His tongue began to tingle when he saw the enticing bounce of her breasts. His tongue licked his lips and a whimper escaped his throat when he thought of biting her. The thought plagued him like a man in a desert thirsting for water. He watched as she caressed him with her silver hair. He loved its smooth silkiness, the color, and the way she twined it around his cock. It could drive a man crazy. But he had to have those breasts—to bite and suck on them, to smother himself between them. “Oh, God,” he moaned, then quickly lifted her and pushed her to the floor. Without losing a minute, he buried his cock inside her, and plunged

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over and over again, the hot, scorching lust that rushed through his veins straining toward satisfaction. Then, like the proverbial vampire, he brutally buried his fingers in her thick, silver-blonde hair, yanked her head back, and bared his perfect teeth as he lowered his head. His open mouth made contact with her soft pale neck, and he began to suck and chew, making a bruising trail down to her breasts, savoring her sweet, young taste, her smell of musk and roses. While she was imprisoned within his embrace, he rode her relentlessly. Hour upon hour—or was it only seconds that passed while he rolled his loose hips, his body pounding her against the plush carpet. A growl erupted from his throat when he felt the blessed release—a silver bliss, bubbling over and spewing his satisfaction into her narrow, tight, well of pleasure. After slumping over her, he breathed deeply for a few seconds before he rolled away. “Get out,” he rasped, sitting up and raking his hands through his hair. She had no reply, no tearful pleas, no sweet endearments. She only rose quietly, gathered her clothes and crept out. Ross, finally catching his breath, stood and dressed. With a quick stride, he went to his desk and scribbled something on a pad. He slumped down at his desk still thinking of Susan when he saw Lorna's copy of the Blazing Dawn script lying in the waste basket. The minute he saw it he thought of his daughter, and a feeling of dread bit into him. What the hell am I doing? He asked himself as if he’d just awakened. He looked around the room—at the fuckin’ den of iniquity he called his office. Why the hell hadn’t this experience made him impotent? Ross knew his sexual appetite was great, but how the hell could he casually fuck a starlet when his daughter might be dead! He ran his fingers through his hair knowing that any other man—He stopped there. He’s not any other man, dammit, he’s Ross Hunter, and he has needs! His needs don’t go away just because his daughter—He couldn’t say it! God, he sounded so cold! Where the hell was she? Everything he’d done to find Shania had fell through. Searches had been made by his men as well as the police and both had come up empty. He wasn’t stupid. He knew that Lorna was keeping her

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out of sight, but where? A place like that would have so many hidden rooms, she could be in any one of them. And then again, maybe she wasn’t even there. Lorna’s no dummy. She could have her shacked up in some motel room somewhere. Hell, she may not even be in town—or she could be right under his nose! The police had finally got around to questioning Lorna—even questioned her about the threats she'd made the day of the shooting, but Lorna was smart. She knew they were knee deep in witnesses, so instead of denying it, she admitted it, but assured them it was done only in the heat of the moment. By the time it was over, she had given them valid excuses, alibis, and said, “I didn’t even know half of them. Why, most of them weren’t even around when I was on the screen.” By the time it was over she'd won the whole police force over with a sweet smile, and her chauffeur's alibi. She'd even given several of the officers an autographed picture when they told her they had always been a fan. “She's a goddamned actress!” Ross had yelled at the officer. “She fooled you for God's sake, don't you know that?” “Look, there was nothing. Can you understand that?” “Then make something up. I know the bitch is guilty!” “I don't care what the hell you say, Ross. I can't make arrests with nothing to go on. Good God, man, this woman's no dummy. She knows where it's at. If I took her in on some trumped up charge, she could sue the whole damned police department for false arrest, and I'd be out of a job!” Now, with the darkness of the room surrounding him, and the pungent odor of sex licking at his nostrils, Ross buried his face in his hands. What would he do now? A search of Lorna’s house was his ace in the hole. She was going to kill his daughter, he knew it, but for some reason she was holding back. Hell, he'd showed his hand too soon. He should have played along, waited until he had Shania back, then exposed Lorna for what she was. His eyes traveled to the couch, remembering when Lorna was his starlet of the hour. He could see—yes, even hear—the many voices rising in the air from days gone by. She'd been good—God so good. They all had to

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be. They had to be willing to do for Ross what he wanted. Just thinking about it made him hard all over again. At that moment, a knock sounded on the door and Susan looked in. Standing there, uncertain in her little black dress that exposed her creamy white shoulders, she said she'd forgotten something. God, she was curvy, Ross thought, again noticing her breasts, her white hair, and a pair of dangling diamond earrings that grabbed some distant shimmering light. Ross smiled, rose, and handed her sweater to her, but before she could go, he roughly pulled her in, closed the door, pushed her against the wall and began kissing her, his cock swelling against her stomach. **** She'd heard from the other starlets that Ross was insatiable, so she knew to say no now would be to ruin her chances. She had no choice but to let him lift her, then bring her down on his burning cock one more time. She didn’t care because he was good, so good that she could already feel a hot, swirling orgasm trying to burst inside her. Reaching upward, she twined her arms around his neck and practically climbed him with her long, silky legs while he took her against the wall, on the floor, and between her voluptuous breasts. And then suddenly he leaned her over his desk to enter her from behind. After thrusting his cock deep into her velvety softness, he reached around and grabbed her breasts and squeezed while he hungrily bit the back of her neck. While Ross was passionately plunging over and over again, Susan felt trapped beneath the heaviness of his bucking body, but smiled. Because among the scattered documents, paper clips, and a letter opener, she saw a note scribbled in Ross' own handwriting that said she was to star in Ross' next blockbuster film, Crimson Rhapsody. **** The ghosts crowded against the window looking in, their bony hands raised, pounding, pounding, pounding! Pale shadows, staring, watching.

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And then somehow the ghosts were inside, swirling around him, their presence an evil wind. He looked down when he felt something shaking him. A hand, a bony hand. “Get away!” he cried in his dream, but it came out sounding like an incoherent grunt. Abruptly, his eyes flew open and he was staring into the stark, midnight eyes of Dagmar. “Get on up outta that bed and eat yo' breakfast! We gotta figure somethin' out, and quick!” “God!” he cried, lunging forward and sitting up. He lowered his head, his hand raking through his hair. “Since I've been back in here I've had nothing but nightmares!” He looked up into the rafters. “It's this house. It's a nightmare house, and everybody in it’s crazy!” “You ain't wrong there. That's the very reason we gotta figure out what to do.” “Hold that thought,” Lance said, hurrying to the bathroom. He was gone only a few minutes, but a clean smell of soap and water carried on the breeze when he returned. “God, I'm hungry,” he said, taking the tray and digging into the welcome food. “The first thing we need to do is let Shania's father know she's all right. He must be worried sick.” “I don't think so,” Dagmar stammered worriedly. “We...We got bigger fish to fry.” Lance suddenly noticed the tremble in Dagmar's voice, and looked up. “What is it? What's wrong?” “You know the police been here spittin' out questions right and left, right?” Lance nodded, knowing it was the reason he had been gagged and tied up and then crammed in that god-awful place inside the wall. “Well…I thought it was right unusual, so I started pokin' around. They's—” She put her hand over her mouth as if she were gagging. “—I found knives, and a hatchet...bloody, and everything.” She looked up at Lance, fear in her eyes. “I almost went crazy thinkin' she'd done kilt off that little gal.” “Shania! My God, where is she? Is she all right?”

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“So far, but the missus done got it in for that po' lil' ol' thing.” “I know. I can't put her off much longer, the full moon is damned close, and I've gotta have Shania out of here by then.” “I don't know if 'en you can wait that long. Way up here in this room...You don't know what's goin' on in this house. All hell is breakin' loose, and if 'en that little gal stays here much longer it'll be her blood on that hatchet, for sure!” “But I can’t roam around the house! If she comes up here and finds me gone…Hell, in some ways I’m just as much a prisoner now as I was before!” Dagmar frowned as if in thought. “You sho’ can’t let that happen. She’d kill us all!” “So when do you want to...” “Me? Oh, no! You is the one. I can't have nothin' to do with it! “What do you mean?” “I mean, that woman down there gives me my orders. Somethin' happens to that gal and she'll come directly to me, thas’ wut I mean.” “Is that the way it's always been...I mean, you being a scapegoat, of sorts?” “I've held my own. It was hard at times, but I managed.” “My God,” Lance whispered. “That means when she finds Shania gone she'll turn on you.” “I know. I been thinkin' the same thing, but I can handle her, at least I hope so. Had enough practice up to now.” “Do you know what you'll tell her?” “Don't you worry about that. As far as she knows, I fought tooth and nail tryin' to keep her here.” “Well...If you're sure. How does tom...” “No,” Dagmar said fiercely, holding her hands over her ears. “I don't want to know.” “You're right.” Lance understood her reasoning, sighing as he apologized. “Sorry.”

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“Yeah...” Dagmar began, a nervous fear trembling her words. “I jus' hope to high heaven she don't feel like havin' my ass for lunch. She can get pretty nasty sometimes.” “You really ought to get out of this house, Dagmar.” “Hell, I'd be outta here in two shakes if 'en I had anyplace to go.” “No family? Even in another state?” Dagmar shook her head. “Naw. I tol' you the story how it was with me. Even if I had family livin' next door, I wouldn't know it. I's a lost soul, thas' wut.” “Dagmar, why not...” His words faded suddenly when something occurred to him. “Shit! I don't have any goddamned clothes! I can't go through the streets...” His words faded as he looked up at Dagmar. “What about Klaus? Could you get something of his?” “You tryin’ to get me killed? He ain’t got much more’n that uniform he wears. If I took that I’d be dog meat ‘fore sunrise.” “But he’s on our side!” “I’m talkin’ about her! She’d find out and come straight to me!” “You’re right. How the hell does she do it?” “I don’t know, and I don’t’ think I want to know. Here,” Dagmar said, throwing a set of keys to him along with his costume. “I took a big chance takin' that bloody red thing. She done took it and stuffed under her mattress. It ain't clothes, but it'll keep you from walkin' the streets naked.” Lance lifted his hand and caught them, then looked down, examining the mass of jangling metal. “Whose are these?” “They belong to Klaus...” “Dagmar, I can't drive that damned Rolls Royce around this town. That piece of junk would be recognized in a minute.” “They ain't to the Rolls,” she said with a huff of irritation, “it's the keys to Klaus' truck.” “His truck? I didn't know he had one.” “Yeah. He parks it way in the back of the carriage house. Dark back there. That's where I found the knives and things. Anyway, it'll do in a

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pinch.” Dagmar took the tray and backed toward the door. “So, anytime you feel like...I won't ask when, I'll jus...” She gulped. “Never mind.” The car keys seemed to burn a hole in Lance's hand as he squeezed it shut. They were his passport to freedom at last—real freedom. He remembered the day he woke up to find Klaus in his room, and the conversation they'd had. He still seemed to be as loyal as ever to Lorna, running to her side when she needed him. He appeared indecisive to Lance. Spineless and weak. He wasn't sure he could trust the old man. If he was an ally, he was an uncertain one at best. “Okay,” he said, still clutching the keys tight. “I guess it'll work. Where's Lorna now?” “She's...pain...She's painting.” Lance looked at her, wondering about the stammering, disjointed sentence. “What the hell is wrong?” “She's pain...She's painting the walls b-black.” Lance's eyes grew wide. “She's doing what?” “Don't ask me to say it again. The woman's done gone mad. She's goin' wild with a paint brush. On some walls is people—people she talks to. People standing in groups, like at a party. Drinks in their hands. She wanders around, talking, drinking. I tell you she's done flipped out.” “Why would she do that?” “Why? Because she’s fuckin’ crazy!” “Yeah, stupid question,” Lance said, then looked down at the two sets of keys in his hand. One for Shania's door, the other for Klaus' truck. “I'll make it as quick as I can, but I can't do it now...not in the daylight.” Their eyes met and locked. If not in daylight, then night. What night? This night, or a dozen nights from now? The question hung between them, but Lance didn't volunteer anything. He knew she wouldn't want to know, so he was silent. Finally Dagmar pulled her eyes away. “Yeah, well, I gotta go. The missus’ll be wantin' her breakfast.” “Thanks for everything, Dagmar,” Lance said, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek. “Shania is my responsibility now. You've done all you can. Take care of yourself hear? And stay out of that crazy woman's way.”

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The fact that he seemed to care loosened her tongue. It might be wrong, it might be uncalled for, but she had to say it, get it out so she could breathe again. “It was the day she come back from Monarch Studios all muddied up and stark ravin' mad—that's when everything changed. Somethin' happened...somethin' awful. Her comeback...Well, it didn't go so well.” Dagmar looked up into his eyes and they were filled with the darkest fear he’d ever seen. “Now she's paintin' the walls black, talkin' to shadows on the wall, and—and started killin'. I don't know how she picks her victims, but they's a list—a goddamned bloody list. And she's started markin' the names off.” “Dagmar, my God, you're terrified. You can't stay here. She's completely lost her mind! She's mad!” “Don't think she don't look it neither. The look in her eye could scare the Devil hisself.” Lance looked troubled. “If what you say is true, there's no time to waste.” His vivid blue eyes implored her. “Dagmar, please, why don't you come with me?” “It's okay,” Dagmar said, casting him a trembling smile. “I've seen this list and my name ain't on it. At least—not yet!” He watched the pitiful half-breed pass through the door, her breath trembling in her lungs—and wondered if he would ever see her again. **** Fade to black. It was a technical term she'd heard all her life, but never did she think it would apply to her dream. She remembered when the fatal blow had been given. It was the day she'd seen herself on the screen once more. In spite of it, she'd tried to keep her dream alive, but it was gone. Her eyes drifted to the paintings on the walls and looked at each stupid smile, each flat form— some dancing, some standing in groups with drinks in their hands—and felt a sinking, hellish remorse for her beautiful dream's demise. They were the images of those she’d known long ago. Leading men, jealous women. But

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they were all dead now, leaving her to bear the pain of rejection all alone. She could feel herself becoming weaker and weaker, her life's blood that had been the lights, the camera, and the adoration of her fans slowly draining from her. Now all she had to show for her years in the spotlight was a wall full of painted smiles with bodies that never moved and mouths that never spoke. None of them could tell her how beautiful she was, how talented she was. No, now the voices were silent, her image on the silver screen slowly becoming dim, her star in the cinema heaven sputtering to a nasty end. While sitting alone in the dark, she could hear a distant rumble in the east. She rose from her large chair and walked to the window and looked up into the sky, knowing she'd been cheated. Rain had begun falling in big, fat lazy drops. No full moon, the sacrifice she'd made had been useless. Even the elements had been against her. Another two weeks would be forever. She couldn't wait. She wanted revenge now! The time had come. The girl had to die! It was a fitting night for a murder. Turning, she reached for the hatchet that was never far from her side, and picked it up. With a malicious glitter of dementia in her eyes, she walked slowly, as if in a hypnotic trance. She moved like a sinister shadow that floated through pools of darkness until she finally reached the door at the base of the tower and slammed it open. Her heart thrashed erratically in her chest as she stood dead still, the light of the dim corridor bathing her back, turning her form into a threatening silhouette. Slowly, she walked into the room, and over to Shania's bed. Silently, she looked down at the girl, her eyes anchored on her white neck washed by a shimmering night light. Like an angel's touch, it painted her hair, her skin, her silken fingers as they spread delicately over the covers, but Lorna was not moved. Instead, she was instantly reminded of the man who had snatched her dream away. It brought on a rage so vile and evil that an ugly scowl cut into her face as she raised the hatchet into the air, the cold blade glittering in the dim light.

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The hatchet had just begun to descend when suddenly someone grabbed her around the waist and grabbed the hand with the hatchet. Lorna struggled, determined to bring it down on Shania's delicate neck when it was suddenly knocked out of her hand. **** The ungodly sound of steel clattering to a tiled floor jerked Shania from her sleep. Seeing a struggle for the hatchet, she gasped, and a scream came gurgling out of her throat. She jumped up and backed away, pressing herself flat against the wall as she watched the struggle. Lorna was wildly batting at Lance, but with one swipe of the back of his hand, Lance knocked Lorna against something—a mirror, or glass that shattered beneath her weight. The sound was loud, but through it she heard a faint sob, a sob that sounded like a cry of defeat. Just then she felt Lance grab her, and drag her toward the door while she screamed and cried out her terror. **** The truck sat in the drive and Lance pushed Shania into it, got in himself, then backed out with a spinning of his tires. Jerking the truck around, he then skidded off until he was on the ridge, maneuvering the truck up a long, uphill curve. At the top of the incline, he pulled the truck into a verge and eased to a stop. Looking back at the house, it looked drab and bulky—oddly crypt-like. He saw the cold light that was still shining out of the tower room, and could hardly believe his nightmare in that house was over. Finally, he revved the engine and began one more battle—a long trek over steep canyon roads.

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Chapter 13 The dark and stormy night found Sunset Boulevard heavily bombarded by wind and heavy rain. The bright neon burned a rainbow of colors across the wet street where Lance gunned the old truck forward, speeding past storm-tossed palm trees and heavily battered storefronts. He squinted through the wet windshield that resembled a hodge-podge canvas of dripping watercolors. As the old truck rattled down the rain-soaked street, a curtain of water riotously splashed from beneath the wheels. Shania, sobbing and scared, sat huddled beside him. She hugged the door, pictures in her mind of the last time she’d been the prisoner of a man in a car. She looked out on the wet street, then up into the thrashing tree limbs, frightened, so very frightened. Her mind whirled, and she couldn’t think straight. She was so cold, she was almost numb. Lance glanced over at her, noticing that she was huddled close to the door. He didn’t blame her for being scared. He’d been in full costume when he barged into her room in the middle of the night, his cape flying out all around him. He must have looked like a raving maniac himself. And the struggle—a glittering hatchet swinging through the air was enough to give anyone a heart attack. There was no time for conversation. He’d had to get her out, and quick! He knew she was freezing, but the only thing he had to wrap around her was his cape, thin as it was, which left him wearing absolutely nothing but a g-string. He’d apparently lost half his costume to the bitch with murder in her eyes. He hadn’t planned on being stranded in the middle of motel hell, which was exactly where he was. When he’d tried to take her to his apartment he’d found out he didn’t live there anymore. During the last few weeks, when everyone was looking for him, his old bag of a landlady had gotten nervous

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and contacted The Lucifer Club and had someone come and dispose of all his things. He could hear the old bag’s voice now. A high and scratchy sound coming from her scrawny little bird neck. Whenever she got excited, she fluttered all over the place, like she’d just had her wings cut. He looked around at this strip that was almost end-to-end motels, and knew that even if he had money, he couldn’t rent a motel room almost naked. He’d never seen so much neon in his life. Each motel had a theme. If it wasn’t swaying palms, it was exotic trade winds. Just then he spied a friend coming out of a burger joint, pulled up to the curb and honked. When he couldn’t get the guy’s attention, he pulled on the door handle, but it wouldn’t open. Refusing to give up, he rolled down his window, lifted himself out of the small opening, and sat his butt down on the wet door, feeling the rain steadily pound his head that was jutting up over the top of the truck. He blinked to keep the rain out of his eyes and searched the sidewalk until he spied him again. “Jason!” he yelled. The young man in a blue jacket and hood turned when he heard his name called, and ran over. “My God, Lance! Where the hell have you been? They got people lookin’ for you from here to Timbuktu.” “Been layin’ low,” was all Lance would say. “Say, Jason, could you lend me a couple of bucks?” “Yeah, I guess.” Just then he saw what Lance was wearing. “What the hell is this? Didn’t you have time to get your clothes back on after—?” “Just don’t say anything. I’m in kind of a situation here and I need money. Do you have any, or not?” “Well, yeah, but...” “No, buts, pal. My lady’s freezin’ here and I have to get her someplace warm.” When he smelled the onions on Jason’s hamburger, he grabbed the bag out of his hand. “Hey!” Jason said, his eyes following the disappearing bag. “I’ll pay you back in spades, okay? You can go and get yourself another one, but she’s hungry, okay? You don’t mind do you?” “No,” he said hesitantly, “I guess not.”

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“Thanks. Now, how about goin’ across the street and renting me a motel room? You’d do that for a pal, wouldn’t you?” “Where the hell’s all your money? You don’t dance for peanuts, you know.” Lance looked down at himself. “I didn’t have a pocket to put it in. We’re wastin’ time here, Jason. You with me, or what?” Jason exhaled a loud sigh. “You been in some messes, Lance, but this tops ‘em all.” “Yeah, I know. No lectures, okay?” “Can you at least tell me where the hell you’ve been all this time? The club’s goin’ crazy tryin’ to find you.” “They reminds me. Tell Shotsy not to give away my slot. I’ll be back soon, okay?” “I’ll tell him, but you know Shotsy. He’s cashin’ in on all the publicity. You and Candace Hart have been all over the news. And that big guy’s daughter…what’s her name?” “Shania Hunter.” “Yeah, that’s her. It’s the biggest thing that’s happened in this town in ages.” How long do you think it’ll be ‘til you’re back? I know Shotsy’ll ask me. Chances are, he’ll want to plan a big comeback.” “I can’t say yet. Right now, I’ve got problems.” Jason’s eyes shifted over to Shania. “A redhead, huh? Some problem.” “It’s not what it looks like, okay? Now, how about that money?” “All right, all right, but what do I get outta this? If I’m footin’ the bill for this little rendezvous, I’d like to know what I’m layin’ my money out for.” “I’ll tell you when I’ve got time. Right now, I’m in danger of being arrested, and if I don’t get her inside soon she’ll catch cold. Now, how about it? Can I count on you?” “All right,” Jason said with some hesitation. “But next time you’re in trouble, let some other schnook bail you out.” “Yeah,” Lance said, sarcastically. “Thanks, friend.”

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Jason turned away, muttering to himself, then turned back when he heard Lance call out to him. “Hey, Jason, don’t tell anyone but Shotsy that you saw me, okay?” “Why not?” “Because, dammit, there are things about this that you don’t know. If you run to the cops or anyone else it’ll put a serious crimp in my plans.” He looked closely at Jason. “Okay?” With a slight shrug, Jason released a deep sigh. “All right. Hell, I can’t wait to hear this story.” Turning to the busy street, he stood waiting for the traffic to clear. All at once he made a mad dash toward the motel and ran inside. Within only seconds the truck lumbered up into the drive and found a parking spot. Lance gazed through the rain-splashed window, keeping his eyes on the golden glow of the cheap motel’s cracked window with the words Paradise Cove written in peeling paint. The square building was a sickly pink and the door to the office was flanked with palm trees. Almost immediately Lance saw Jason come through the door, and sighed with relief when he saw him carrying a key. “Need help getting her inside?” he asked, as he handed Lance the key. “No, I think I can handle it. Say, Jason, thanks. I’ll pay you back with interest.” “You sure as hell will,” he said, walking backwards while still speaking. “You owe me big time for this one, buddy.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lance mumbled while making several body slams to the door on his side to open it and then running through the rain to the door of the motel. Looking around furtively, he unlocked it, then made a mad dash back to the truck and struggled to get Shania out. He was getting drenched. He looked up, seeing lights all over the parking area. They were parked right in front of the room, so all he had to do was help her inside. But these damned lights...Why the hell couldn’t the parking area be dark? Leave it to him to find a motel with a conscientious owner. He looked out toward the street and saw nothing. No fence, no wall, not a shrub, or even a small bush to keep his ass from being viewed by everyone from the family pet right on up to poor old grandma. “Well, hell, here goes nothin’,” he

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mumbled. It took a few maneuvers, but he finally made it inside. After sitting Shania down on the bed, he quickly rushed to the window and looked outside, wondering if he’d drawn a crowd. When he saw nothing, he didn’t know whether to be insulted or relieved. He looked around when he heard something, and realized it was Shania’s teeth chattering. While she huddled there visibly trembling, he noticed the heating vent just below the curtains, and quickly reached for the controls. Turning it up, he then hurried over and knelt down in front of her. She was wet, her hair plastered to her head, and still wearing her nightgown with his cape wrapped around her. He immediately threw the cape off her and began tearing at the gown. Shania immediately reacted. She looked at him horrified and resisted when he tried to pull it over her head. “What are you doing?” she sobbed. He stopped for a moment. “Shania, you’re soaked to the skin. You need to get out of this—” He looked down at it. “Gown, nightie—whatever the hell it is.” “And then what?” she asked, giving him a hard, speaking look. “Shania…my God, what the hell do you think I am? The last thing on my mind is taking advantage of you,” He continued to yank at the nightie, then reached for the spread from the bed and wrapped it around her. “Right now my only concern is getting you warm, and praying to God that you haven’t caught pneumonia.” He looked her straight in the eyes, not flinching under her direct gaze. “Besides, we talked about this. You knew it was just a matter of time.” “I know that, but I expected some kind of warning! Couldn’t you have told me beforehand instead of letting me wake up and find both of you fighting over me with an ax? I almost had a heart attack!” “My God, woman, I just found out about it myself. If it hadn’t been for Dagmar you might be dead right now. When I found that witch she was just about to bring that ax down on your neck when I grabbed her. Do you know why? Tonight was the night of the full moon. Time was gone. I had to get you out of that house!” “Tonight? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

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“I tried, but that woman was all over the place. My only hope was the crawlspace, but I got lost and just barely found my way back to the tower room. I guess I’m not as good as you at exploring medieval mansions.” Shania looked up at him shyly. “Dagmar told me that my father was a big shot over at Monarch Studios. Do you know him?” “No, but I will before all this is over with. That’s my next step—to call him.” Shania lowered her head and began to softly cry. “Why can’t I remember him? He might be...Oh, Lance I’m scared!” “Here now,” Lance whispered while he reached down and wrapped her cold hands in his, “There’s no reason for that. I’m sure your father is a fine man.” Lance could feel her shaking, and began rubbing her hands. “Your hands are like ice. You need to get in bed.” “But it’s all happened so quickly. One minute we’re talking about it and the next...” “The time was right, that’s all. Come on, now. You need to get into bed.” Lance noticed her looking longingly at the bathroom. “What is it? You need to use the bathroom?” “No, I think...I think I’d like to take a hot bath. I feel—I don’t know, sort of gritty.” “Yeah, okay. You go ahead. I’ll take a quick shower later.” Lance rose slowly, suddenly feeling totally naked in front of her. He grabbed a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around himself. Then with a loud sigh, he sat back down and took Shania’s hands in his. “What the hell are we doing, Shania? Why are we so damned formal with each other? So afraid of each other? It’s not like we haven’t been together, you and I.” He reached up and placed his hand beneath her chin and lifted it. “Don’t you like me? Hell, Shania, I think you’re probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. If I’ve done something...” Shania immediately shook her head, then cast her eyes back down. “It isn’t you, Lance, It’s just...I don’t know...Outside that house it’s like a different world.” She looked at him. “Will we feel the same about each other out here?”

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“I don’t know why not. I feel the same, how about you?” With a hesitant look that could be mistaken for coy, she angled a look into his eyes, then with a gentle tilt of her lips, she smiled, setting his heart to race. “Yeah, I do, but...Well...I don’t know. I guess I’m a little shy.” Lance smiled teasingly. “I didn’t know redheads were shy.” “Sometimes...Until we get mad.” Lance laughed. “Ohhh, so that’s how it works, huh?” Shania looked around at the bed, then back at him. “Will this bed be big enough for both of us?” “Both of us?” he asked, surprised. “Oh, no. The bed’s for you. I’ll just sleep in a chair.” “Lance, I can’t ask you to do that. Besides, it’s too cold.” “We’ll see. Right now you need that bath.” “Right,” she said, then rose from in front of the welcome heat and bundled herself off to the bathroom. When the bathroom door closed, Lance slumped down in the chair, knowing the first thing he needed to do was contact her father. But not now. There was something about a dark, rainy night that scared the hell out of him. A small voice inside the phone at this time of night telling the man that he had his daughter would be just too much like a fiction novel, or a slasher movie. Besides, Shania needed sleep. They both did. The call could be made in the morning. After the rain had stopped. After this miserable night had turned mercifully to a bright, sunny day. He was deep in thought when she appeared at the door of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her face clean, her hair hanging in wet waves, away from her face. She looked like a dream. “I feel so much better,” she said. “Almost human.” She looked over at the bag and then back at him. “Is that food? Is there enough for two?” “Oh...Yeah. The hamburger and fries are for you, so you go ahead. I’ll just get in the shower.” There was something about her that made Lance feel shy. It didn’t happen often...Hell, it never happened, but now for some reason his tongue was tied, and he felt like a schoolboy. As he looked at her, all fresh and clean, his hormones shot up to the boiling point. But he

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couldn’t touch her. He scratched his head. Why couldn’t he touch her? Because she was—what? Young? Sort of little-girlish? Maybe, but it wasn’t that. She was different. She wasn’t the kind of girl you treated any old way. She was fragile, tender, like a fine work of art. Her voice was silky smooth. Her words were...Well, you could tell she was educated. No, not just educated, but well educated. While she was digging into the bag, Lance closed the bathroom door, hoping he could control his desire to sing at the top of his lungs. He loved to sing in the shower, although at any other time he couldn’t sing a lick. But there was something about standing in that little room with water pounding down on his head that made him want to bellow out a song. Hell, he sounded like Caruso. Either he was wildly talented, or the acoustics were good. He lingered in the shower a little too long, enjoying the hell out of it. When he came out he was disappointed to find that Shania was already asleep. Lance knew it was the warmth of her bath and a full stomach that had finally spread through her. It was a delicious feeling—almost sensual. His gaze shifted toward her nightgown and his g-string that hung on the back of a chair to dry, and he was reminded that they were both naked. Slowly he walked to the bed and sat down beside her. Lance felt an immediate rush of heat to his groin. He looked at her pale loveliness and couldn’t keep his hands away. She felt warm and soft, her full, pillowy lips pursed in a little girl pout. He took a chance and lightly caressed her cheek before he looked at her naked form outlined by the thin sheet. Where were the blankets? When he reached down to get them, he accidentally nudged her voluptuous breasts that quite literally took his breath away. He made an audible gasp when he saw the way her waist gradually slimmed down, then flared out in the most beautifully rounded hips he’d ever seen. God, he wanted to eat her up! He grabbed the covers and drew them up reluctantly. Leaning over her, his gaze shifted. He could feel her sweet breath, smell the soap and water from her bath, and was almost mesmerized by the red glimmer of her silky hair. And then all at once her eyes opened.

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“I was just covering you up,” he rasped, his voice heavy and deep with desire. Her green-eyed gaze raked over his face, stopping for just a moment on his mouth. She licked her pink lips, then gazed up into his eyes again. Her eyes became soft and slumberous, and a small smile twitched her mouth. Knowing he couldn’t let this moment pass, Lance moaned, then gathered her in his arms. **** The moment he touched her Shania felt an awakened response within her. She’d been having an erotic dream, and now to awaken to find a wickedly handsome man leaning over her made the fire inside her turn to burning liquid. It licked at her with a sinfully erotic tongue made of fire. It caused a hot lust to swirl inside her belly as Lance pressed himself to her. Their legs tangled together, his hips pushing against her, his moan one of deep pleasure. When his cock touched her, it sent a riot of electricity scorching through her body. She gasped, her breath taken by his hardness. She arched her back, responding to his touch, his kiss, and his whispered words of desire. His lips were a delicious dampness next to her ear as his seductive words vibrated through her, causing her to come alive in his arms. She reached up and buried her fingers in his thick hair as he sucked and chewed on her neck first, then her breasts. His hands closed around them, squeezing, his mouth licking and chewing on her nipples. The feeling burned a trail all the way through her, ending at the very center of her being, where his engorged cock pressed against her, causing an arch of electricity to spiral through her at every touch. She wanted more—God, so much more! **** Lance was surprised by Shania’s response. She was turning from an innocent child to a frenzied, wanton in his arms. She couldn’t seem to control her outcries of delight, each one sending him to even greater heights of uncontrolled passion. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his

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open mouth chewing on her ear. His tongue licked her face, her lips, then traveled down every inch of her until he reached her navel. His passion was pure and explosive as he pushed her thighs apart, opening her up. She looked swollen, ready to receive him. He could see the moistness of her juices fall slowly down, and his tongue tingled. The cover was gone, and the shapely beauty of her naked body lay tangled in the sheets, like a Greek painting. Her skin was pale, soft, and she waited for him to enter her. He opened her like the petals of a flower and his tongue touched her bud. She jumped as if electrified, and began undulating her hips. His tongue plunged deeper, until he heard her cry out like an animal in the wild. He could feel her cunt contract over and over again, her series of orgasms wild and explosive. **** “Lance, oh, God, don’t stop!” she cried. Her body craved his hands, his tongue, even his teeth. She could feel him crawling upward, his cock, heavy with desire, swinging, touching. **** Lance watched her face as he pressed himself against her, inching inside, little by little. And then when she spread her thighs and pushed her hips upward, welcoming him inside, his passion became too hot to handle, and he plunged, laying on her at last, his full naked body covering hers. He could feel her long, beautiful legs wrapping themselves around him, and her round hips pushing upward, urging him deeper inside. God, it was so good, he could lose his breath in the sheer thrill of being inside her. She bucked and pushed him into pure pleasure. He could feel the arch of satisfaction going higher and higher until the flame of his desire felt like a bubbling volcano. When he heard her cry out his name, and felt her cunt contract over and over again, he couldn’t hold back. He felt himself spew his hot liquid, while his body jerked and twitched like a mad whipcrack.

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**** The next morning while Shania was still asleep, Lance dug out the damp card with the smudged phone number on it that he had been carrying inside his g-string. He was lucky the rain hadn’t destroyed it since he had gone to great lengths to swipe it from Lorna’s Rolodex. Since the day Klaus had given him the key to his door, he had become a spy, a thief and a snoop. He’d come close to being spotted several times, but managed to get away just in time. Even Dagmar didn’t know. He hadn’t intended to trick her, but the fewer people who knew, the safer it would be for him. When he came close to being spotted all he had to do was sink into the wall until it was safe. Thank God for what he had learned from Shania. Now, as he punched in the number a man’s voice answered, and he said, “Mr. Hunter, I have your daughter...”

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Chapter 14 With the phone at his ear Ross sat on the edge of his bed listening to the whispering voice, his many muscles dancing like angry snakes under his black silk robe. “Where is she, you bastard?” he rasped, his voice low and ominous. “If you’ve done anything to her I’ll kill you so dead—” “Mr. Hunter, please. I’m a friend, I haven’t—” Ross wouldn’t listen. With his heart hammering and his lips pressed against the mouthpiece, he demanded, “I want to talk to her. Get her on the phone, you pervert. This minute, do you hear?” “I can’t, sir, she’s still sleeping. She’s had a hard night, and she’s tired. You have to understand—” “I understand only one thing. If you’ve harmed one hair...what did you do to her? Have you had your filthy hands on her? God, I’ll tear you limb from limb!” “Mr. Hunter, I realize you’re worried, but please let me speak. I’m trying to tell you that I’m doing my best to get her back to you safely. She’s lost her memory. She doesn’t know you, or anyone except those of us she’s met since this whole thing began. The last thing she remembers is being chased through the woods by someone. She doesn’t remember who. I need to meet with you right away to explain. I think it would be a mistake to—” Ross went into shock as Lance’s words echoed around him, low and deadly. ...she’s lost her memory. She doesn’t know you, or anyone....she’s lost her memory…her memory! She doesn’t know you....she doesn’t know you, or anyone! It was true—what Lorna had said was true. She had lost her memory. He’d suspected Lorna of lying, but now he realized it was all true. His mind

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went back to a dark night in the woods, and heard again the thrashing of the trees, the squawking of night birds and the pungent smell of wet dirt and grass. With blocks of time missing in his memory, he didn’t remember a lot of it, but he’d managed to piece it together. His memory had come back during that chase, and he’d called out to her not to be afraid, but she ran from him—ran from him! He winced as he felt again the pain from the broken limb that came swinging down to hit him in the face. It knocked him out, and when he came to she was nowhere around, the pounding of her feet too far away to be heard. He had struggled to his feet and tried to continue on, but had lost the trail. Would she remember the cabin—the stained knife, the blood pooling on the planked, hardwood floor? God, it must have been a hideous picture. The cottage was dark, only the light of a full moon making shadows on the floor as the wind blew the white curtains with sinister abandon. The curtains snapped in the wind, the luminous color making them look like drifting ghosts. He could only imagine what he looked like as his anger mounted. Candace had told him something…what was it? What had caused his anger to mount before everything faded into nothing? What had happened after that? It must have been a scene right out of a movie. A face etched in the moonlight leaning over a dead body. If the actor was good, he could make the scene into one that would get raves from an audience. Although Ross hadn’t been acting, he knew he must have given a memorable performance. If her memory had gone, would she remember that night? He hadn’t dug himself up out of the black oblivion until he was chasing her. Then it was too late. Someone had been killed—and Shania must have thought he had done it! How could he tell her that it wasn’t him? How could he make her believe that he was lost somewhere in the blackness of his mind? Why did she have to arrive at that precise moment? he asked himself. Why not later? An hour later, or even less? And how long would this memory lapse last? How long did he have before the picture came creeping back? Oh, God, if he could just go back and do everything differently.

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As the hellish image faded, the faint words from inside the receiver began to penetrate, and Ross came alive. “Don’t you try and tell me how to act with my own daughter,” Ross growled. “Where are you?” “We’re here in the...” Lance looked down at himself. “Oh, hell,” he muttered. He didn’t have a stitch. The man already wanted to kill him, what would he think when he saw Lance naked except for a g-string? “You’re where? Tell me, you little shit. Now!” “We’re in room number six of the Paradise Cove Motel on Sunset Boulevard. Now, look, Mr. Hunter, don’t get the wrong idea. I brought her here to get her out of the rain. I’m an exotic dancer. Hell, I don’t even have any clothes. By the way,” Lance said hesitantly. “When you come, could you bring some clothes, and a pair of shoes?” Ross looked down at the receiver. “What is this? Where are your clothes? What are you doing in a motel room with my daughter, and no clothes?!” “Sir, it’s not what you think. Please. I’ll explain when you get here.” “Hell, yes, you’ll explain. And mark my words young man, if I find anything wrong, you’ll rue the day you were born.” He quickly slammed the phone down. Why the hell didn’t he tell that young punk off? Asking for clothes—shoes. But his speech had been sprinkled with the word, sir—a term of respect. He’d fought against it, but when he heard it everything in him turned to mush. Thinking back on it, he knew the boy’s voice was smooth, not threatening. His words were helpful, not demanding. He’d said he was only trying to help, so maybe the boy was being honest. He thought about calling the cops in on it, but if the boy was telling the truth, there was no need. Besides they hadn’t been any help so far, so he dismissed the idea. He jumped up, went to his closet and dressed. Before he left, he tore some clothes off a hanger, picked up a pair of old shoes, and slammed out of the house. Within only minutes, it seemed, Ross was tearing into the motel parking lot, jumping out of his car and looking for room number six. When he found it he barged in without knocking, and saw Lance lunge to his feet. With quick movements he threw the clothes in his direction and then edged

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close to the bed and looked closely at his daughter. “So what’s the story? Where did you find her? Is she all right? She’s not hurt is she?” “She’s just fine, sir. We’ve both been through a pretty harrowing experience, but—” Ross turned to Lance. “Harrowing experience? What do you mean?” After Lance explained everything, Ross sat with his face buried in his hands, tears falling through his fingers. “I’ll kill the bitch,” he said. “I’ll tear her apart with my bare hands. I’ll…” Suddenly his words faded when he lifted his head and noticed that the bed was severely tumbled. All at once his head snapped around, and he glared at Lance. “The bed…Why you bastard. You slept with her.” **** Lance’s throat began working as if he were trying to swallow rocks. He wanted to tell him the truth, but you just don’t blurt out to a father that you had slept with his daughter, so he had no choice but to lie. “No, no sir, I...I didn’t.” Ross indicated toward the bed. “The bed tells a different story, you little creep.” “She had a rough night...bad dreams. She thrashed around a lot. I was only on the bed long enough to bring her out of it, that’s all.” He turned toward the chair. “I slept there, where the blanket is.” Thankfully Lance had remembered to put the blanket back on the chair, making it look as if he were telling the truth. Ross gave a sinister chuckle, then stood, glaring at him. “A blanket on a chair is supposed to prove something? Young people,” he said, an evil smile dancing about his lips. “They’re so—stupid!” Lance stood to his feet slowly, taking a defensive stance. He could hardly believe the radical change that had taken place in the man. He had become murderous in only a few seconds time. He watched Ross, wondering what was going on inside him. Was he always this changeable? What had suddenly turned him into a scowling brute? He knew Ross Hunter

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was a powerful man, but one moment he was amiable, and the next he looked at him as if he wanted to crush anyone who got in his way. Lance lowered his eyes to his claw-like hands. What had he said that had turned those hands into fists, and his blood to fire? “Do you know who I am?” Ross asked as he slowly advanced on Lance. “I was told that you’re Shania’s father,” Lance said while searching his thoughts for what else he’d been told. “And, uh, head of Monarch Studios.” “And you thought you could get my attention by abducting my daughter? Are you in cahoots with Lorna Desmond? I’m sure you know the bitch tricked me into giving her a contract. And now here you are—” His gaze raked down Lance’s muscular frame. “Young, handsome, strong. What the hell did you do it for? Are you hoping for a nice, juicy part in a movie, perhaps? Well, forget it! I deal with scum like you every day, and I crush them with no more than a twist of my wrist,” he said, lifting his hand and closing it in a deadly fist. Lance saw the fingers tighten, imagining the blood of some poor soul that might drip through his fingers. “Sir, you...you’ve got this all wrong.” **** There it was—the word...sir. It stopped Ross in his tracks. What was it about the word that got to him? He remembered saying it to his father—over and over again. He winced when he remembered his father’s hand gripping his jaw in a bruising clench. His fingers were like cords of steel against his young face. And his father’s eyes—God, he could swear the pupils elongated, stabbing him like daggers, demanding that he say it until he was so tired he turned limp in his father’s arms. It was a term of respect his father pounded into him over and over again. And he would have it, he told Ross, even if he had to nail him to the wall to make him say it. And now this young man was saying it to him, bringing to the surface the good guy image that was buried beneath all the power and hatred that made up Ross Hunter. He shook his head to get the cobwebs out. He didn’t know who he was anymore. Was he the nice, normal guy who headed the studios during the

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day, or was he the monster who bared his perfect teeth and thought nothing of spilling blood to get what he wanted? Like he had that night—the night that Shania had seen him—the night he turned and saw her standing there, her eyes wide with horror when she saw the blade in his hand. “Where the hell did you come from?” he rasped, fury etched on his face. “Ken brought me...” she began, her words fading as the bloody picture took shape. Her steps quickly halted and she stood frighteningly still. “No,” she whispered over and over again as if refusing to believe what she saw before her eyes. She began backing away, and then whirled around to run from the hated scene as fast as she could. Seeing her take flight, Victor lunged up from his crouch and grabbed her. Holding her in his steel grasp he struggled with her until he got to the car, then threw her in. He watched her while he started the engine—the look she gave him. “The bitch deserved it, Shania,” the deep, gravelly voice said, so unlike her father’s. “But...That was C-Candace Hart. She’s been killed. There’s...bblood...everywhere—” “You didn’t see anything, do you hear? Nothing!” With that he jerked the car into motion, backed it out and sped down one dark canyon after the other—turning sharply—the tires squeaking—the lights of the car zigzagging crazily—the trees looking like ghosts. Suddenly he felt a swath of cold air and looked to see Shania dangerously jumping from the car. The car jerked and swayed, the wheels skidding to a halt. He jumped out just in time to see her run into the woods and chased her until the limb came crashing down on him. When he awoke she was gone. He tried to follow, but the woods were too dark—too dense. He had no choice but to go back to the cottage and finish the job of burying his victim. Now he looked at Lance—at the look of fear on his face and remembered his words. It’s not what you think. No, maybe it isn’t, Ross thought. He knew how it could feel to be caught in a compromising

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situation—have blood on your hands, and be innocent of that blood. The boy must have known how this would look—a motel room, no clothes. And yet he had taken the chance to get Shania back where she belonged. Ross reached up and pressed the bridge of his nose between his eyes. “God, I’m sorry. I’ve been out of my mind with worry.” “It’s okay,” Lance said, with some relief. He couldn’t figure the man out. He was a monster one minute, a nice guy the next. Why not, he thought. Look at all the stress the man has been under. Just then Ross saw what looked like a woman’s nightgown on the chair, and a red cape. He indicated toward the gown with a nod. “What’s that? Is that Shania’s nightgown?” He turned and looked back at Lance. “What the hell’s it doing over there instead of on her?” “It was what she was wearing when I took her from the house—” “You didn’t even give her time to get dressed?” “There wasn’t time. That woman was standing over her with an ax. My only thought was to get Shania out before she was killed. Clothes didn’t matter at that point.” “But California’s been hit with a monster cold front! It must have been—I don’t know—forty, maybe even thirty degrees last night!” “I realize that, but...Well, the truck heater was warm, and I thought I could take her to my apartment, but I ran into trouble. Since I was gone so long my landlady...Anyway, by the time we got here the gown was soaked, along with my red cape.” Ross looked back over toward the cape. “You mean that thing?” “Yes sir. Like I told you, I’m an exotic dancer. All I had to give her was my cape—part of my costume. They were both soaked so I put them there to dry.” “You mean she’s naked under there?” “Yes sir,” he said, expecting fireworks. “Sir, believe me—” “Did you take it off her?” “No...I mean, I tried, but she fought me—” “Did you see my daughter naked?” Ross bellowed.

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“No sir,” he lied. “She went into the bathroom and took a bath. I mean...She took it off there.” Ross said nothing as his gaze stabbed at Lance from beneath his dark, furrowed brow. “I’m anxious to hear my daughter’s version of this story you tell,” Ross said, his voice unusually soft. “Tell me, son, will hers agree with yours?” “Well...Sure, but keep in mind she’ll be telling it from her point of view.” “Then you have nothing to fear. But if just one thing—” Just then a moan came from the bed, and the two men turned, looking at the covered figure as she sat up and clutched a blanket to her breast. As she stared at them, her wide, searching eyes jumped from Lance to her father’s face. Something about him made her feel uneasy—something she tried to remember, but couldn’t.

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Chapter 15 Lipstick. She needed lipstick. As she searched her cosmetics drawer she couldn’t believe she was finally safe and sound once again in her own room. Her father had welcomed her home with gifts and food and friends, but sometime she found herself thinking about Lance—and Dagmar. What would happen to them? A frown appeared on her face as she continued to rattle around in her cosmetics drawer. Oh, darn. Why couldn’t she find what she wanted? She needed a bright, vivid color to bring out her eyes. Suddenly her scratching hands stilled when she found it. Giving it a good twist, she looked into the mirror while she smeared it on her lips. All at once her hand stopped, and her eyes narrowed on the red color—the wet, vivid color that reminded her of something. But what? All at once she felt dizzy and dropped the tube, her eyes not seeing her bedroom, but looking into a scene of darkness. Curtains billowing. A knife. A knife in her father’s hands. Blood pooling on a hardwood floor. No. No, it couldn’t be. Her father wouldn’t kill, he wouldn’t take a life. He wouldn’t—he simply wouldn’t! It was all coming back to her—unfurling in her mind like a movie on the wide, curving cinemascope screen. She hadn’t been having such a great time, so she’d decided to ask Ken, her friend’s brother, to drive her to her father’s beach cottage. She knew he would be there with a guest, a woman he’d been seeing. The minute she and Ken had swerved into the drive, she knew something was wrong. “It’s dark,” Ken said as they inched closer. “Are you sure someone’s here?” Without answering him, she frowned. “Do you hear something? Something that sounds like music?”

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“It must be coming from inside. Looks like your dad left without turning the stereo off.” He turned to her, a worried look on his face. “No one’s here, Shania, are you sure you want to stay?” Putting on a bright smile, she turned to him. “Sure. It’ll be okay. He’s probably watching TV or something. I’ll tell him to turn the volume down.” With a chuckle, she said, “You know how old people are.” “Yeah, I guess,” he said, then reached over and opened the door for her. “If you want, I could probably stay for a while.” “Don’t be silly, everything’s fine.” She scooted out of the car, but noticed that he continued staring at the cottage as if he were worried. She leaned into the window and said teasingly, “So go already. I need my beauty sleep.” “As if you needed it. You could stay up from now ‘til Christmas and still be the best lookin’ gal around.” “Flatterer,” she said, giving him a silly grin. “Hey, there’s a new movie—” “Ken, don’t start that again.” “I know, I know. I’m Ginny’s brother and going out with me would be like...Hey, would it help to tell you I’m adopted?” Shania chuckled. “Get out of here—now!” He shrugged. “Okay. Well, good night, sleep tight, don’t let—” “Ken, please. I know the rest.” Feigning a look of irritation, she said, “And we don’t have bedbugs!” “D’ya want a few of mine? I could—” “Ken, will you go?” she said, laughing. “Okay, see you later,” he said with a good natured smile. With a sharp tug, he shifted the gears, then turned to maneuver his way out of the drive. She watched him as he inched down the drive, then waved when he sped down the street. Turning around, she felt a chill when she looked at the cottage that sat back from the road like a crouching monster in the night. She walked slowly up to the door, a somber expression replacing her smile. A wave of apprehension swept through her. She took a deep breath, but it was impossible to steady her erratic pulse. Strangely enough, the door was

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ajar, but she hesitated as she crept in, feeling like an intruder, and looking everywhere for some sign of life, but finding none. Since the cottage was multi-leveled, she climbed about three steps to get to the living room where she could hear something. A grunt...a groan...the sound of something heavy being pulled along the floor. And then she saw him—a man with a knife in his hand bending over a woman! Oh, my God, it was her father! At the moment of recognition, the music burst into a crashing crescendo with cymbals banging and drums booming. Since the picture was like so many she’d seen on a movie screen she thought for a moment they must be rehearsing a scene. But the music...Where was it coming from? Her eyes darted to the entertainment center, and she saw a turntable spinning crazily, the loud symphony blasting through the giant speakers. To make the scene perfect, the needle got stuck and it continued to play the same ear-splitting piece over and over again, the sharp, musical notes pounding at her brain. She rejected what she saw, yet there he was, leaning down over the woman. He hadn’t seen her yet, and she didn’t know what to do. Turn? Run? Say something! Anything! And then his head turned. Now it would happen. Now the two of them would get up and laugh, telling her that she had interrupted a rehearsal. But, no. It wouldn’t happen because when he turned, there was fury on his face. All too soon she knew the worst had happened. No playacting. No rehearsal. No scene from a horrible movie. IT WAS REAL! Fear choked her when she realized that her father was bending over the woman because he’d murdered her. But why? What had happened? What would bring him to this point? These questions that had no answers whirled around in her mind until she couldn’t stand to look at the gruesome picture another minute—a picture that was etched in the moonlight. Restless waves crashed against the black, sinister rocks on the shore just outside the French doors where white curtains billowed and waved in the stiff wind—a sinister symphony stuck on a series of pounding notes that were stabbing her brain. Forcing herself out of her frozen state, she turned to run, but not soon enough. Her father moved like lightning, grabbing her around the waist and hauling her to his car. Still

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covered with blood, he was taking her somewhere. But where? Through the windshield she watched the winding road ahead of her—the trees, the houses speeding by. Where was he taking her? Would he kill her too? Had she seen too much? Desperation gripped her and she took a chance, jumping out of the car. She could feel the scraping of her body along the blacktop— the burning sensation, and the hot/cold tingle when the wind blew against it. She was bruised, bleeding, but still alive, so she wrenched herself up off the ground and began running until she reached the edge of the woods—and the house belonging to Lorna Desmond. What a deadly twist to an already miserable night. Now, as she sat looking at her red lips, she turned to see her father standing at the door. “It was you,” she whispered, her eyes wide with fear. The smile disappeared from her father’s face. Something was happening inside him. No longer was he the doting father, now he sensed danger. Something was threatening him. With a slight shiver, he lowered his head and Ross left. What looked up at Shania now was someone else. His eyes became sharp, dark, and menacing. “I was hoping you’d forgotten—that you had pushed it so far in the back of your mind that it would never reappear.” Shania couldn’t believe the transformation she’d seen. This wasn’t her father standing before her, but someone she didn’t know. His hair bristled, his shoulders rose like small mountains, and his stance became threatening. “Who are you?” she whispered. An evil smiled played along his grim lips. “Who do you think I am?” “I don’t know, but you’re not my father.” A look filled his eyes that told Shania he knew he’d been found out. “My name is Victor,” he rasped, “and I’ve had the unhappy task of carrying your father around for ten years.” “You mean—” “Yes. I’m another personality—the stronger one. No, let me rephrase that. I’m the evil one.” He began to advance on her. “He smiles, I kill. He’s a doting father, I’m a devil. I was the one in the cottage that night—the one who chased you. I do his killing for him. I fuck his women, and I spend his money. That’s who I am! I keep Monarch Studios from going under. It

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would have gone into bankruptcy years ago if it weren’t for me. But I saved it. I gathered together a network of men who do my bidding, and I pay them well. Ross is too soft, he lets people run over him. I’ll kill them before they do that to me. Just like I’ll kill that bitch Lorna Desmond one day. Over-thehill divas give me a pain. What they do to Ross, they do to me. And they pay! She’ll pay like all the others because she manipulated Ross into giving her a contract. It was Ross’ brilliant plan to show her what she looked like on the screen, but it’ll be me who reaps the rewards. It’s her plan that each of those who had a part in that humiliating experience go down—one by one. And soon it’ll be your father’s turn. That’s when I step in. I look forward to spilling her blood like I look forward to fucking a beautiful woman. I tingle when I think of it. I close my eyes and visualize how it’ll be—when her bitch’s blood is spilled!” She was confused by this confession. He was her father, yet he wasn’t. He was a nice guy, yet he was a killer! He was brutal, vicious, where her father was strong, yet gentle. This man looked at her out of eyes that could kill, yet her father’s eyes held nothing but tenderness. She’d heard of things like this—dual personalities, but had never known her father was a victim. He continued to advance, his expression becoming ever darker, his thoughts unreadable. It seemed as if something evil was coiling inside him. “D-d-d-daddy,” she sobbed as she crept along the wall. “Where are you? Please help me, d-daddy! Please!” **** “Save it, bitch! He isn’t coming. And now that you know…” Suddenly he frowned and clutched his head. The words pounded like mallets against his psyche—echoing over and over. Clouds of darkness blinded him. He was fading. He knew if he didn’t act fast it would be too late, so he lunged forward and grabbed her throat and squeezed. But it was too late. Suddenly he felt the darkness descending, and yelled, “Noooooooooo!” as he faded into oblivion.

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The first sensation Ross became aware of was Shania struggling against him. He could tell she was terrified and held her to him for a long moment trying to soothe her. When she continued to struggle he pulled her back and looked her in the eyes. “Look at me, Shania, look!” Her eyes grew sharp as they searched his face, and then all at once she grabbed him. “Oh, daddy, thank God! I was so frightened!” “I know, sweetheart,” he said, and finally pulled her away and looked at her closely. “Shania, do you trust me?” “Daddy, of course.” “Then listen and do what I say, okay?” “Daddy, what…” She began, her eyes fearful. “Just listen, honey.” While wringing his hands, he paced, and then abruptly turned to her and blurted out, “Shania…you have to stay away from me, do you hear? Move out of this house! Now! Today! I’ll put you up at a hotel...Anywhere...Until—” “Daddy, why didn’t you tell me about your problem?” He looked at her surprised. “You know?” “Not at first, but I figured it out.” “I’m sorry, honey. I wanted to tell you. I tried to a million times, but I just couldn’t let myself. It’s not the kind of problem you discuss—not even with your family. He looked down at Shania with eyes of love. “Thank God you’re all right. He didn’t hurt you, did he?” “No, I’m fine, daddy.” “How about your memory? How much has come back?” “Everything, Daddy.” “Thank God,” he whispered. “I have a small idea what you’ve been through with the memory losses I’ve experienced. I find blocks of time from my life lost. I know that’s when—” He hesitated, looking at her as he said the name. “When Victor comes out and takes control. I don’t know where I’ve been, what I’ve done, and I have to cover up constantly when someone speaks of something that happened during that blackout. It’s a miserable existence.” “But you came when I called. You must have heard me.”

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“It happens that way sometime...The tears. The urgency of your voice— ” He looked at her, his eyes softening. “The love I feel. Oh, baby, when I think of what he might have done to you.” “Why haven’t you tried to get help of some kind?” He shrugged as he paced. “Hell, Shania, I’m a well-known man— famous in my own right. If it became known that I had a dual personality...My God, I’d probably lose the studio—everything I have. It’s a well-guarded secret that has to stay that way.” He turned and looked at her. “You have to promise me that you won’t speak of this to anyone.” “Yes, but what do I do when he comes out?” He grasped her shoulders. “That’s why I want you to move out, sweetheart. Don’t even tell me where you are. I’ll set up a bank account for you, and keep a watch on it. To keep you safe, I won’t try to find you.” “But...what about him? You can’t live like this, daddy.” “I know, I know,” he said, raking his fingers through his hair. “I suppose I do have to think about help of some kind.” “Daddy, therapists are sworn to secrecy. I don’t think you have anything to be concerned about.” “It’s not them, honey, it’s the damned media that worries me. They have an uncanny ability to find out anything they want to know. I get chills every time I think about it. And if it did leak out…God, if it did, I don’t know what I’d do.” “I know I’m not much, but I’ll always be here for you, Daddy.” He smiled a soft smile. “I know you will, precious, and it does mean a lot.” **** After packing a few bags and checking into a prominent Beverly Hills hotel, Shania stood by the bed looking around at the opulence, but feeling ill at ease. She was alone and scared. Sitting on the bed she was surrounded by darkness except for a single lamp and the flickering of the lights of Hollywood outside her balcony. She could hear a slow, romantic tune from

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another room that had a calming effect on her and she became suddenly tired. With a sigh she laid back on a pillow and unconsciously began humming the song, Dancing in the Dark. **** The fucking sonofabitch! Lorna thought while sizzling with anger. She was thinking of the night Lance had wrenched the hatchet from her hands. She’d had the little whore right where she wanted her, the dim night light marking the spot where the cold glittering blade of her ax would land. And then before she knew what was happening, he was there grabbing her hands, struggling with her. When she’d come to they were gone! Both of them! Her dark midnight gaze cut toward Dagmar as the sloppy housekeeper set a plate of food before her. “Did you help them?” she rasped while pushing her face into Dagmar’s. Then looking down at the food before her, she hissed, “Is it poisoned? Now that they’re gone, do you want to get rid of me too? Where would you go, you little freak? Where? Has one of them promised to take care of you? They lie! Remember that the next time you think of sprinkling cyanide into my food.” Dagmar trembled, her quivering hand causing the plate to hit the table with a loud thud that seemed to punctuate Lorna’s vicious words. Every move she made was uncertain. She’d become resigned to the fact that she was going to die and was trapped in this godforsaken mansion with the maniac who was going to do it. If she tried to escape like the others, where would she go? Dagmar no longer had a mischievous gleam in her eyes, or received pleasure from goading Lorna into a confrontation. She watched her constantly. Like now, when with an abrupt movement Lorna pushed the plate away and cruelly pushed Dagmar aside. She watched Lorna while she walked—no floated—like a ghost into the parlor. She looked down at the full plate and picked it up just as she had so many other times. How did the woman live? She moved, breathed, thought, planned and spoke, but she

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didn’t eat. Maybe the revenge she exacted on those she hated kept her alive. Once that was done, what would happen? Would she turn on Dagmar? Or would she shrivel up and die? With dread filling her, Dagmar turned to go back into the kitchen, and with a utensil, made a scraping sound as she dumped good food down the garbage disposal. Why did she even bother to cook? She knew why. It was because she didn’t know how to do anything else. Every day she went about this mausoleum and cleaned, made beds, dusted—only because she had to be doing something. Something to keep her from thinking about her approaching death. **** Lorna floated around the familiar room like a ghost. She looked at the faded photographs, the memories of those famous faces burning her brain. Some were still alive, but some were dead. It was the dead ones who called out to her. She could hear their tears, their whispered pleas. Mostly at night. In her dreams. Their dead faces would float before her eyes, crying out for revenge. Others had been cast aside like so much debris. Hiding in obscure California villages where no one knew them. Raising dogs. Making wine. Pretending an interest in something other than their image on a screen— their voices floating through a darkened theater. Alive or dead, they had all lived a dream, as she had. And now that dream was gone. Her gaze shifted to her own photograph. She was every bit as beautiful and glamorous as the others, and had felt what they must have felt at one time. The humiliation of being cast aside. Yes, they had all been wronged. First comes the adoration, the whispered promises in a dark room, the envy, the abuse. And then before you know it, no one cares anymore. Many of these poor souls were dead now, putrefying in the earth. But she was still alive. They had paid the price, and could do nothing in their defense. But she could—and would again, in their names—every time she raised that ax, and swiftly lowered it! The mere thought of spurting blood and severed heads brought a smile to Lorna’s lips. For some reason she felt free inside. Murder did that for you.

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It freed you from inhibitions. Now that she had committed murder, she had no qualms about doing it again. And again. And again! It triggered a wicked arousal within her that had to be satisfied. She thought of Klaus, but the clock told her it was late. Besides, Klaus took sleeping pills and at this time of night he’d be out cold. Perhaps there was something closer at hand, she thought as she crossed the foyer to her room. Opening the door, Lorna moved to stand in front of her mirror, her hand tugging the top button of her silk blouse. The blue material clung to her skin in a way that molded her breasts. They were marvelous, she thought. She finally released the button, and with the practiced ease of a lover’s caress she pushed the thin material aside and revealed their voluptuous form. Her slumberous lids closed as she lovingly fingered her nipples. They were large, blatantly erotic, and just the sight of them stirred the warmth in her groin and caused it to spread upward, enveloping her body in flames. Picking up her vibrator, and pushing the tiny button, she held it out in front of her and smiled at the slight tremor—the pulsation—the throb. This was her lover tonight, she thought as she shifted her eyes and looked again at her naked body in the mirror. She thought of it inside her—moving—causing hot tremors to swirl through her as she pushed and pulled. Slowly she brought the phallic-shaped object down, and closed her dark, wanton eyes. The whirrrrrr of the cold, smooth device immediately caused erotic tremors as she pressed it into herself. “Ohhhhhhh,” she groaned. The vibration warmed her, excited her, the feeling like a sparkling tide upon tide of raging desire as she moved it around inside her. Feeling weak in her knees, she fell back on her bed moaning and groaning, sweat breaking out along her forehead. Her hips became loose, and in her thoughts an image appeared. He gyrated on the stage in his devil’s costume and her mind’s eyes narrowed on his g-string where his cock was hidden, and yet clearly outlined for all to see. God, it was long, hard, and on a few dark nights had reached deep inside her cunt to the very hilt. The thoughts of his sleek, hard, masculine body spiraled her upward into the volcanic zone of pure ecstasy,

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and when she soared over the top, her cunt contracting around the vibrator over and over again, she screamed, with no one to hear her except Dagmar, who didn’t matter since she was barely human. She lay there mellowing out for a time, wrapped in a blanket of heated pleasure. But when she opened her eyes and saw her own creamy substance all over the vibrator, she came plummeting back down to earth, and threw it against the wall. She turned over then, and cried into a pillow. A vibrator was all right if all you wanted was a quick orgasm, but she wanted a man. A man to fill her arms. A man to feel heavy and hot. A man she could wrap her legs around and cling to as he worked over her to bring her to a climax. She wanted to hear grunts and groans, feel sweat from his body, smell tobacco, cologne. She wanted his cock to be long, hard, velvety, not slick and cold like a damned machine! You couldn’t suck a machine, and smell a man’s sex all over it. You couldn’t feel it twitch, taste the secretions as his excitement grew. And you couldn’t feel a pair of hot balls slap against you as he pumped in and out. No, you would have none of that with a—fucking machine! **** The next day she put on her sexiest outfit, a pair of sunglasses, her feathers, and a low-brimmed hat, and went to sit in the lobby of the Hollywood Park, one of the film capital’s cheaper hotels. Time passed slowly, so she sauntered into the lounge, then passed time in the gift shop while furtively peering over her sunglasses. Finally a man struck up a conversation with her, his proposition made in low, suggestive tones. Lorna glanced around as if afraid of being seen, then agreed when the man suggested he rent a room. As they lay on the hot bed of erotic pleasure, the sheets tangled about them, a primal growl erupted from her throat as the burning flames of illicit desire bathed her. A man’s heavy body covered her. It didn’t matter that he was a nameless, faceless stranger. He was a man and she could smell his cologne, and could feel his hard cock as it pushed, pulled, in, out, over and over again bringing her to such erotic heights, she

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felt herself floating in a pool of sensual pleasure. The room smelled of dark, smutty, illicit sex while her arms held him tight and her legs wrapped around him. Her hips were loose, her breasts being squeezed by a master, and a wet mouth sucked at her neck and breasts. He bounced on top of her until her wild desire found release, and began crashing inside her like the waves of a wild, untamed ocean. But she wouldn’t let him go. She had him again and again—until the sun set in the sky—until her body had been used to such an extent that she ached. And what a delightful, sinful ache it was.

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Chapter 16 Weak moonlight leaked through ragged clouds. The ghost light that fell through a large window filled the night around him with evil. But his daughter was safe, and Ross was primed and ready to fight the two enemies who wanted to destroy him. One—his other self. An enemy as insubstantial and ghost-like as a puff of smoke. But the other, a mad woman he had come close to idolizing in his distant past. During the days he ran the studio, feeling Lorna’s presence everywhere—in his thoughts, over his shoulder, in every corner. At night he existed behind closed drapes, locked doors and a darkness so intense he could feel its touch on his skin. He’d never been so afraid. One by one his colleagues were going down. And now it was his turn to wake up some dark night to a mad face looking down on him—a glittering, cold-bladed hatchet descending toward his neck. He’d given up on the police. All they saw was her glamour—what she’d once been. Only he knew the truth—that she was a vindictive killer wrapped in a glittering façade. His only recourse was to kill her before she killed him, and it was possible he would get his chance tonight. Here in this wilderness—in his hunting cabin. He’d chosen it with the showdown in mind. He knew she wouldn’t be able to resist the remote area, and he walked nervously toward the large bay window that looked out on a lake. It was the perfect set-up—dark, woodsy, so far from civilization her screams couldn’t be heard. The minutes ticked by. ****

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“That’s her,” the stranger whispered to the man close to him. “The one with the sunglasses and feathers.” “That’s Lorna Desmond? Are you sure?” “Hell, yes! I fucked the hell out of her last week. She comes to the hotel almost every day, waits a while, then goes to a room with any man who asks.” “How is she?” “I’ve never had anyone so damned hot. All you have to do is tell her how beautiful she is. You know, talk about the past—how many movies you’ve seen her in, and it gets her so hot, she’ll climb all over you!” “Has she ever done it with more than one?” the man asked. “I don’t know, but she’ll do any damned thing you want her to.” **** When Lorna saw the men talking, she could feel herself becoming excited. This had been the third time—or was it the fourth?—that she’d been at this hotel. She would hang around in the bar or the gift shop, then sit alone in the lobby meeting glances with a slightly slanted, come-hither look. Her sunglasses and hat that she kept pulled down over her face gave her a hint of mystery, but after a while the men recognized her, and knew what she was there for. This recognition made her nervous. If the management learned of her presence, she would be asked to leave and the humiliation would crush her. But she couldn’t stop. And now she’d been spotted by a couple of men who were walking toward her. She could tell by the look in their eyes that they liked fun and games, and she could feel the flames begin to dance in her groin. Finding this hotel had been a stroke of luck. The first time she had come here it had been a series of straight fucks that lasted ‘til almost midnight. The next time she’d been tied to the bedpost, and the sex had been rough, exciting—almost like rape. The next time there had been an audience, and now, it looked as if she would have two at once. While she was watching them come toward her, her gaze shifted and she saw the manager of the hotel come into view. She quickly pulled down her

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hat to hide her face while fear spiked through her. Quickly throwing down the stub of a lighted cigarette, she found herself slipping out the door, still feeling the ache of unsatisfied lust flaming inside her. With quick steps she ran down the dark street, her feathers drifting on the breeze. When she slammed into her front door, she leaned against it, breathing deeply. All at once tears began to course down her cheeks. What had she become? She was a star who had been reduced to waiting in a hotel lobby for a pick up. She knew she’d been playing with fire, but she couldn’t stop! Her needs—her appetites were simply too great. It usually started with a drink in the hotel bar with a lot of talk about her career, until the stranger propositioned her. Naturally, she fluttered a little, her feathers dancing in the breeze, but eventually they made it up the stairs and into a dark room. No sooner did the door close than the two of them would begin stripping, and sometimes an orgasm would be reached before they even made it to the bed. But it didn’t end there. There were games, positions, tongues, fingers—even obscenities muttered in her ear that turned her into a screaming wanton. Her cold, unfeeling vibrator was all she had—and then she remembered him. Desperately she ran up the steps to the tower, and it was only when she slammed into the room that she remembered he wasn’t there. Lorna stood looking at his bed—at the tangled sheets that still held his fragrance, and her eyes closed. Where was he? Who had let him out? No, it wasn’t Dagmar, she was reasonably certain about that. But if not, then it had to have been Klaus. She wilted down on the bed feeling betrayed. His scent was everywhere. She leaned backward, pulling the sheet and pillows over her feeling the familiar ache in her groin. She wanted him so badly. Her thoughts went back to the nights he’d fucked her. God, it was glorious! If only he were here now. She turned over on her stomach and pushed her pussy against the mattress, feeling its firmness pressing back. The ache in her groin grew stronger. She needed a man so badly. All at once her thoughts went to Ross, and her ungodly desire turned to hate. An ugly picture unfurled in her mind—of blood, a hatchet, and Ross lying dead. She gasped, her breath short and panting. God, seeing him like that was almost as good as an orgasm. He had spread it all over town that

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he’d be at his hunting lodge tonight, so all she had to do was...And then suddenly it dawned on her that Ross wasn’t hiding from her. No! He wanted her to know. And to meet him there! All at once a swirl of dementia caused her to sway. She put the back of her hand to her forehead, then looked around at the empty room. What was she doing here, when Ross was waiting for her? She bolted up and ran toward the door. She had to go to him. She could see them now, curled up together on his bed, his hard, generous cock plunging into her just as it had years ago! Slamming into her car, her body was filled with desire so explosive she couldn’t concentrate on where she was going. Too many lights, turns, hills to climb, dark canyon roads to navigate...And then she arrived. Sudden fear coursed through her. It had been so long. Would she be good enough, or would it be like going home? His arms and lips familiar, his whispers as wet and erotic as ever? At last she was there. The cabin sat dark and alone, only one light shining through the window. Putting on her brake, she stealthily climbed out, her eyes staying on the little cottage where he waited. **** Ross paced with a drink in his hand. The clock over the mantel told him it was after midnight, yet nothing had happened. Not a hesitant footfall, a pair of shadowy eyes looking through a window—nothing! And then his head jerked around when he heard a subtle knock. It scared him so badly he sloshed his drink. Setting it down, he wiped himself off with the bar rag and went to the door. Nothing he would ever see again in his life would surprise him as much as what he saw at his door. A pair of sunglasses, a Greta Garbo hat with a brim that fell down over her face, and Joan Crawford pumps. A slight smile lifted her lips. “I’m here,” she said. Ross was speechless. “So you are.” He looked down. “Where’s your hatchet?” “Oh, Ross, you’re so funny,” she said, then pushed past him.

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As soon as she entered, her feathers fell to the floor, revealing a gun that was pointed at him. “No hatchet this time, Ross. A clean kill—a little noisy, maybe, but not as messy as a knife.” “Why the change?” “To keep them guessing,” she said as her eyes lifted, and surveyed the room. “Nice place. A little rustic for my taste, but it’ll do.” “It’s a hunting lodge, Lorna, not a house in Wilshire Park.” He nodded toward the gun. “Well, are you going to use that, or is it show and tell time?” Lorna looked down at the gun as if she’d forgotten she had it. “Oh, this?” She shrugged, the gun bobbing slightly before dropping it in her purse. “Can’t have drama without a gun. I love drama, don’t you? Surprises, twists and turns. Keeps an audience on the edge of their seats.” “Well, it certainly had me on the edge of mine.” “Don’t get me wrong. Before I leave tonight, you’ll be dead.” “At least one of us will be,” Ross said, leaning over to get a cigarette out of an ornate cigarette box. Placing it in his mouth, he looked at Lorna while picking up a table lighter. “Can I offer you a cigarette? A drink, maybe?” “There’s only one thing I want from you.” “And that is?” Ross said as he touched the tiny flame to the cigarette. Lorna walked up to him slowly and leaned into him. Reaching up she ran her fingers through his crisp, graying hair. “Can’t you guess?” He turned his head and nosily blew the smoke into the air, and then looked down at her, his eyes growing dark. “Money? Food? A back rub? What? If you think I can make you young again, you’re wrong. There’s not enough goddamned make-up in all of Hollywood to do that.” Turning away from her, he walked to the window and looked out at the monstrous silhouettes of dark trees—the kind that scared little children in fairy tales. Glancing back at her, he said, “Face it, Lorna. The past is gone and done with. I’m sorry you grew old. Hell, I’m sorry I grew old, but there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.” He inclined his head toward her purse. “Now if you’re going to get your revenge by burying a bullet in my heart,

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then do it. Otherwise, I’d suggest you get your over-the-hill ass out of here and let me get some sleep.” “You bastard!” she said, her eyes narrowing in anger. She reached over and grabbed at her purse. Quickly digging the gun out, she pointed it at him. “Take your clothes off!” “What?” “You heard me. Clothes off, and on your back, buster.” “Lorna, this is beneath you. It’s a scene right out of—” “Everything is a movie to you, isn’t it, Ross. Well, if they ever do make a movie of my life—” “Your life? I was going to say—” She raised a haughty eyebrow. “Yes, my life!” Her eyes took a quick glance around the cabin, then back to Ross. “No doubt they’ll include this little scene. And the beautiful actress who plays me will say—” Suddenly her voice became low and threatening—”Strip, Ross.” Ross looked at her, his eyes full of disbelief. “My God, I can’t believe this. You’re going to rape me!” All at once a loud bark of laughter sounded. “Lorna, dear, the man does the raping. The woman—she’s a piece of meat, an object, a toy. Created by God for man’s use. There’s no way in hell you could rape me. Not while I’m in my right mind, and functioning like a normal, healthy man!” “No?” She waved the gun in his face. “This little beauty tells me otherwise.” Her face took on a threatening scowl. “You make one move— just one that I don’t want you to, and you’ll be...What do they say in the wild west? Eating lead? Pushing up daisies?” With one quick move, she whirled him around, grabbed his hands and clamped her handcuffs on his wrists. Now the big man was hers, she thought as she roughly pushed him down on the couch. Like a wild woman she was suddenly scratching at his clothes, tearing and ripping. When she finally had him down to his underwear, she felt desperation clawing at her insides, and moved her gaze downward to his briefs. She gasped at what she saw. His genitals, so large and male, were

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outlined beneath the thin material. God, the sight made her breathing shallow and labored. She reached out, her hands slowly inching their way down until she touched them. Her hand trembled as she cupped him and began rubbing. Her eyes closed. She could feel him growing—becoming large and hard. And then her reverie was interrupted by his voice. **** “You want it, Lorna?” Ross whispered, watching her intently. He knew she was mesmerized. She’d always been a little whore, never getting enough. Apparently nothing had changed. “I remember what it was like,” he whispered with a crooning voice. “You sucked me dry, then crawled on top of me and fucked the hell out of me. God, it was good! You could do it again, but—” He wiggled the clanking cuffs. “I can’t help you too much unless you unlock these.” “Help me? You mean you want…?” “Of course,” he breathed intimately, his eyes watching her closely. “If you want to do it, let’s do it right.” She hesitated at first. He could see the indecision on her face, but slowly her movements became frenzied, as if she couldn’t get the cuffs off fast enough. “Take it, Lorna,” he whispered. “It’s yours. Suck it; fuck it, whatever you want.” God, why hadn’t he thought of this before. You could get anything out of this whore with a quick fuck. She was putty in your hands if you just gave her a hot ride. Now that he had control of the situation, he wasn’t about to give it back—and maybe he could have a little fun in the process. All at once he gasped, hot flashes of desire spiraling through him. Lorna’s mouth was on his cock, and it felt as if she wanted to swallow it whole. Her lazy eyes told him she was ready, so he reached down and pulled her up, causing her to straddle him. With a quick movement he literally tore her panties off and pushed himself inside.

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“Ohhhh, God!” Lorna groaned while arching her back and coming down on him, her hips loose and raw. As erotic excitement thrummed through her, she gyrated to age-old primitive music only she could hear. They moved together, Ross clutching her hips and moving her along with him. He felt like he was riding toward the stars, ever upward until he felt a release. Warmth settled over him as he spewed lustily. By this time Lorna was limp, lying over him as if she had no bones in her body. The time was now, he told himself as he shifted his body and reached for the gun. Grabbing its familiar shape, he held it upward toward Lorna, his nervous finger flirting with the trigger. He wanted to. He tried. Sweat broke out on his body, but he couldn’t! God, he couldn’t! And then suddenly he heard a voice from deep within himself. “I can!” All at once Ross was gone and Victor took his place. With a growl in his throat, a clench in his jaw and an evil twist to his lips, he gripped the gun, squeezed the trigger and the gunshot reverberated through the rafters. Blood—it was everywhere! **** When Ross became aware again, he was looking down at the bloody body of his former star, Lorna Desmond. His eyes shifted to the gun in his hand, and instantly knew what had happened. Everything was splattered with her blood—the couch, the carpet—even his chest and face. How was he going to get out of this one? he wondered, fear and desperation flooding him. He could bury the body, burn the couch, the rug. No, he couldn’t do that. As much as he fought against it, he knew he’d have to turn himself in! What choice did he have? With a sudden movement he threw the gun down, pushed Lorna off him and ran to the phone to call the police. But his hand stilled quickly when he heard the voice inside his head so loud it hurt. He dropped the phone, grabbed each side of his head, his face scowling in pain. Stop, you idiot! Now a new fear spiraled inside him. A fear worse than any of the others. Ross struggled to stay in control, but could feel the shadowy darkness

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coming upon him. A dizzying weakness was pulling at him, the other presence becoming larger—suffocating him—obliterating everything—until he was finally gone. **** His handsome facial features slowly changed to one of feral darkness. Bristling hair, wild eyes, and thick neck and shoulders made him look predatory, untamed. Slowly his hands moved to pick up the receiver, and punched in Lorna’s number. “Desmond residence,” came a listless voice. “I’d like to speak with Lorna,” the guttural voice said. “This is Ross Hunter calling.” Something inside Dagmar lurched. It was the big man. “She...She ain’t here. Went out some time ago...didn’t say where. Don’t know when she’ll be back.” Having his answer, he slammed the phone down. There. That would do. If there was any question as to who killed the former star, Ross would be in the clear. After all, why would he call to talk to Lorna if she was lying dead on the floor of his cabin? He looked around the room. He’d hate to lose it, but had no other choice. He wasn’t about to let Ross spill his guts to the police or anyone else. He’d take care of this, just like he’d taken care of all the other times. Ross thought he was so damned smart, but Ross was a dope—a loser. It had been him. Victor, who had made him rich, fucked his women until they screamed for mercy, and soared straight to the top of Monarch Studios. He might have had to use a little muscle, bash in a few heads, but he’d made it. Victor spent the other half of the night digging. The sound of the shovel scraping in the night was chilling to the bones. The tall trees swayed in the stiff wind, carrying the pungent odor of wet dirt. It was a smell that reminded him of death. When he saw the dark sky just begin to lighten, he heaved Lorna’s heavy body into the hole. He quickly covered it, satisfied that she’d never be found, not if he disguised the hole well enough. Scraping

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together mounds of brush, leaves and dirt, he did the best he could, then turned toward the cabin. His next thought was of fire! **** Ross had lived with guilt for two days when he realized he had to do something. He knew the time was now. Now! He had to get some help or go crazy. Victor was getting too close to the surface and coming out much too often. He’d begun giving orders, demanding, staying out too long. And then there was Shania. If he was ever going to get his daughter back, he knew he had to do something. He remembered when he first discovered her missing. Dear God, he had spent all his energy cursing out a dark shadow when all along that shadow had been within him! All it took was a telephone call. Now, as he drove, Ross looked up into the Hollywood Hills thinking that the mountain serenity of yesterday was gone. Now he viewed the hilly range with blood in his eyes. Now his head ached, and his heart hung heavy with fear. He could almost feel its thrash, the pumping of his blood as he fought the traffic up Topanga Canyon Boulevard. Where was the damned office? He picked up the map on the seat next to him, then checked his watch. Twenty to four. He should get there on time if he could only find the place. And then he saw it—Randy Canyon Road. He took a swift turn and kept on driving. As his car sped upward, he watched as the city seemed to give way to rural ranch style houses, and finally to open land. He thought about how varied the state of California was. You could go to the beach, or the mountains and never leave the state. You could enjoy the excitement of the racetrack, see a star on any street corner, or be discovered in a drugstore. And then there was the neon city of LA herself. She twinkled at night, and slept late in the morning while covered with a blanket of smog. He loved every square inch of her, every swaying palm, every star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame. It was the city where he had known his greatest happiness, and his deepest fears. It was home.

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Just then he spotted a rather strange looking-Victorian mansion that looked out of place among all the sprawling ranch style houses. It stood two stories high, was gray with white trim, and had about seven or eight dormer windows that lined the front roof. Above the porch that ran all around the house was a veranda that was supported by large columns. Further out, a few well-spaced brick columns supported rows of wrought iron spears that surrounded the entire estate. It was very grand-looking in the daytime, but he wondered if it wouldn’t resemble a foreboding old haunted mansion on a dark and stormy night. Bucks, Ross thought as he got out of his car. Big bucks bought this place. He couldn’t help but compare it with his own, and felt a certain pride when he thought of the pristine white color, the curving lines, surrounding gardens and crenellated columns. While this one resembled a country mansion pulled from a historical novel, his home had a grand, palatial bearing. It was sparkling white because Ross demanded cleanliness. His lawns must stay manicured, his gardens just so, and not a speck of dust must ever gather inside his house. He realized he was a clean freak, but when he looked at this house with its dull gray color, he imagined dirt everywhere. He knew he was being extreme, since the house and grounds seemed well kept, but still his aversion to dark colors was something he’d lived with all his life. He might ask the doctor about it, but compared to his problem of a dual personality, it seemed trivial. With his eyes still scanning the unusual structure, he climbed the steps to the door with a swirling glass inset in it and knocked. A straight-backed, very austere looking butler came to the door carrying a naked, risquélooking Barbie Doll. When he saw Ross looking at it, he cleared his throat and put it behind him. “I’m Ross Hunter, and I’m here to see Dr. Lou Partridge.” “Yes sir, please come in and follow me.” Ross was led into a large foyer where he craned his neck to see where the wide formal staircase ended. The darkness that gathered in the nether regions surrounded a very large chandelier that tinkled from a non-existent breeze, and glittered from non-existent light, giving Ross a chill.

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“The doctor will be with you presently,” the butler said, and with an outstretched hand, indicated that Ross should proceed into the room indicated. Ross looked around curiously. The room looked like a parlor that had been pulled from the eighteenth century. There were Persian rugs, dark burnished wood, and furniture that looked about as comfortable to sit on as a bed of spikes. Cut crystal and delicate ceramics were placed about—so delicate-looking that you dare not touch them. Queen Anne chairs and a sofa were placed around a burnished chestnut coffee table, in front of the hearth of a huge fireplace. After several minutes the butler brought in a tea service and placed it on the coffee table. “The master wishes you to take tea while he readies himself. It should only be a few minutes.” Ross nodded, and watched as the butler turned stiffly and exited the room. Just about then he heard a ruckus in the entry-way. Through the open double doors he saw what looked to him like the hounds from Hell pulling some harried-looking person along at the end of a leash. Their claws clicked loudly on the tile floor, and they seemed full of energy as the three of them headed for the front door. “Paxton,” the man said as he passed a pair of leashes to the butler, “see that the groomer does a good job. A bath, a clip, and no ribbons this time. God, how I hate those ribbons!” After carefully smoothing his clothes, he turned to the parlor, and went in with a smile on his face. “Sorry for the delay. Those were my Harlequin Great Danes. I’m thinking of entering them in the local dog show, and I need to prepare them for the Selection Committee. I have all their papers, but their coats are not as shiny as they could be, so I’m getting their hair curled, and...” He noticed Ross trying to suppress a smile and a chuckle, and his words faded. “I see I’m entertaining you quite nicely.” “I’m sorry, Doctor, but I’m strictly city, and I’m not used to what goes on in the rural areas.” “Yes, well I suppose...”

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“Look, we all have our own little idiosyncrasies. As for myself I’m a nut about exotic plants. I’ve even got a greenhouse that looks like a rainforest. One look inside and you’d expect to see Tarzan come flying through the air at any moment. I know it’s ridiculous, but—” he shrugged. “Hell, I like it. So I don’t care what anyone says, or thinks, and you should be the same.” “Exotic plants, aye?” the doctor said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Tarzan?” He began laughing, his laugh getting louder and louder. Ross frowned at him. “I don’t think it’s that funny.” “Oh, sorry. It’s just...Well, when I think of a man tending a flower—” He began laughing again, and couldn’t seem to stop. “May I remind you that curling a dog’s hair isn’t all that manly either?” The doctor’s laugh stopped abruptly, and after a few attempts at clearing his throat, he said, “Oh...Yes...Well, I suspect we’d better get down to business here.” Reaching into his desk drawer he drew out a small leather notebook and flipped it open. Reaching for a pen, he said, “I’ll need your full name, marital status, job title—” “When will we get to my problem?” “Problem?” the doctor said, looking lost. “Yes,” Ross said. “My problem? The reason I’m here? The dual personality, doctor, and...Well, I’ve started having these dr...Uh...Nothing.” “Were you going to say dreams?” “Dreams?” Ross said with a humorless chuckle. ? “No...I...I don’t dream...That much.” Ross hadn’t told anyone about his night with Lorna, and the dreams he’d been having. The bitch had come up out of her grave and was haunting him. He saw her every night leaning over him with a hatchet in her hand. Just before the thing came down and severed his head, he’d see a stupid carousel whirling around and around, Victor on one painted horse with a leering smile on his face, and Lorna on another. He was on foot running from both of them. Around and around he went—getting nowhere, but deeper into his misery. He knew if something wasn’t done soon, he’d go mad.

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Later, pulling up into his drive, he saw a police cruiser and knew something was wrong. The first thought he had was that something had happened to Shania! Dread filled him as he slammed out of his car and rushed toward the cruiser only to find it empty. He turned to run into his house when suddenly a shapeless shadow detached itself from the shrubbery and blocked his path. “Ross Hunter?” “Yes,” Ross said, “what is this? Is something wrong? Where’s Shania?” Grabbing his arm he whirled Ross around and clamped his wrists with cuffs. “This is not about Shania. It’s about Lorna Desmond. She’s missing, and we’re taking you into the station for questioning.” “What? What in hell do I have to do with…” Ross began before he was interrupted. “Her housekeeper called the station to tell us she hadn’t been home in two days. I warned you, Ross. Something happens to that woman and we come after you!” “Is this the same police force that wouldn’t arrest that insane woman for abducting my daughter, but now takes me into custody for nothing more than a missing person?” He struggled while they forced him into the cruiser. “You’re all insane! The whole damned police force is Looney Tunes!” **** Detective Marv Skeen had been at the station at least fifteen hours, and it looked as if he would be there another fifteen before he could get a straight answer out of the creep who he was sure had murdered the former star. It had been another busy Friday night, and as he stared at the interrogator and Ross Hunter through a two-way mirror, all he could think of was going across the street for a Blow Job, a Waterfall, or a Nice Comfortable Screw Against the Wall. Hell, even an Electric Iced Tea would cool him off, or maybe heat him up if Gina was the one serving it to him. His eyes went back to Ross who had finally confessed. He was sitting under the bright light sweating, his dry, parched mouth moving, saying the same words over and over.

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“Another person...Something inside me. He’s the one who killed her. I would never...I might have wanted to, but I—” His eyes moved up to the interrogator. “I tried, God, how I tried, but I couldn’t. That is, not until Victor—” Just then the sounds of a brawl out in the station room erupted, causing Ross’ words to fade into oblivion. The officers had managed to get the blond, pony-tailed young man contained, but not for long. He was high on drugs and covered with blood, so orders came through to lock Ross up until they could get the blond boy under control. “Until next time, you creep,” the interrogator said, sweat dripping down his face. “But then I want the whole story. Not this ‘I don’t remember’ crap you been handin’ me!” Ross was exhausted, but came to life suddenly by yelling, “How the hell can I remember something that I didn’t do? It was Victor, I tell you! Victor, my other...I don’t know...personality? Alter ego? Whatever!” The interrogator leaned down in Ross’ face. “Well, I ain’t buyin’ it!” “It’s the truth, I swear!” Ross yelled as he was being hauled out of the room and handed over to a uniformed officer. The officer handled Ross roughly as they made their way through barred doors and over cracked, uneven concrete until they came to an empty cell. Physically thrown down on the bunk, Ross growled, “I’ll remember this, McCain. You’re supposed to be my friend, or did you forget that?” “That’s before you murdered Lorna Desmond, a woman who never did nothin’ to you!” “Don’t talk about something you know nothing about, Mac. She had my daughter, and was planning to kill her! Why is that so hard for you creeps to believe?” “Maybe because she proved to us it was a lie!” Ross’ eyes narrowed on the cop, and his voice lowered and became suggestive. “When, Mac? Just when did you know it was a lie? Was it when she was on her back?” A frown etched Ross’ face, and his voice sounded like thunder. “You slept with the bitch, didn’t you?”

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“I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” he said, his guilty eyes darting away from Ross. “She used you, Mac. Don’t you know that? You and every fucking man in this place. She’s used her body her whole life to get what she wants. That’s only one of the reasons she was so afraid of getting old. And you fell right into her trap.” “I’m warnin’ you, Hunter—” “My God, no wonder she was never arrested. She was the goddamned precinct sweetheart.” “Keep your voice down!” Mac hissed. “A word of warning. You keep spoutin’ them lies about another personality livin’ inside you and you won’t have to worry about goin’ to jail. They’ll throw your fat ass into an asylum.” As if to punctuate his words, the door slammed and the large circle of metal keys rang throughout the corridor like a death knell. That night while the cell blocks were dark and vacant, once again Lorna appeared to him from out of a shadow. He watched her as she moved. She looked so fuckin’ real as she came closer. Without saying a word, she bent over him and began to pump his cock with her cold hand. She was fire and ice—burning one minute, then as cold as death the next. He groaned, his hips grinding his cock into her hand. When she moved to slink down between his legs, he could hear his bunk creak. Taking his balls into her mouth, she sucked them until Ross thought he would die of pleasure. As the night passed, she rode him, sucked him and licked him, and then, just as she had come, she receded back into the shadows. The next morning he woke slowly, remembering the dream and wondering how much longer was she going to hold him by the balls before she let go. How could he concentrate on getting rid of Victor when she was as much a threat now as ever? Uncoiling his rigid leg and shoulder muscles, he stretched and yawned, feeling a god-awful desire for a cigarette. Just then he looked over at a table where a cigarette lay that had been made out of a page in the New Testament. One of the other prisoners had given it to him last night, but he couldn’t bring himself to smoke it. Now he felt himself reaching for it,

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refusing to read the verse and scripture that probably told him he was bound for Hell. Twenty-four hours later he was standing before a judge and his trail date was set. **** Dagmar furtively peered around at the people as they stared at her. She limped along hunched over, her flyaway hair and deformed face bringing gasps and whispers. She hadn’t wanted to get out among people, but had to. Lorna’s attorney had called to tell her she was mentioned in Lorna’s will, and asked if she would come down to his office so he could legally take care of the matter. Dagmar had known it was coming, and dreaded hearing the words that would come out of the lawyer’s mouth. She’d waited, nervous and scared, knowing it would happen any day—ever since she found out what had happened out at Ross’ hunting lodge. It had been big news in the film industry when Ross had been arrested for the murder of Lorna Desmond, but even bigger news when his lawyer had entered a plea of not guilty on the grounds of temporary insanity. A qualified therapist had been brought in and made the statement that Ross Hunter suffered from a dual personality. The prosecution angrily accused him of lying to escape punishment, but when it had happened right there in the courtroom, they sang a different tune. Since it was such big news, they managed to get permission to broadcast it on TV, and Dagmar sat there with the whole country watching him literally turn from a normal man to a scowling, cursing monster. She found herself backing away from the TV, especially when a close-up of the alter ego had lunged forward and tried to destroy the camera. After that it was an open and shut case. Ross’ hot shot lawyer had gotten him off with no more than a slap on the wrist which included a stiff fine which Ross could easily afford, and a report once a month on his progress with the therapist. Money’ll do it every time, she thought as she once again remembered Lorna’s will. She wondered what the old bitch had put in it that was so

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important that Dagmar had to be dragged from the four walls of her room and thrust into the streets where people gawked and pointed. She figured she was about to be kicked out nice and legal like. No sneaking back in since she was sure someone would be watching the place. She’d known it was coming, but she figured someone would come around and serve an eviction notice. She never figured the crazy old bitch would bother to put it in her will of all places. The only hope Dagmar had was that she would be given some kind of grace period, like thirty days, or maybe even a few months before she’d have to be out. Wrapped in an old faded purple shawl and a washed out green dress that had been laundered so many times the material was getting limp, Dagmar shambled along the city street, the dress barely clinging to her old misshapen body. Her head turned from one building to another, trying to find the place she was looking for, and then suddenly saw a fancy multistoried structure with the words, The Stillman Building, engraved on the outside. “This must be the place,” she muttered, her eyes sliding downward to the front where she saw glass doors that turned round and round. People going in and coming out at the same time, never touching. As long as she’d been on this earth she’d never seen such a contraption outside of moving pictures or TV. Walking up to it, she stared, being shuffled to the side as other people stepped in front of her. Finally wilting back out of the line of traffic, she tried to be inconspicuous as she continued to watch the way the door worked. When her chance came she stepped up and pushed on the bar, feeling like she was on a merry-go-round. After going through it a couple of times, she finally came out on the other side feeling dizzy and disoriented. When she got her balance, she stood alone, a small misshapen little mole in a large room of white and gray marble. Her eyes widened when she saw a long, wide staircase that separated half way up leading in two separate directions. Her eyes kept climbing when she noticed a wide dome with windows so high up she became light headed. “May I help you?”

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“Huh?” Dagmar said, pulling her eyes away from the windows that looked out at an azure blue sky. “Oh, yeah, sure. I’m come lookin’ fer...Uh...Mr. Loring...Sydney Loring.” The man’s head turned, and he nodded toward a lighted board. “We have a Building Directory there.” Looking down his nose at her, he asked, “Can you read?” “I don’t need no Building Directory, I have his card. It says he’s on the twenty-fifth floor.” “The elevators are right over there.” He looked back at her and saw her hesitation. “Just press the button that has the arrow pointing up, then get on when the door opens. The floor numbers are printed plainly inside.” The man’s eyes swept down over Dagmar’s tattered clothes and asked, “Is Mr. Loring expecting you?” “Do you work fer ‘em?” “No.” “Then t’ain’t none o’ yo’ concern.” “Mmmm, yes...Well, have a good day.” His stiff gray and white uniform rustled as he walked away. Dagmar watched him, his effeminate movements prissy and his wrist as limp as a wet dish rag. She hadn’t wanted to get on one of them moving rooms, but since she didn’t think she could climb twenty-five stories, she had no choice. She ambled slowly up, feeling old and ratty among the smart business-suited people who stood waiting for the elevator. When it came she got on and saw the floor she wanted. After pressing the button she stood quietly looking around her. There weren’t many in the little room, but she could tell they were all trying not to stare at her. She felt so out of place among this group that not only smelled of sickening men’s cologne and women’s powder, but also of arrogance. As soon as she could, she limped out hurriedly, taking a deep breath. Walking along the carpeted hall, she saw doors that looked alike except for the different numbers and names they had on them. It dawned on her that they were in chronological order, so she began counting the room numbers until she came to the one she wanted. “Here goes nothin’,” she muttered, then opened the door and walked in.

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The moment she was inside, she detected a hushed, serene atmosphere, and looked around the room. Her eyes stopped when she saw a very pretty young girl sitting at a desk. She seemed busy, every movement quick and efficient. Since she hadn’t noticed Dagmar’s presence, she continued to look around, still amazed at what she saw. The whole place was like a showroom—everything new and untouched. Dagmar almost expected to see price tags on all the beautiful, yet functional furniture. The paintings that hung on the walls were nothing but splashes of colors. Lines and shapes that only someone with an education could understand. Her eyes slid along the walls, shifting from the paintings to the strange-looking artifacts that were either placed on shelves or in glass cases. Dagmar’s admiration of these striking objects was pulled away when she heard a sweet young voice. “Yes? May I help you?” “Oh...Uh...I come to see...” Dagmar’s voice faded and her eyes traveled upward when she heard the loud, gravelly sound of her own voice. It was out of place here in this hushed, quiet atmosphere. She felt embarrassed by her crude manners, and knew immediately that she was in the presence of money. Only money could bring about such peace and serenity. Only money could calm a racing heart, quiet shattered nerves, and fill an empty stomach, the result being peace—the kind of peace she felt all around her. She could almost smell it, and the smell wasn’t corrupt as she’d always been told, but it smelled sweet. Poverty smelled like an unwashed body, but money...Money was sweet—so very sweet. Taking a breath, she lowered her voice to a more respectful tone. “I come to see, Mr. Loring. Mr. Sydney Loring. He’s the law...Ms. Lorna Desmond’s legal counsel.” She extended her hand. “I got his card...See there? His name, it’s right there. He called and asked me to come down. Something about Ms. Desmond’s will. She jus’ died recently.” “Oh, yes. And what is your name?” “Dagmar.” “Dagmar—?” The girl looked at her questioningly, and Dagmar felt a hot flush creeping up her neck as she said, softly, “Dagmar...Just Dagmar.” Dagmar

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girded herself, waiting for the questions, the sorrowful eyes, the pitying look, but instead the girl gave her a friendly response. “Very well, Dagmar, won’t you sit down, and I’ll tell Mr. Loring you’re here.” Relief washed over Dagmar making her feel almost...Well...Normal. Even though the girl seemed surprised, maybe even a little frightened at Dagmar’s appearance, she was nice to her...Treated her like...Well, like she was...somebody! It made Dagmar feel good. It was a feeling she could easily get used to. All at once a man swept out of his office and with welcoming, extended hands, said, “Dagmar, what a pleasure it is to see you. Won’t you come into my office?” He looked at the receptionist. “Wendy, bring in tea...” Then he looked at Dagmar. “Or would you prefer coffee? I think we even have hot chocolate.” Dagmar couldn’t believe it was her he was talking to. She hesitated a moment, then said, “Coffee, I think...Yes, coffee would be...uh...Nice.” “Coffee it is.” He looked up to the receptionist. “Wendy? Coffee please for Ms. Dagmar.” Dagmar wanted to laugh out loud. She had never been treated so fine since...No, she had never been treated so fine. Suddenly she was glad she came. Suddenly their treatment of her made up for all the stares and whispers she’d had to endure getting down here. Suddenly she wanted to stay and bask in this tranquil atmosphere. Suddenly she was sure everything was going to be all right. After all, how could anything go wrong in such a peaceful place as the twenty-fifth floor? It was probably as close to heaven as she’d ever get. Later while sitting with her coffee cup in her hand, Dagmar listened while Mr. Loring told her the most outrageous lie she had ever heard. “She has left you...Let’s see,” he said. “Pardon me a moment.” After flipping through several sheets, he continued. “Being of sound mind and body, I leave my trusted cook and housekeeper, Dagmar, my house, car, whatever monies I have left in my bank account, all my stocks, bonds, investments, and personal items.” Hearing a noise he looked up and saw

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Dagmar looking at him with her mouth hanging open. A look of alarm passed over his face as he asked, “Are you all right?” “Yes...” Dagmar whispered, then looked down where she had dropped the cup. “I’m afraid I’ve...” “Please,” Mr. Loring said, “don’t worry about...” Seeing her suddenly go limp, he called out, “Wendy!” The girl immediately opened the door and saw Dagmar slumped in her chair. “Oh, my God, what’s wrong?” “It looks like she fainted. I’m afraid she went into shock when I told her that Ms. Desmond had left her everything.” Looking closely at Dagmar, the girl said, “Do you think we should call a doctor?” “No, I think she’ll be all right. Get the smelling salts out of my desk drawer. I always keep some on hand. I never know how people are going to react to the news I give them.” Wendy scrambled back behind his desk, opened a drawer, withdrew a fat, round canister and quickly thrust it toward him. Taking one out, he cracked the capsule and waved it beneath Dagmar’s nose. “Ms. Dagmar, are you all right?” She began to fight, pushing his hand away. “I...where am I?” “You’re in the office of Sydney Loring,” Wendy said. “Sy...Sydney...Sydney Loring?” she asked, her eyes becoming wide. “You...what you sai...Oh, God!” she cried out, then began feeling dizzy again. “No! Dagmar, it’s true! You’re a rich woman. You have millions. Do you realize that? Millions!” “Millions...What?” “Millions of dollars, what else?” “Millions of d-dollars? You mean...That green stuff that buys things?” Mr. Loring smiled. “The very same!” “Oh!” Dagmar groaned, the words, sound mind running through her thoughts. She knew, if no one else did, that Lorna wasn’t sound of mind.

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The bitch was as crazy as a bedbug, but she wasn’t about to tell a soul. “When did she make out this will...I mean, the one leaving me everything?” “Let’s me see,” he said as he snatched the document off his desk, “the date is there on the top.” “Looks like nineteen fifty something. Why? Does it matter? She had me draw it up, then seemed to forget it...Never changed a word.” Dagmar’s mind began whirling. Just as she had suspected. It was years ago. Right after she and Lorna met. Back during a time when Lorna reveled in Dagmar’s adoration of her. She was at the height of her career then. Things were going good, her career in full swing. In those days Lorna did have a sound mind, so maybe...Besides, she knew Lorna had no family whatsoever, so who else would she leave her money to? “Dagmar? Are you okay?” The man’s voice brought her out of her reverie, and she looked up at him. “I’m sorry, I jus’...I mean, I never...” “I understand,” he said. “Can Wendy get you more coffee...Or maybe you’d rather have...” “No, I jus’ want to get out...” Suddenly she stopped and looked at him. “When do I get...the money?” “As soon as I can transfer everything over into your name. I’ll let you know when it’s all been taken care of.” Seeing that she was still a little disoriented, he said, “How did you get down here? You didn’t drive, did you?” Thinking of the Rolls Royce that was now hers, Dagmar shook her head, still a little weak and dizzy. “Well, a rich woman like yourself shouldn’t have to walk, or take public transportation. Why don’t you let me call you a taxi?” “But I don’t have...” “Nonsense,” he said, pulling out his wallet. Digging inside, he pulled out a big wad of bills and placed them in her hand. “Take this. It’s only about three hundred dollars, but I’m sure it’ll do until we switch everything over into your name.” He hesitated. “That reminds me. I’ll need to know your last name, and you might begin to consider whether you want to keep

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me on as your legal counsel. I’d be honored, of course, but you can let me know later, after you’ve had time to think about it.” “Uh, yeah, sure,” Dagmar muttered, only one thing going through her mind. He needed her last name. She felt as if she was flailing around in deep water trying to learn how to swim. Looking down at the money, she felt a lump form in her throat. She’d never seen so much green stuff at one time. The bills made a big round wad that could easily choke a horse. “Now, Dagmar,” the man said, with a pen in his hand. “Last name, please.” “Uh...Dagmar...” She quickly glanced down at a fishing and hunting magazine and a word jumped out at her, making her blurt out “Overlake!” He was about to write it down when his pen abruptly stopped writing. “Overlake,” he mumbled, then looked up at Dagmar. You mean like in Overlake Drive? The place where Lorna died?” “Oh, my God,” she mumbled, then wilted deeper into her chair, knowing she’d been found out. Since she never got out of the house, she was unfamiliar with street names, and she certainly didn’t know that Ross’ hunting lodge was located on Overlake Drive. Finally looking up, she sheepishly faced the music. “I’m sorry,” she muttered sadly. “I...well, I ain’t got no last name, ain’t never had one. Don’t know who I am.” Fingering his pen with both hands, the man sat silent for a moment, then finally said, “Dagmar, it doesn’t matter.” Dagmar slowly lifted her head and looked into his kind eyes. “You mean...” “The money is yours. Ms. Desmond didn’t mention a last name in the will, but we both know it was you she was referring to. Unfortunately legal documents require two names, so it’ll be a simple matter of going before a judge and making it legal. No one should go nameless.” Dagmar felt tears flooding her eyes, and lowered her head. “I’ve always felt like a nobody,” she said through her sobs. “Not knowin’ where or who I come from. I never thought it’d be that simple. Just pick a name, and that’s it.”

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“I’ll make the arrangements and let you know when. In the meantime you pick yourself a name...” “But how...What name...? I...” “You know, of course, that the African people who were brought over here on slave ships didn’t have last names either, only tribal names. When they were freed they often took the last name of the family that had owned them.” He looked at her closely. “Would Desmond be a name you would want for your own?” “Well, I surely feel like I was owned all right, but I don’t think...I mean, at one time I would have been proud to have the name of Desmond, but...” “It doesn’t matter,” he said gently. “Just pick a name that means something to you. A name you think is especially nice, perhaps. It’ll be your name for the rest of your life, so it should be something you like.” Dagmar brushed the tears away, “Is that all I need? A name?” “For right now, yes. I can’t process these documents without it. Then, if you want I’ll help you get a Social Security number, and even a birth certificate. We’re going to establish you as a living, breathing member of society. A member of society with ten million dollars in the bank.” Dagmar gulped. “Ten mil...” Dagmar felt a rush of tears forming in her eyes, then rasped out, “Thank you, sir.” Just then he looked up at Wendy who stood by the door looking as if she were fighting the tears, and said, “Call Ms. Dagmar a taxi, Wendy. Today she’s going home in style.”

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Chapter 17 The taste of a foreign tongue in her mouth was so sensual—a lick of honey—a trace of wine—the merest hint of chocolate. Would she ever have enough? Finally opening her slumberous eyes, she whispered, “You’d better get up on stage.” “Why? Everything I want is right here in my arms.” She laughed, deep and throaty, her finger stroking his cheek. “You’ll disappoint an awful lot of women,” she answered teasingly. “Where will you be?” “I’ll be right out front with all the other women who adore you.” Just then they felt themselves being hustled to one side to make way for the announcer who glared at Lance. “Get her out of here. I’m just about to announce you!” “Showtime,” he said, looking down at Shania. “Be great,” she said, then gave him a quick peck and left. Lance turned and listened for his cue, then stepped up behind the curtain and struck a sexy pose. But the curtain didn’t open. Instead the chattering women became suddenly silent, and a deep, soaring voice came filtering through a microphone that echoed around the darkened club. “Ladies and gentlemen, the night you’ve all been waiting for is finally here. Just as we promised, the much-anticipated event is upon us, and The Lucifer Club is proud to present, the most beautiful devil in Hell, the one, the only...Lance Weston!” When the loud, sexy music began, the plush wine-colored curtain opened, and Lance stood there in the spotlight, his costume glittering in the stage lights. At first all anyone saw of him was his vivid red cape as it hung over his body, hiding everything. Then as the music swelled, he swooshed it

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open, revealing himself in a wide-legged stance, his hands clutching the cape and lifting it up toward the ceiling as if he had wings. Tonight as he looked down at the women who scratched to get to him, he couldn’t believe the thunderous applause—the screams, the yells, the catcalls. Was it all for him? Why? Was he just lucky, or was he really that good? Not waiting for the applause to stop, he stepped forward, and his dance began. Shania couldn’t take her eyes off his sinful bump and grind. No woman in the room could. The crowd was unbelievable—the women pushing to get as close to the front as possible. Hands reaching out, fingers grabbing. Tonight when she’d first seen the club, she’d gasped at the big bright search lights that scraped the sky and the colorful sign telling the world that Lance was back. It was all so exciting! His return had been announced in every newspaper, and on every radio and TV station. He was in rare form tonight. With wild, uninhibited gyrations, and electric blue eyes that seemed to leap out at anyone who caught a glimpse from him, Lance danced like never before. His hips rocked loosely, and he flirted outrageously with winks and smiles, and even conveyed a few messages in darting tongues that licked sensuously along his lush lips. And then the simulated-fire curled around his torso, the smoke and mist lending a mysterious look to the set. “Is that him?” a dark figure asked. “That’s him,” Shotsy answered. “So...What do you think?” “Well, he’s got something, that’s for sure—” He looked around at the faces of all the lovesick females. “But would he come across on a screen? You know that camera...” “So bring a crew in here and let him dance for the camera.” “It’s not my decision, and screen tests are expensive. I’m just a talent scout. I go back and report what I see, and the studio does the rest. I can suggest it, though...See what happens.” “How did you know about Lance? Was it the publicity?”

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“Some of it, but Ross met Lance when his daughter got kidnapped. He got her out of a dangerous situation and helped get her back to her father. Now Ross feels beholden, you know? Wants to do something for the kid.” “Does Lance know you’re here scoutin’ him?” “Not as far as I know, but word leaks out sometimes. As a rule we never give advance notice. It’s better if they don’t know. It might make ‘em nervous. We just mingle, blend in with the crowd—keep our eyes open.” Shotsy looked around at the female faces. “Blending here would be quite a trick for a man. Why in hell didn’t they send a woman?” “I don’t know. None available, I guess.” Just then he felt himself being jostled from behind and looked around at the women pushing and shoving at each other to get a glimpse of Lance. “I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s not even a friggin’ place to stand in this damned hole. Don’t these broads have homes to go to, children to take care of, a husband that needs— ?” “Not while he’s on stage.” He looked back at Shotsy. “So what’s your part in this?” “I’m what you might call the Backstage Manager.” “Yeah? What does a Backstage Manager do?” Shotsy looked at him as if he couldn’t believe his ears. “I manage things…backstage.” “Like what?“ the man said, making Shotsy’s eyes roll. “For one thing, I see that the acts are lined up—everything goes okay, sound, lights, you know. To the guys I’m kind of like a favorite uncle, or a father maybe. Watch over ‘em, you know, keep ‘em in line—that sort of thing.” “So you don’t make the kid’s deals for him. In other words if we did want to give him a contract we wouldn’t have to go through you.” “I’m not his agent if that’s what you mean. Although that’s not a bad idea. He probably don’t have one. Someone has to look out for the kid’s interests. Why not me?” The man groaned. “Sorry I mentioned it.”

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The next day Lance was standing in Ross Hunter’s office surrounded by a group of people who were looking him over. “I’m not going to bleach my fucking hair!” he yelled at anyone who would listen. “What the hell’s the problem?” said Make-up. “A lot of the actors are doin’ it. It’s in today. The women don’t give a fuck if their hair is bleached! If they do it, why shouldn’t the men?” “I don’t give a damn what’s in! This man ain’t doin’ it, and that’s final!” Before Make-up could object, Lance broke through the circle, quickly grabbed up his jacket and headed for the door. “What you see is what you get, got it? This face, this body, and this hair is what you saw at the Lucifer Club, and now you’re trying to change everything. If you don’t want me the way I am, then you can all go to Hell!” Ross spoke up. “Hold on, Lance.” Indicating to the others to tighten the circle, Ross whispered, “He’s right. He thinks we’re trying to make him over into someone else, and he feels insulted. Actually, I don’t blame him. He wants us to take him as he is, and for my money I think he’ll make it.” Each person in the group lifted their head and looked over at Lance, seeing the sparks flying from his angry eyes. Beth’s appreciative gaze undressed Lance. “Bleached hair, or not, I say we give him that screen test.” Turning back to the group, she continued. “Besides, ever think how you’ll feel if one of the other studios snatch him up? Ross looked around at them. “What about the rest of you? Are we all agreed?” A few in the group snickered. “Beth’s in love,” came one sarcastic remark. Beth slid her knowing eyes toward him. “So are you, Joe.” “Me? Why you little—”

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“All right, calm down you two,” Ross said. “Let’s stay focused here. What do the rest of you say? Screen test, or not? They’re expensive. Keep that in mind. If you don’t think he’ll make the grade, then let me know.” A few eyes darted toward each other, then ended in a few shrugs, nods, and a collection of mumbled words of affirmation. Finally Make-up relented. “He’s your find, Ross. I think it has to be your decision.” “Then I say we go ahead with it.” With those few words, the group slowly ambled out, and Ross looked over at Lance. “You got it, Lance. Screen test here tomorrow at eleven.” Lance began to look hopeful. “No bleached hair?” Ross smiled, then shrugged. “No bleached hair. It’ll be the dark, seductive Lance Weston all the way.” Squeezing his jacket with his hands, then rubbing the nape of his neck vigorously, Lance said, “Gosh, I know that’s what I said I wanted, but now I’m kind of nervous.” Ross looked thoughtful for a moment, then directed his gaze toward Lance. “How about this? We’ll need someone to feed you your lines. Normally we might pick someone who happens to be on the set that day, but we can change that, if you’d like you can bring a friend along. Is there anyone you’d feel comfortable with? A girlfriend maybe, since it has to be a woman?” “You mean...You’d do that?” Ross shrugged. “Sure, why not? I’d like to make it as easy as possible. Besides when you have a friend up there with you, it makes that cold soundstage a little less frightening.” “Someone to hold my hand, huh?” “If you want to look at it that way,” Ross said cautiously. “But there’s nothing wrong with that. Some of our biggest stars were frightened little rabbits in the beginning.” With an easy stride, he wandered over to the glossy 8 x 10 photos he had on what he called his Picture Wall, then looked back at Lance. “You’ve heard of Shawn Russell, haven’t you?” “Sure, who hasn’t?”

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Ross’ voice lowered slightly and said, “Threw up in his shoes!” Ross giggled like a schoolgirl, then pointed out a few more and told him of their inauspicious beginnings. “Believe me, if you’d seen half the screen tests represented here you’d never believe they could be where they are today.” Lance laughed as his eyes anchored on his favorite actor. “Threw up in his shoes, huh?” His anxiety a thing of the past, he looked over at Ross and said, “I doubt I could top that.” Draping his arm over Lance’s shoulder in a fatherly fashion, Ross said, “Got anyone in mind to go over your lines with you?” “I was thinking...How about Shania? Would you mind if I asked her?” Ross smiled. “Not at all. I’ll let Shania know, and we’ll see you here at eleven.” He put out his hand to Lance. “Even though I don’t think you need it, I’ll wish you good luck.” “Thanks. I’ll do my best, sir.” Ross watched Lance as he left, then strode back to his desk, sat down and began trying to rub the tiny pain in his head away. “Idiot! You simpering, whimpering idiot!” “No!” Ross rasped desperately, then waited, the room silent. When he didn’t feel the darkness overcome him, with a wavering voice, he said, “Victor?” Silence. No response. He emitted a big thankful sigh thinking he must have imagined it and looked down at his watch. Almost time to get ready for his therapy session. He had to admit it had done him some good. Victor was much less visible these days, making Ross stronger than ever. He honestly didn’t know if he’d ever be completely rid of Victor, but he was determined to try. Every time he thought of how his other side had controlled his life in the past, and almost caused him to be locked away forever for something he didn’t do, he became angry, his resolve to put him to death growing stronger. Thank God the trial was over. Now he could concentrate on getting rid of the bastard for all time. But, hell—how did you kill an alter ego? Not with a knife or a gun, and you certainly couldn’t drown him or strangle him. No, the only way you could kill an alter ego was with a college degree. And every week at about four in the afternoon, Ross was put in the hands of one

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of the most brilliant professors he knew of. A man who had every kind of degree that could be imagined. During those sessions Victor was brought under submission—pushed further and further down into oblivion until one day, Ross hoped, he’d stop breathing. Ross relished the thought of— “A college degree?” A humorless laugh echoed in his mind. “Do you really think I’m that easily overcome? Well, I’ve got news for you, Ross. I’m back. I’m only here today to say goodbye. Strange as it may seem, it was your educated friend who showed me how to do it. I don’t need you anymore, I’m coming out.” Panic began rioting within him. He was back. “Out? What...What do you mean, out?” “I mean exactly what you think I mean. Out, Ross, apart—Doing my own thing! No more sweetness and light coming from you, you bastard!” “But—that’s impossible!” “Why? Because no one’s ever done it before? Well, don’t look now, but I’m about to break all the records. If you don’t believe me, just watch. It was during your last session that I realized that I had the power all along to separate myself from you.” “Oh, my God!” Ross whispered, his torment just beginning. “I’m the killing side, Ross,” the dark, ugly voice said. “The evil side. And I’m just getting started!” The deep, gravelly words seemed to scrape together like sharp stones, filling Ross’ mind with dread. His headache suddenly flared, and he lowered his head into his hands. **** In only a few moments the office door opened and a man in a threepiece suit walked in and stood watching wide-eyed as Ross pounded his head against the wall, free-flowing blood running down his face. “Victor!” the man yelled as he threw his briefcase on the couch. “Stop this instant!”

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Oddly enough, the unseen entity that seemed to have been controlling Ross abruptly let go, and Ross slithered to the floor, his words almost incoherent. “He’s out...He’s...I don’t know what he’s turned into, but he’s out...Walking around...Without a b-body.” “But that’s impossible!” the three piece suit said as he knelt beside Ross. Ross grabbed the man by the collar. “It’s not impossible,” he whispered. “He said he was my other side...My killing side.” His eyes pleaded with the therapist. “You’ve got to stop him, but if you can’t then you have to kill me because he won’t die until I do!” “That’s utter nonsense! I—” “Listen to me! Nothing can stop him,” Ross rasped through trembling lips. “You have to kill me. It’s the only way he’ll die! Kill me! Do it!” Ross sobbed, then let go of the man’s collar and fell limp to the floor. **** Ross lifted his head from the cradle of his hands and looked up. A gasp erupted from this throat when across the room he saw a carbon copy of himself lounging comfortably on the couch. “Quite a dream, wasn’t it?” “A dream? I was dreaming?” “Hallucinating would be a better word. A convenient doorway for me to step through.” Looking down, he arrogantly began pulling his cuffs from within the sleeves of his jacket as he spoke. “The headache triggered it,” he said, then looked up at Ross. “Isn’t that what a headache sometimes feels like? Like you’re pounding your head against a wall?” Ross gasped. “That’s impossible...You’re impossible.” “Impossible, am I?” he grated. “Then why am I here? Why can you see me? You’ve never been able to before. I think it’s extremely convenient, don’t you? Just think, we can be in two places at the same time. Imagine the fun we can have. We’re like twins. One evil, one good.” His laugh was grating and humorless.

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“Your laugh, it sounds...I don’t know...not real somehow.” Victor’s face turned dark. “I can’t cry, and I can’t laugh. I don’t have emotions, Ross. I only feel anger.” He lifted his hands and clenched them, then quickly turned them in different directions. “I can twist a neck as easily as you can blink an eye, and never feel remorse or guilt. Can you do that?” “No! And I don’t want to!” “Don’t you see? That’s why I’m here...To do it for you. All you have to do is say the word...Give the command.” “I’ll give you a command. Kill me!” “Kill you?” He snorted at the request. “Do you think I want to commit suicide?” “Then it’s true. When I die, you die as well…even though you’re living on the outside.” “Sure, but you don’t want to die, Ross. Who does? Besides you have years yet. Death is such a long way off.” His eyes bored into his alter ego. “Is it?” he muttered. “Maybe not.” “What was that?” Ross suddenly became alert. “Don’t you know what I’m thinking?” “No, unfortunately not. When I was inside you, yes, but not now.” Ross’ eyes narrowed. “Can you disappear? Reappear at will?” “No. I’m a separate entity, Ross, not a magician’s trick. As much an individual as you are.” “But earlier when I heard your voice. You weren’t visible then.” “I was still in your mind then, but I came out and I can never return. Literally speaking, I’m another Ross Hunter.” “That must present many disadvantages.” “Yes, I’m afraid it does,” Victor said, a concerned sound to his voice. But then his eyes lifted and looked at Ross, his lips widening into a shrewd smile. “However, I suppose you have to give up some things for a greater purpose. It’s simply a matter of choice. Am I right?” Ross sat silent, his eyes boring into his other half, his ears listening—his mind working.

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“There is one thing you should know. Even though I’m a separate entity, we have an invisible cord that binds us. Essentially we are still one person, myself being only one side of you.” “Really?” Ross said, feigning interest to keep Victor talking. **** “You see, Ross—” For some reason Victor hesitated, wondering how much of the truth he should tell Ross. Finally, his arrogance won out, and he continued. “A man has many sides to him. Sometimes those sides become strong, show themselves as another personality. Apart from you, of course, I’m the strongest, and—” The room fell silent, the thrashing of a few heartbeats seemed to echo off the walls. “—that makes us enemies old boy.” Slowly Victor’s mouth moved into a slow smile. “Isn’t it fortunate that I happen to be your evil side?” Victor’s dramatics weren’t lost on Ross, but he was determined not to let Victor know how his words had affected him. “You...You learned this from my therapist—the college degree you mentioned earlier.” “I’m a very apt pupil, Ross. There’s only one downside. While inside you I knew your every thought and could intercept any wrong action. On the outside, as I am now, I can’t do that.” **** Ross was also a quick study, and everything that Victor said was information he retained as a sponge retains water. Ross gave Victor a strained smile. “Very interesting...Now if you’ll be so kind...I have work to do.” Victor’s eyes flickered with glints of steel, then said, “This time, Ross. I’m not one to be put off and forgotten. No, you’ll know I’m around.” Ross’ eyes sparked angry flames as he looked into his alter ego’s face. “Need I remind you that if you do anything illegal, they’ll come looking for me?”

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“Oh, I know, Ross, I know. And don’t think it isn’t tempting. With you in jail I’ll simply carry on as if I’m you.” “You know that can’t work, Victor. Two of us? One in jail and one out? Don’t you think someone will notice?” Victor’s face suddenly darkened. “All right, you bastard. But, don’t try any funny stuff. I have plans for us, Ross. Very important plans.” When Victor left, Ross immediately punched a button on his desk and summoned Ericka Swann, “Ericka, are you free? I’d like to see you in my office right away.” “Ross, is something wrong?” “You might say so,” Ross replied, then abruptly disconnected them. **** Ericka frowned down at the machine for a curious moment, then pulled out a mirror and looked at herself. Her dark hair had a glossy glow, her lips were red, and her eyes a striking amber. She wasn’t bad looking was she? Why, then, hadn’t Ross ever given her a second look? Her thoughts went back to a conversation they’d had at a pool party last year while eating a few tidbits of finger food at a buffet table. “You must have been a panther in another life, Ericka. Your sleek dark hair, your eyes. Even the slinking way you move. And you’re intelligent. I’ve never known such an intelligent woman. It does my heart good to know a woman such as yourself will be taking over Monarch Studios one day.” “You know you’re very lucky you have someone like me by your side, Ross. Anyone else would try to take the studio away from you.” “Not while I have controlling interest.” “Now you have controlling interest, darling, but I’m a woman, capable of all kinds of devious tricks to relieve you of your shares. Women down through the ages are famous for their seductive ways.” “I’m well aware that you’re a dangerous woman to have on my bad side, Ericka, but truthfully, I think you’re the only one on the Board of Directors

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that I would gladly give this studio to. If I wanted to retire, that is. Right now I can’t imagine not being able to come to the studio every day.” “I am wondering, though—oh, not that I want you dead, or anything— but as healthy and virile as you are, Ross, I’ll be old and gray before I become head of Monarch. And yet, if you did die an untimely death I would be crushed. I do love you, you know.” Ross laughed. “Ericka, darling, I can see right through you. What you love is my stock in Monarch Studio. You don’t fool me one bit. I know you’re foaming at the mouth to sit in the seat of power.” “But Ross, I’m—” “It’s all right dear, I understand. You say you care, but you and I both know that Hollywood people never mean what they say. And we are Hollywood, Ericka, through and through—so much so that the blood we have running through our veins is not real, but some packaged pig’s blood. A prop, Ericka, that’s all our blood is. A prop that’s brought in by the barrels, refrigerated, then spread all over a fake death scene. Hilarious, isn’t it?” The delectable morsel Ericka was going to put in her mouth suddenly became repulsive, and she gingerly replaced it on the platter. While dusting her fingers off, she said, “If you’re trying to be funny, you’re failing miserably, Ross.” “Besides,” Ross continued as if she hadn’t said a word. “Who knows what might happen? I could get run over by a bus. As much as I detest those things, that will surely be my fate.” “Silly boy, you will never die. Absolutely never. I forbid it!” “How about a dip in the pool? Last one—” The voices began to fade into a dying echo that brought with it a surge of pain. I do love you, you know...I do...I do... Hollywood people never mean what they say...They never...Never... He didn’t believe her. He never believed her. She’d practically placed her heart at his feet many times, and he’d ignored her. Ericka frowned into the mirror, her amber eyes turning dark and troubled. Ross didn’t sound like

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himself. He was clearly worried about something, and if he wanted to see her, it surely must concern the studio. Had he decided to sell his shares to her, giving her controlling interest? She’d known it would happen one day, but it was too soon! If he was no longer part of the studio, he wouldn’t stay around. He’d go away, lose himself somewhere on the continent never giving her a second thought. She quickly put the mirror down and hurried out of her office, trying to prepare herself to hear the words that would take him out of her life forever. **** By now the sun was setting and the bomb Victor had dropped into Ross’ lap had caused him to miss his therapy session. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t need them now anyway. Even though the shadows deepened, he didn’t move an inch—not even to turn on a light. He could hear the far-off tick of his clock, and watched as the ghostly shadows that hung from the ceiling of his office leaned lower and lower. Listening to his own breathing, he sat wooden-still, wondering what Ericka would say when he told her he would hand the studio over to her if she would...kill him.

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Chapter 18 “Kill you?” Ericka almost shouted. “My God, Ross, whatever for?” “No questions, Ericka, you promised.” “But Ross, darling, you expect me to just pick up a gun and shoot you without asking questions?” “I expect you to keep your promise.” “Yes, of course. If you’d wanted to sell the studio. If you’d wanted to marry a starlet. If you’d wanted to abscond with the studio’s money and run off to Brazil. If you’d wanted to fly to the moon. But asking me to...to...My God, I can’t even say it!” Tormented, Ross raked his fingers through his hair. “You’re the only one I can ask, Ericka. You’re my last hope. Don’t you see that?” Ericka paced while wringing her hands. “I can’t, Ross, I just can’t. I love you, don’t you know that? I always have, that was the reason I couldn’t take the studio.” She stopped in front of his desk and leaned over it, her palms flat on the smooth wood. “I could have a thousand times over, but—” She bowed her head and pulled herself back from him. “Well...I foolishly hoped that we could run it together someday.” “But we have, Ericka—” “Well...Yes. But I had something a little different in mind.” “Ericka. I’m sorry if I never loved you. If it helps, I respect you tremendously.” “Oh, posh, Ross, those are the words a man says about a woman who’s as plain as homemade soap.” She turned dramatically and lifted her arms. “She has a wonderful personality. She’s a good kid. A nice person.” All at once she whirled around and looked at him. “Respect doesn’t warm your

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bed at night! It doesn’t keep fear at bay.” Her eyes suddenly pleaded with him. “Oh, Ross, am I so plain? Is that what you think of me?” “Ericka, stop it. You’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known. I’ve always thought you could tantalize the screen with your beauty, but I never suggested it because I needed you behind the scenes so badly.” “Now you’re trying to turn my head—tell me what you know I want to hear just to get me to—” A sob stifled her words. “Oh, Ross, please don’t ask me to do such a thing.” She ran to him and knelt before him. “Not even for the studio would I want you dead. I know you never believed me, but it’s true.” Ross looked at her with awe written on his face. “You really do...Love me?” “It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all these years—in so many words of course. I must have given myself away a thousand times by the way I looked at you, the little things I said.” She lowered her head, an embarrassed flush coloring her face. “I’m afraid I’m too much of a coward to—” “You’re not a coward, my dear, you’ve just opened your heart to me when I needed it most.” His cloudy gaze broke from hers, and he looked away in torment. “I only wish...I mean now when things look so hopeless...” He looked at her again. “Ericka, if I’d only known.” “What would you have done?” “I don’t know,” he said, reaching up and rubbing the nape of his neck. “I’ll tell you what you would have done. You would have felt sorry for me, Ross.” She jumped up, then whirled on him. “Sorry! I couldn’t have stood it. At the very least our relationship would have become strained. I didn’t know how you felt, and, well—if you didn’t feel the same, I would have lost my dearest friend.” “You haven’t lost me, Ericka. I only wish I’d known sooner.” “I had given up on you ever becoming my lover,” she whispered. “And it would have killed me to lose you as a friend.” Her eyes broke contact with his, and she turned, putting one hand on her hip while the other raked through the dark cloud of her glossy hair. “That’s why I never told you. I simply couldn’t take the chance.”

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Ross stood, and reached for the hand she had on her hip. “Come here my little panther.” She slowly turned and allowed him to pull her forward, not letting herself believe what she was hearing. Ross gathered her close, feeling the curves of her body against his, a flame of passion rising in him. With her so close, he could smell her light, flowery fragrance, and see the wanton lust in her eyes. He knew she wanted him—and for the first time he wanted her. His hands came up and cupped her face, his eyes searching her smooth perfect ivory skin. Why hadn’t he seen her before? How had he missed the perfect breasts, the slim, lithe figure, the legs that were always covered with a dark, shadowy netting that made them slim and long, and smooth. He’d been a blind fool, he thought as he lowered his lips, lightly touching hers. She emitted a groan, her hands lifting to cover his. Slowly their slim loveliness began to move along his arms to his shoulders. His eyes lifted just then and looked around the office. How many starlets had he had in here? How many sins had he committed that he would never be forgiven for? Suddenly the past was crowding in on him, his sins staring him in the face as never before. He pulled her away from him and searched her face with his eyes. “God, Ericka, I can’t take you here. Too many memories...Too many lives have passed through this room. It feels tainted somehow.” “Ross, is this really happening?” she breathed as he held her. “If you want it to, Ericka,” he answered. “No, Ross,” she said, pulling back from him. “if you want it to. God knows I’ve wanted it for years.” “Darling, darling, how can a man be so blind? I wanted it then, I just didn’t know how to let you know. You know Hollywood, and how insincere everyone is. Out here everything is so damned plastic. If someone says they love you, it means absolutely nothing. I thought...”

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“Shhh,” she said, blocking his speech with a finger against his mouth. “I know what you thought, and I shouldn’t have been so foolish as to let it end there. I should have made sure you knew how I felt.” “Ericka, we’ve found each other. Let’s go on from here. No regrets.” “You’re right, darling. Let’s leave this room where so many ghosts of yesteryear gather, and go back to my place. We’ll start anew.” **** How friendly the moon is tonight. How golden and mellow. Victor’s eyes traced the mellow light as it shone down on a path that ran through the woods a short distance away, but knew he couldn’t follow it. Anger began to coil deep inside his stomach. His new life was impossible. He was supposed to be a separate entity. To him that meant separate and apart entirely. No invisible bond, nothing to connect him with Ross in any way. He looked up at the blinking motel sign. Living here was another one of his stupid ideas. But it was necessary since he was trying to wean himself from Ross, or perhaps disengage was a better word. Whatever the word, he knew one thing. He wanted to be independent—live his own life. That meant separating himself from Ross completely. He had even planned to leave the city, take a new name, the whole bit. But something he hadn’t counted on had happened. He found that no matter where he was, that damned cord made him subject to Ross’ emotions. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He felt cheated. He’d begun to wonder if it was such a smart move on his part to separate himself from Ross. He’d gone through so many sensations since he’d been out. A touch of fear for no reason, dread, sorrow—feelings he’d never had before. Since he had no emotions this was new to him. How would he get through it? How would he endure it? He turned, pacing along the carpet, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His hair was hanging in his face, his clothes were wrinkled, his shirt collar loose, his tie askew. He didn’t look like Ross. Ross was always immaculately dressed. Every hair in place, clothes wrinkle-free, nails

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clean and manicured. Victor wasn’t quite so particular with his appearance. He couldn’t stand the ties, the confining collars. He wanted to be loose, carefree, so he always looked disheveled, unkempt, and his eyes always revealed the anger he felt inside. He was as different from Ross as night from day, yet he looked like his twin. At least almost like his twin. He was huskier, more muscled, his face a bit craggy, always needing a shave. He was different, yet the same. He might as well face it, he was an oddity. His problems weren’t like other people’s because he wasn’t one of them. He was a freak! He wilted down on his bed with these thoughts tumbling around in his head, a headache starting. Was it his, or was the pain coming from Ross? He never knew, and it was killing him. God! he thought, pulling at his collar. It was stifling in here. He could hardly breathe. He’d been used to living in luxury, not in a tiny little motel with rooms the size of a closet! Victor jumped up from the bed and stood staring out at the dark, moonlit night. It looked so cool...So free and empty. His eyes jumped from one dark shadow to another. Watched cars passing in the street. Heard carefree laughter. There were people out there—people he wanted to kill just for the sake of killing. Suddenly a choking sensation hit him, and he felt as if he were going crazy. He must hunt and kill, but he had to be outside to do it! Must get outside! Out! Out! Out! He had just reached for the doorknob when suddenly a deep erotic flare of passion blazed inside him. His body froze, stiffened, then literally shook with desire, the throbbing sensation in his groin aching for release. He grabbed himself and fell down on the bed. Someone was touching him... My God, Victor thought, Ross is with someone...having sex, and because they were bound with an invisible cord, Victor could feel every throb, every erotic sensation. He lay back on the bed, his eyes closing as someone’s mouth covered Ross’ cock. Victor could feel her softness, smell her fragrance, her smooth skin beneath his fingertips. Even though he couldn’t see her, he knew she

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was beautiful. Oh, God, a wet lick, a stroke, two lips sucking the tip of his cock, then covering him with her whole mouth. Victor’s hips began moving, a moan gurgling out of his throat. And then suddenly there was a plunge, and Victor could feel the woman’s cunt covering him with a soft wetness. The sensations went up and down his cock as Ross thrust in and out. His desire was climbing as he felt Ross’ lips pressing against her ear, her neck, then the taut feel of a nipple in his mouth made Victor open wide. Ross’ hands squeezed a firm butt, bringing it upward to meet him as he thrust inside her, over and over again. The sensation took Victor higher, his body writhing, an orgasm coming closer and closer until it spewed, the creamy substance erupting like a lusty volcano. Victor lay there limp. Oh, God, he thought. He hadn’t counted on this. Sure, he knew he could feel what Ross felt, but he was thinking pain, hunger, thirst, exhaustion—anything. But—not sex. Not the roller coaster ride of raw emotions! He could be anywhere when it hit him. In a car, walking along a street, talking to someone. As he lay there breathing hard, he realized how vulnerable he was on the outside. Had it been such a good idea to come out, and live separately? Victor had sentenced himself to a lifetime of misery. He knew now that he would have to suffer whatever Ross went through. Something as severe as a heart attack, or as simple as a headache. What if Ross decided to end it all? A gunshot wound to the brain, a rope around his neck. Victor hadn’t considered these things before. While inside him, Victor would simply have ceased to exist. Now he would suffer with Ross. The pain of a lost love, the cold, the heat, sickness, death...yes, death. God, what had he done?! If he chose to do so, Ross could kill Victor by killing himself. Would he do such a thing? Would he go that far? What a stupid ass he was. Ross, as the dominant personality could control Victor now—as Victor had once controlled him!

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Ross lay still, the glorious bliss of the evening turning regretful as Ericka lay in his arms. Such a turn of events, he thought. Only a few hours ago he’d wanted to die. Now he wanted nothing more than to live and defeat the devil that in some twisted, insane way, had been thrust into this world to bring torment and misery. No, he couldn’t die! Not now! Not now that he had something to live for. His eyes lowered to the glossy head that rested on his chest. Maybe he couldn’t ask her to kill him, but he had to figure out some way to get rid of Victor. To take this woman who had loved him all these years and make her his own. What would she think when he told her the whole story? Would she still care for him, or would she turn and run? As if she could read his mind, Ericka turned her face up to him. “My God, I just remembered. You wanted to die—even asked me to shoot you!” “It wasn’t important, darling. A joke. Don’t give it another thought.” She lifted herself and faced him. “Ross, is there something wrong at the studio?” “Oh, no you don’t!” he said teasingly. “No business tonight.” Cuddling her close, he continued, “This night belongs to us—to Ross and Ericka.” “Ross and Ericka,” she mumbled, then smiled. “Sounds good, doesn’t it?” She turned to look at him again. “It will always be ‘Ross and Ericka’ won’t it, darling?” “As long as—” His words stopped abruptly when he thought of Victor again. He looked down at her and smiled. “Of course. Now stop worrying.” “You were going to say something, Ross. What was it?” “Nothing. Forget it.” “Forget it?” she said, lifting herself up. “No! Of course not. If something is disturbing you, I want to know what it is. I’m still number two, am I not?” Ross smiled teasingly. “You’re number one with me.”

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“Ross, stop joking. Something’s bothering you and I want to know what it is.” Ross’ smile faded and a shadow seemed to darken his handsome features. “I suppose I’ll have to tell you sooner or later.” The room was silent, dark, then he said, “I...” He hesitated. “God, Ericka, I...I don’t know how to say it.” “Is it money, Ross? The studio’s not broke, is it? Are you wanting to sell it? Is that it?” “No,” he said as he looked down at her, his gaze burning into her eyes. “I wanted to die because—there’s just no other solution. It’s the only way to get rid of him.” Her face took on a look of horror. “Who, Ross? Get rid of who?” He sighed, knowing he couldn’t put it off any longer. “You remember what came out in the trial? The dual personality?” Ericka felt a chill dance down her spine. “Yes, but you’re getting treatment, aren’t you?” Ross sighed. “Treatment...Yes. But I’ve had a dual personality for years. You don’t get rid of something like that overnight.” “Darling, I understand. Surely you don’t think something like that can come between us. I know about your troubles and it doesn’t matter.” “You say that now because you don’t realize how dangerous the situation is. Think back. Was there ever a time when you thought I acted a little differently than usual, or maybe I didn’t look quite right?” “Actually...Yes...” she turned away from him, remembering. “Many times when you looked a little different I remember wondering if you’d gained weight, or had had a bad night. Your words were rough, gravelly, and you seemed unusually cruel even to those you considered friends.” She looked back at him. “Everyone made excuses for you, thinking you were having a bad day. Once our eyes met, and I thought I saw lust in them.” Her voice became softer, reflective. “As much as I wanted you, I hurried out of the office that day...almost...afraid of you.” “You should have kept running.”

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“You called me back. Ericka, you said, would you stay a moment?” A look of fear crossed her face. “I lied, telling you I had an...an appointment.” “Smart girl.” She quickly, buried her face in his chest and sobbed, tears in her eyes. “I was afraid of you. Of what you might do.” “Thank God you didn’t stay. Why...He might have killed you. He’s killed before, you know. He could have felt threatened since you were so close to being in charge of Monarch Studios. It’s very possible he wanted you out of the way. Or if he had lust in his eyes he might have wanted to—” “Make love?” Ross snorted. “I’m afraid not. Sex, yes—make love no. Victor doesn’t make love he fucks a woman until she can hardly walk out of the office.” “Victor—” she repeated, then shivered. “Even the name sounds evil.” “I hate to say it, but there are complications.” She turned to him. “Complications?” “He’s separated himself from me. He’s become another entity. I’ve never heard of it happening before, but he did it, and he looks exactly like me, with the exception of the slight physical differences.” “Oh, God,” she breathed. “You mean he’s out walking around?” “Unfortunately, yes.” Grabbing her hands, his eyes held a hint of horror. “Ericka, I told the truth in the court room. I didn’t kill Lorna Desmond. He did. At least he was in control. I didn’t even know anything about it until I woke up and saw what he wanted me to see. The bastard hungers for blood! He’s pure evil!” “Oh, God,” she breathed. “If only the studio needed money. That I could have helped you with, but this—” She looked up at him, fear in her eyes. “What does your therapist say about this?” “I haven’t had a chance to tell him yet. This just occurred today. As a matter of fact, Victor told me he learned the technique from picking the brain of the therapist.” All at once she took him in her arms and hugged him almost desperately. “We’ll get through this, darling. I’ll stay by your side every moment.”

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“Then...You’re not...I mean this doesn’t matter?” “It matters...It matters a lot, but no, Ross. I wouldn’t abandon you. Victor is not going to win this. You and I have too much to lose if he does. There must be something someone can do. We’ll just have to figure out who that someone is.” For the rest of the night Ericka and Ross made plans that took Ross through a world of emotions that transferred to Victor. He laughed, cried, made love again and again. An ambulance screamed, a dog barked, and horns honked. Victor was unbearably aware of it all. Just when he thought Ross might have gone to sleep, he felt choppy black waves as they lapped against his body when Ross and Ericka took a dip in the ocean. Even Victor’s breath was cut off when Ross went under water. He clutched at his throat until he at last felt air fill his lungs. This is impossible, he thought. He couldn’t live like this! He tasted ham, turkey, bread, and gagged when he was forced to taste mustard, which he hated! He was slowly going crazy. How could he have been so stupid as to want to exist outside Ross’ body? Before, when he encountered something distasteful he simply sank down into deep oblivion until it was over. Now he had to endure it! What would he do? How would he get back in? It was impossible! He’d rather die than live this way! Ross would be seeing his therapist soon. Maybe...

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Chapter 19 His magnificent body gyrated all over the silver screen. Close-ups revealed perfect skin, teeth, and eyes that had a sexy, slumberous look to them. There wasn’t a wrinkle, or a gray hair—just a gorgeous hunk that women would go crazy for. And he could act! As Ross sat there looking at the results of the screen test that was a combination of dancing and acting, he knew he’d found Hollywood’s next heartthrob. When the second half of the test began, Lance had already given a magnificent performance, but couldn’t seem to keep a straight face when Shania fed him his lines. The two of them tried to stay serious, but just couldn’t. The test was good because Lance wasn’t trying too hard. He was natural. In fact he didn’t seem to care. Ross could see love in his eyes as he looked at Shania, and felt a jolt in his stomach. At first he felt anger because he knew the two of them had probably already been together. Any number of foul names rushed up from his throat, but they quickly vanished when he realized they had fallen head-over-heels in love. So, instead of feeling as if his daughter had been ruined, he felt like he was letting her go—releasing her into the arms of someone who would give her the care and protection he’d always given her over the years. He had to admit that he liked Lance, and the idea of him becoming his son-in-law wasn’t a bad feeling. And then something very odd happened. Lance leaned over and pulled Shania up before the camera. She fought, but Lance motioned for the camera to do a close up. When it did, Shania made a few faces before she became serious. Lance seemed to fade out of the picture as the camera followed Shania. She walked seductively, then struck a few poses, gave the camera big smiles, and when she couldn’t think of anything else to do, she grabbed a few props and played with them before

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the camera. Ross was astounded. She was beautiful! And she could act. She had already proven that when she fed Lance his lines. My God, he thought. Why hadn’t he seen this before? He knew the answer. It was because he saw beautiful people all day long. Possibly he’d become blind to them, especially since she was his own daughter. Now he looked at her as millions of others would, maybe the way Lance and countless other men saw her. Her body was slim and curvy, her legs long and gorgeous. And the way she walked...My God, she could be Monarch’s next sex kitten. She could be another—he hated to say it— another...Lorna Desmond! “Cut it!” Ross called out to the projectionist. He had what he wanted, and needed to get to work on this new project...Two beautiful young people who were going to burn up the screen! Back in his office, he leaned toward the intercom. “Put in a call to Lance Weston and Shania and tell them to be in my office promptly tomorrow morning at nine. Also have Nelson draw up contracts for both of them.” “Shania?” “My daughter, dammit!” “Oh, of course, sir.” Ross was at loose ends. What if there was something about the contract they didn’t like? He hated contract negotiations. Shania had been around the movie industry all her life, and it could be that she wouldn’t want any part of it. He’d feel better when both their signatures were on the dotted line. Just then his office door opened, and Victor walked in. He looked awful. Disheveled, tired, and in a bad mood, as usual. “What the hell are you doing walking in here in front of everyone?” Ignoring his question, Victor looked at Ross with tormented, intense eyes. “When is your next therapy session?” “It’s tomorrow at four, but what’s that to you? You’ve already done all the damage you can.” “I want to be there.” He looked at Ross, his eyes cloudy and redrimmed. “How do you stand it, Ross? These emotions running around in

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you day after day? I’m not used to it, and I can’t take it. It drains me. Something’s wrong. I know it.” “And you think the therapist can make it all better, huh? Well get your own, you bastard. You wanted to separate yourself from me, so do it! Leave town, leave the state, leave the goddamned planet!” He rushed over to Victor and looked directly into his eyes. “I’ve never been so fucking happy in my goddamned life. Know why? Because there are no more missing blocks of time. I can come and go without wondering when you’re going to make an appearance. You wanted out, so you got out. If it’s not all you thought it would be, tough noogies! Now go away, and leave me the hell alone!” “It wasn’t supposed to be this way!” Victor said, a desperate sound to his voice. “It was supposed to be for me, not you! I was going to kill you— take over your life.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Now I find out that if you die, I do. I find out that I experience everything you do.” He lowered his face into his hands and mumbled through them. “It isn’t fair, Ross, it isn’t fair!” “It is fair, Victor, don’t you see that? Life has a way of paying back the devils of this world. You’re evil, depraved—scum as far as I’m concerned, and any torment you go through couldn’t be bad enough.” Victor lifted his face, and his eyes became points of evil. “Well it ends during this therapy session, Ross. I can’t live like this, and if that means we both die, then so be it!” Victor pulled a gun from out of his pocket and palmed it in front of Ross’ eyes. The humorless smile on Ross’ face suddenly faded as his eyes slid toward the gun. “You mean—” “Yes. If the therapist can’t send me back inside you, or separate us somehow, then we’re going to die! Both of us!” The blood drained from Ross’ face. “Victor, you can’t!” “I have to. Don’t you understand? I can’t live like this, you bastard. Something has to be done!” Ross’ eyes turned cloudy, knowing he had only twenty-four hours to find an answer. Suddenly he heard a loud sound and looked up to see the

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door vibrating in its frame. Victor had come, planted another bomb, then slammed out, leaving it with Ross. A dread began growing inside him. He quickly leaned over and pressed the button on the intercom. “Send Ericka and Nelson in here.” While Ericka paced the office, Ross and Monarch’s legal counsel sat and reviewed wills, drew up contracts, and discussed his latest finds, Lance Weston and his daughter, Shania. He instructed Nelson on what to do in his absence, informing him that Ericka Swann was next in line for his position. When Nelson left, Ericka rushed to him and embraced him. “What is it, Ross? What’s happened? It sounds like you’re making arrangements in the event of your death.” He looked down at her, and his face almost crumpled in pain. “I am.” “No!” Ericka shouted. “I won’t allow it! I won’t!” “It’s Victor,” he rasped. “He’s found out it’s no Sunday picnic on the outside. He’s threatened to kill us both if the therapist can’t get him back inside me.” Ericka’s fingers pressed against her lips. “My God!” “Now I have to contact Lou—” Ericka looked up at him. “Lou Partridge, your therapist? But why?” “I have a session with him tomorrow, and I need to give him the bad news. Maybe a little advance notice will give him an edge, and me—” He looked down at her and his voice softened. “Us a chance to grow old together.” After the phone call, the two of them embraced while standing at a window silhouetted against the dying day. “I’ve never noticed how beautiful a sunset can be,” Ross whispered. “You’ll see thousands more, Ross. I promise.” Ross looked down at her. “How can you make such a promise?” “They say love can move mountains.” Ross smiled. “So they do.” While the shadows in the office deepened, the two silhouettes began to move against the orange sunset, and subtle kisses sounded in the shadows. Finally, when Ericka’s head nestled against Ross’ shoulder, she knew that if

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Ross died tomorrow, so would she. Perhaps not with any kind of weapon, but with grief. Now that they were finally together, living in a world without him in it would be worse than death. **** The next morning Ross was looking into the eyes of Lance and Shania, the contracts spread out on his desk. The two lovebirds looked at each other, then to Ross. Ross could see that both were nervous and had something on their minds. “Well, what is it? You’ve read the contracts, do you understand them? Do you need anything explained to you?” Not able to sit another moment, Lance jumped up from his chair. “It’s not...It’s not that I don’t appreciate this, Mr. Hunter, it’s just...Well the fact is I’m not signing anything until...I mean...The fact is, I love Shania and I want to marry her.” “Mmm,” Ross replied, then looked at Shania who sat still, her eyes anchored on her father. “Well, how do you feel? Do you love Lance?” With a look on her face that dared him to say their love was wrong, she said, “Of course I do, Daddy. Lance and I have discussed this—” “Oh, yeah?” Ross replied sarcastically, slapping the pen down on the desk and leaning toward her. “When did you discuss it? While you were in bed together?” Ross felt a perverse satisfaction at the fear and shock suddenly showing up on their faces. “All right,” Lance finally admitted. “So we’ve been together! Could you stay away from the woman you want to spend the rest of your life with? We’ve done nothing wrong. We want to get married, and we will. No...No matter what you say.” While Ross glared at the two of them he thought of Ericka. Just the thought of staying away from her until they could make it legal was ridiculous. He loved her, she loved him. Why shouldn’t they be together? A marriage license was nothing but a piece of paper—a legal document that told the world how two people felt inside. True marriage was an emotion—a

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commitment that took root in the heart and grew. What some stupid piece of paper had to do with it, he couldn’t begin to say. “You’re damned right you’ll marry her,” Ross ground out, “because if you don’t your body’ll be found floating in the Pacific Ocean tomorrow morning.” Slowly Ross rose from his chair, his piercing eyes still looking at Lance, the silence in the office deep and thick. “How many times have you been together? Once? Twice? Six times? Twelve? She isn’t pregnant, is she?” “Daddy,” Shania said, hurrying to place herself between the two men who were glaring at each other. “I thought you liked Lance. Why all of a sudden...?” “That was before I knew he had his hands all over you.” “You’re not going to make us ashamed of our love for each other,” Lance said bravely as he stood beside Shania and put his arm around her. “I love her, Mr. Hunter, and nothing you can do or say can change that.” “Do you?” he growled while glaring at them. When he saw their determination it seemed that suddenly all his anger melted. What the hell am I doing, he thought and rubbed his forehead as he looked up at Lance. “I don’t know. Hell, maybe you do.” “Daddy, what’s wrong? You like Lance. Why are you fighting this?” Ross looked down at her with love in his eyes. “Lots of reasons, I guess. It’s just...It’s hard for me to give you up, that’s all. To realize you’re a woman now, and not a little girl.” She smiled. “Lance has made me very happy, Daddy. I wish you could be happy for us.” “I’ll try, but...Well...This sure puts a crimp in my plans...I mean as far as your careers go.” “Why? Is something wrong?” Lance asked. “Nothing either of you would care about, but to me it involves a lot of money.” He raked his fingers through his hair as he paced. “The studio has made all kinds of plans—big plans, and promotions. Hell, I’ve got screenwriters already working on your next three movies. After the first there’ll be invitations, personal appearances—”

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“What in hell are you talking about?” Ross whirled around and looked at Lance. “You, dammit are about to burst upon the world as America’s newest heartthrob!” He looked over at Shania. “And you...You’ll be every man’s fantasy. I’m promoting you both as sex symbols. The movies you do will be suggestive, sexy, and designed to thrust you into the public eye as today’s sexiest young stars.” His eyes slid toward Lance. “A marriage now would ruin everything.” “Are you saying we have to make a choice between marriage and a career?” “Lance, I’m not saying that at all. But when your image is spread across that screen, that moviegoer sees herself in the place of the heroine. It’s her in your arms—her lips you’re kissing. The words of love that you utter are for her and her alone. Do you think she’s going to feel the same if she knows you’re married? No! She has to believe that there’s a chance that someday those dreams will come true.” His gaze turned and looked toward Shania. “Shania, it’s the same with you. The man who fantasizes about you in his arms has to believe it’s possible to make that dream come true. You’ll be a sex goddess, an impossible dream, a mystique that will be created in every man’s mind. If the news goes out that you’re married all that comes crashing down. To your fans you’ll both be out of reach. In no time your box office appeal will plummet.” “Sounds like we’ll be selling our souls to—” Ross looked up and smiled lightly. “The Devil? Ross Hunter? Monarch?” Lance snorted. “Something like that.” “Well, it isn’t quite as bad as that. Many of our stars married and tried to balance the two, but some left the screen entirely in favor of a home and children. Then there were those who tried keeping it a secret—until a child came along. That was a secret they couldn’t very well hide, although some tried.” Ross shrugged. “It’s the very reason Lorna Desmond never married.” Lance watched Ross’ passion as he went on and on about the movie industry. “You certainly haven’t missed your calling.” Ross’ eyes jumped to Lance. “Why do you say that?”

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“I can tell by looking at you that...I don’t know...You live and breathe this stuff.” “Is that bad?” Ross asked as he put a cigarette in his mouth. “Not at all since it’s made you a millionaire.” Ross suppressed a smile and rose from the edge of his desk, his lit cigarette caught between his fingers. “Well, I think I’ve made a few rich right along with me. Now, how about we start working on your first million?” Lance smiled. “Sounds good to me.” Ross leaned over his desk, picked up a pen, then turned and held it out to Lance. “How about it? If you sign I’ll buy you dinner tonight.” Lance took the pen, then looked back at Shania. “Selling my soul for a McDonald’s hamburger.” “Wait, Lance,” Shania said. “Daddy, what about—” “Don’t worry, baby. If it’s my blessing you want, you have it.” He looked over at Lance. “She belongs to you now, Lance. All I ask is that you keep your marriage a secret—at least for a while.” Lance pulled his eyes away from Ross and looked at Shania. “What do you think?” “How long, Daddy?” Ross shrugged. “At least until the two of you prove to the public that you’re more than just pretty faces.” Ross ground out his cigarette while still talking. “At first you’ll be no more than icing on a cake, but in time, when they see that you can act as well as look good, a lot of things will happen. You’ll become recognized as more than a sex symbol which is always good, and you’ll be given bigger and better roles. If you handle them the way I think you will, it’s just a matter of time until you’re on your way to becoming a superstar. Of course, that’s a long way off right now.” Ross indicated toward the pen in Lance’s hand. “Well, what’ll it be?” Lance leaned over, letting his hand hover just above the dotted line, then turned the pen and looked curiously at the tip. “If I see blood coming out of this thing, I’ll—” “You’ll what? Run for the hills?”

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“No. I’ll demand we go to The Sky Room for dinner. I think my soul’s worth a lot more than a greasy hamburger.”

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Chapter 20 Lou Partridge sat at his desk sleeping soundly, his open books a pillow for his head. Suddenly he jumped when he heard the loud bong of his grandfather clock, and looked around. His eyes were gritty, his limbs heavy, and he’d barely managed to get himself together to climb the stairs of his Victorian mansion to wash up. Now, as he sat at his desk looking at Victor, Ross, and Ericka, he was glad he’d cancelled all his appointments following this one because he was sure he was going to need every solitary minute. He agonized over the fact that someone might even die during this session. Who would it be? Victor? Or Ross? Or both? At this point, when he was supposed to have all the answers, he didn’t know shit! How was he going to solve this problem? He was lost. He didn’t have a clue. He’d searched until his eyes ached, but could find nothing in published form regarding a dual personality living on the outside of a man’s body. He knew it was an exercise in futility before he started. Hell, if such a thing had been discovered he would have heard of it. It would have been big news all over the civilized world. He didn’t dare discuss it with anyone. Every Dean of every college, every Professor of Psychiatry, every degreed professional in the world would agree that the concept was preposterous! Any other time he would have agreed with them—except for one thing! If he could somehow do away with the invisible cord that held both Ross and Victor together he believed it would work. It was a principle that had never been explored, but why should it? There had never been a reason—until now. He knew the umbilical cord was certainly there. How else could Victor have life? Feel everything that Ross felt? Oh, yes. The cord was there all right, but the question was—how could he get rid of it and still keep Ross alive? The

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usual methods wouldn’t work. Any treatment he used would have to be very extreme. Now, with all of them gathered in his office, his attention was mostly on Victor and the torment written on his face. He was disheveled, his hair falling down in his face, his eyes almost as red-rimmed as his own. He knew why Victor was so miserable. Ross being a good man—feelings such as love, sympathy, friendship and tenderness flooded through him daily. It was absolute torment for someone like Victor. Pure evil can’t tolerate such feelings, or anything close to them. The only thing it knows is hate, death, wickedness and all manner of perversity. Every pure thought that came through Ross’ mind was like exposing some part of Victor to a sizzling hot frying pan. It was pure torment. Lou’s eyes narrowed on Victor. “I need to talk to Ross in private.” “No! I don’t want anyone conspiring against me!” “No one’s conspiring against you. Ross is my patient, and there are certain things I cannot—and will not—discuss in front of others.” He looked over at Ericka. “I’m sorry, Ms. Swann, but that includes you.” She smiled gently. “Of course, I understand.” “Would you take Victor out and tell Miss Horn to give you some coffee?” “Of course.” Victor left under protest, but finally they were alone, and Lou turned to Ross. “I’ll be honest, Ross, I—” He flailed his hands in exasperation. “I couldn’t find anything. There’s simply nothing written that’s even close to the problem you’re struggling with.” Ross sat forward. “You mean to tell me, there’s no solution? No way to get rid of this—this bastard who’s attached himself to me?” “Well, there’s a possible solution, but I have no idea if it’ll work. It’s dangerous because Victor is a part of you, and I don’t know how it will affect you.” “What do you mean?”

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“It’s...Well, the bond between you two—the one that makes it possible for Victor to feel everything you do. It needs to be broken. Now, to break it will kill Victor—and maybe you as well.” The news was rough, causing Ross to turn his eyes away while raking his fingers through his hair. “I see.” He looked over at the door, thinking of Ericka on the other side, then looked back toward Lou. “No other way, huh?” “I’m afraid not. It’s possible you would live, but you may not. It would simply be a chance we’d be taking.” “Then I guess it’s up to me.” “I’m afraid it is. I might add that it works on the principle of the umbilical cord. If the cord is broken, the child dies, not the mother. It may be the same in this case, but since nothing’s ever been written up on it, I don’t know.” “I guess every great theory needs someone to test it out, right?” “I’m sorry, Ross. You don’t have to go through with this. In fact I’d advise against it. I’ve struggled with it, and come close to adamantly refusing to be a part of such an experiment. Any reputable psychiatrist would.” “No, Lou, I’m not running away from this. Victor has already told me he’ll kill us both if he has to. It looks like one way or the other I die.” Lou looked at Ross as if an idea had just occurred to him. “He did say that, didn’t he? He said he would kill you. Right?” “Yes. He made it very clear.” “But what if you...?” Lou’s eyes suddenly turned bright. “Ross, could you...Could you kill if you had to?” “I doubt I could. Why? What has this...?” “No, that’s not what I mean. The fact that Victor is part of you—the very image of you...Would this somehow keep you from being able to kill him if you had to? Would you feel it would be like putting a gun to your own head?” “You want me to kill him?”

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“Don’t say it like that, Ross. He’s nothing to you. It wouldn’t be like killing another human being. He’s here illegally, living off of you. He’s a parasite, a goddamned bloodsucker! Kill the bastard!” “But you said...What about me?” “Just go along with me on this, Ross. If it works out the way I think, we won’t have to worry about you.” “I honestly don’t know if I could kill him.” He looked at Lou. “Hell, Lou, I’m not a killer. I’ve never had a gun in my hands for anything other than hunting.” Lou looked closely at Ross. “All right, how about this? Would you let me give you a post hypnotic suggestion?” “A suggestion to kill?” “No, but I can do the next best thing. I can make you so angry that you will want to kill someone. You’ll be driven to the very edge, and all that anger will be pointed toward Victor.” “Oh, God!” “A hypnotic suggestion along with the umbilical cord between you will make it possible for you to feel Victor’s evil…his anger…his desire to kill. When I write up the paper I’ll call it Emotional Transference.” “It’s all mumbo jumbo to me, but if it’ll bring this thing to a close, I’ll do it. But don’t expect miracles.” For the next few minutes Lou drew Ross into a fathomless world where all was peaceful except for the hypnotic suggestion that would magically turn him into a killer. Slowly opening his eyes, Ross looked at Lou. “All done? I don’t feel any different.” Lou looked closely at Ross. “All right, get them in here. And Ross, just follow my lead.” Ross went to the door and opened it. He saw Victor immediately turn his way. “Well, have you finished talking about how you intend to get rid of me?” “Get rid of you?” Ross said sarcastically, “Why, Victor you’re my greatest joy in life. Why would I want to get rid of you?”

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With a look on his face that resembled thunderclouds, Victor brutally pushed past Ross and took his seat. Just then Ericka walked in. She was just about to go past him when he leaned toward her and whispered, “I love you.” The remark was so surprising that a pink flush crept up over her cheeks. Putting her hands up to her face, she said, “I can’t believe I’m blushing like a school girl.” Giving Ross a reprimanding look, she said, “You cad, how could you do this to me?” “Love. Enough of it would tear Victor apart.” Ericka looked at him questioningly. Ross nodded toward Victor, and Ericka followed his eyes and saw Victor’s face screw up in torment. “He feels what you feel?” “Oh, yes!” “Say it again,” she said mischievously. “I adore you.” Just then they both looked over at Victor and could tell he was about to scream. With a sharp turn of his head, and eyes that almost elongated with evil, he yelled, “Get that bitch out of here!” Ross pushed Ericka all the way into the room, and with a look of pure hatred toward Victor, said, “She stays, you bastard. You’re the one who’s leaving.” He then looked over at Lou and gave him a nod. “Take it away, Maestro.” “You’re sure?” “Hell, yes!” A small smile played along Lou’s lips when he heard Ross’ answer. “All right,” he said, rubbing his palms together as he rose from his chair. With his eyes on Ross, he skirted his desk and perched on the edge. “Ross, take care of business.” When Ross heard those words, his eyes narrowed, and his head jerked toward Victor. “You bastard!” Rising from his chair, he confronted his other

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personality with fire in his eyes. “I’ll kill you!” he yelled, grabbing the front of Victor’s already unkempt shirt and pulling him up. Victor struggled, clearly not knowing what was going on. “What in hell are you talking about?” “Don’t deny it. You made a pass at my woman, and I won’t stand for it.” Victor turned and looked at Ericka. “Make a pass at that freak? I don’t think so. What the hell you see in her is a mystery to me.” Ross’ eyes took on a wicked glint as he pushed Victor backward, brutalizing him against the wall. “You’ll pay for that,” he whispered, his voice low and raspy. Both Ericka and Lou backed up toward the wall while the struggling men knocked over furniture right and left. “If it’s a fight you want, I’d be glad to oblige!” Victor growled. Before anyone knew what was happening, he whipped out a gun and pushed it in Ross’ stomach. Ross’ eyes slid down toward the gun, and he felt a line of cold sweat break out along his neck. He could feel a cold fury roiling around inside him. He wanted this bastard dead—out of his life once and for all. But he had to get the gun. Suddenly it seemed important for him to kill Victor. His life, his sanity, his whole future depended on him getting that gun. His eyes darted from the gun to Victor’s evil face. All at once he heard a voice behind him, and slightly averted his eyes toward it. “Ross, take care of business...now!” “Yes,” he whispered while a new rage began to churn inside him like a restless ocean. For a moment he was a murderer, a killer on the loose, and his prey was backed up in a corner, but he held a gun. Knowing he had to somehow get that gun, the evil in his mind began to work, telling him what to do. Calculating, malicious and conniving, he moved, feinting to his left. When he saw Victor turn the gun that way, at the last minute he slanted the other way, and brought a vicious blow down on Victor’s wrist. The gun went tumbling to the floor and discharged, the bullet shattering the lamp on Lou’s desk. Victor pounced on it, with Ross right behind.

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All at once Lou felt a push on the door, and a voice. “Mr. Partridge, is everything all right? I thought I heard a gunshot.” “Get away from the door, Dora.” “Should I call the police?” “No! Just do what I say, dammit, and get away from the door before you get hurt!” Lou’s eyes watched as the two men struggled for the gun, his eyes following one and then the other, trying to see the gun and which way it was pointed. Lou’s eyes searched between the struggling bodies, but the gun seemed to disappear between them. And then all of a sudden both Lou and Ericka jerked when they heard the ungodly blast. From all indications it looked as if the bullet went into Ross. His body stiffened, while Victor’s went limp. But slowly Ross pulled away from Victor, and the three of them stood looking down at the body that slowly began to disintegrate. All at once with a grab at his head, Ross crouched, then fell to the floor. “Oh, God!” Lou cried and ran to his patient. “What happened?” Ericka screamed, while pulling at Lou’s shoulders as he hovered over Ross. “I don’t know,” Lou said, sounding lost. He tugged at Ross, scratching at his clothes while he felt for his vital signs. His eyes closed in relief. “Thank God, he’s still alive.” “Why don’t you know what happened? I thought you and Ross had this all worked out.” “I did. We did. All except one very important part. There was no way I could know how Victor’s death would effect Ross.” “You mean you knew it might kill him?” Feeling as if he’d endured as much as he could stand, he whirled on Ericka. “Do you know what it means to be desperate, Ms. Swann? When Ross came to me for help he was at that point! Beyond it! But there was no answer to be had anywhere! He gave me only twenty-four hours to find the answer so I pored over text books all night long. The only thing I could

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come up with was based on the principle of the umbilical cord. As in any patient/doctor relationship I could lead him, but he had to be the one to break it. He had to be the one to kill Victor. And it worked. The only thing I hadn’t figured out is how it would affect Ross. When an umbilical cord is broken the mother lives, but the child dies. It was all I had to go on. When I explained it to Ross he was willing to try it. He was even willing to die if it didn’t work. Don’t you see?” he said, staring into Ericka’s eyes. “He was that desperate—at the point that he couldn’t continue to live half a life. Desperate enough to take a chance on the two of you being together forever without the threat of Victor hanging over you. We both knew it was a big step to take, a leap of faith, if you will, but there was no other answer. In essence, Ms. Swann, he did this for you—for both of you.” “Oh, God,” she sobbed, then looked over at Ross. “Will he live?” “I don’t know,” he whispered. “He’s experienced quite a jolt, but I know he’s a fighter. Remind him that you’re here. Talk to him. Tell him that you love him. Give him something to fight for. If anyone can bring him around it’ll be you.” Clothes rustled softly as the two of them switched places, and Ericka took Ross’ hands and leaned over him. “Ross, I’m here, darling. Waiting for you to return to me. I love you, darling—so very much. Open your eyes and look at me, Ross. Look at the woman who loves you and can’t live without you. Please don’t leave me, please don’t...” Several heartbeats pulsed, thrashed and fluttered until finally a current of breath came rushing through his lips causing her words to fade. His eyes opened slowly and looked around. “Ross, it’s me, darling, Ericka.” “What the hell happened?” Lou came forward quickly. “You had a reaction to Victor’s death. I expected it, of course, but when you fell to the floor it scared the hell out of both of us.” Ross hoisted himself up from the floor and sat on the couch. “I don’t know, I...Hell, I felt the pain, or at least some kind of pain. The first thing I knew, I was surrounded by nothing but darkness.” He looked up at Lou.

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“There were screams all around me—piercing screams. The kinds of screams someone makes when they find themselves in the middle of Hell.” “That was the sound of Victor dying. I thought you were a goner too there for a moment.” “So I’m okay? No ill effects?” “Doesn’t look like it.” “Doc—let me ask you something.” “Sure, shoot. Oh, sorry. Bad choice of words.” “When I confronted Victor I’ve never felt so much evil as I did at that moment. I wanted to see his blood spill in the worst way. I didn’t even feel I had a conscience. I could have killed him and never looked back. The way I felt—is that what they call temporary insanity?” “In someone else I might call it that, but with you, Victor was still connected to you. What you were feeling was his evil, his anger. Compounded many times over is what Victor lived with every day because he was pure evil. In a man like you or me, it’s only a small part of us until it’s isolated. When that happens, it’s fed, nurtured and it grows until it becomes dangerous. People are made up of all kinds of different emotions, and a man suppresses some, and caters to others. That’s what makes up who we are as individuals. It’s where criminals, serial killers, child molesters, and such, come from. There’s a little of that in all of us. If it seems to be more in others, you have to go back and look into the environment in which he or she was raised. That’s where the twig is bent. In the beginning.” “Very good, doctor,” Ross said with a teasing frown on his face. “I hadn’t counted on a lesson in psychiatry, but I’m sure you’ll add it to my bill.” He lifted himself to get up. “Not so fast,” Lou said, pushing him down on the couch. “I have one more thing to do before I can declare you one hundred percent cured.” The next few moments were spent in quiet talk while Lou slowly brought Ross out of his post hypnotic suggestion. After the last snap of his fingers he looked into Ross’ eyes and said, “Ross, I think you need to take care of business.”

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“That’s exactly what I intend to do,” Ross answered, standing and pulling Ericka up with him. Looking down at her, he said, “Why don’t we make a stop by the Justice of the Peace?” Lou smiled, knowing the whole episode had been successful. “Get the hell out of my office. I have sick people out there who need my help.” Ross looked at Ericka. “I think we’re being thrown out.” Ross extended his hand to his therapist. “I don’t know how to thank you, Lou.” “I do. I’ll be sending you a bill.” He indicated toward his destroyed lamp. “If you see something about a broken lamp on it, don’t try to figure it out—just pay it. The lesson in psychiatry is on the house.” **** With Victor gone Ross at last found peace—at least a measure of peace. If he could only put one more ghost to rest, his world would be perfect. Lorna Desmond was still invading his dreams. What was it that had made him begin to talk to her—recalling the past and saying he was sorry for all that had happened between them? He was sorry—truly sorry. Since he’d found Ericka he knew love like never before, and sought forgiveness for everything he’d ever done to her. But Lorna wasn’t the kind to forgive. One night during a particularly deep sleep he found himself walking in a graveyard. He slid along in the mud, his lungs on fire, the blood pounding in his ears. And then he saw a coffin. It was hers. He knew then that she would never die. Her ugly, demanding spirit would haunt him until his dying day. All at once he saw Lorna’s hand come up out of the cold, wet grave and grab him. The last thing he remembered was being pulled to her cold breast as if she were trying to take him down to Hell with her. She held him close, scratching at his clothes and fucking him until he was exhausted. He fell asleep in her arms. And dreamed that he was a movie mogul at Monarch Studios.

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Epilogue The next thing he knew he was in front of a theater with lights blazing all around him. The colors were vivid, flashy and bright, and lit up the sky like a July fourth celebration. As the dream haze slowly cleared he saw people reaching toward him from behind a velvet rope. The fans screamed out his name, and he was almost blinded by giant, blazing words on a marquee— WORLD PREMIERE! A ROSS HUNTER PRODUCTION OF FORTUNE AND FATE The giant klieg lights on the outside of Mann’s Chinese Theater scraped the sky, sweeping from one end of the deep blue expanse to the other. While Lance and Shania walked along the red carpet toward the microphone where they would be interviewed, all eyes were upon them. The two beautiful people glittered and gleamed, and every word they said was received with wild applause. Somehow Ross knew that tonight was the premiere of their first film together and it reminded him of another world premier far back in his shadowed past. A past when not only glittering limousines lined the curb, but also Cougars, Mustangs and Trans Ams with silhouettes of famous people inside them. That night he wore a carefree smile, his face was unlined, and his hair had only begun showing a few streaks of gray at his

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temples. He was at the highest point of his career, and had Lorna Desmond, his latest box office sensation, hanging on his arm. He could still smell the provocative scent she wore, feel her body pressing against his. She promised everything and delivered. Even during the show their passion-wrapped shadows writhed and moaned in a box high above the balcony. Now, decades later, after all the heartaches and tears he wondered about his two latest stars who seemed happy as they walked toward him. Together, bodies pressed close—looking longingly into each other’s eyes. How long would that happiness last? Was Hollywood a curse? A curse that ruined the lives of its beautiful people? Would it destroy the lives of those he loved? He almost wished he had destroyed the screen test, freeing both Shania and Lance from Hollywood’s disastrous grasp. If they knew what was ahead of them would they still want it? He looked at the young people closely— wondering what was on their minds. **** Surrounded by the sights and sounds of Hollywood at its most glamorous, Shania couldn’t help but think of Lorna Desmond. She would never forget the night that she’d staggered out of those woods and collapsed on Lorna’s doorstep—the doorstep of one of Hollywood’s most famous sex goddesses. After a while she realized what she’d stepped into and fought to get her memory back, but once it had returned, all the secrets of this jaded city returned as well. After all, she was her father’s daughter, and had been raised around the scandals, the divorces, the tragedies. At the time it didn’t matter, but now—now when she was in the middle of it all, it suddenly became very important. Was it a city to be frightened of? Would it steal the man she loved away from her as it had so many others? She suddenly remembered earlier in the day when Lance had been rutting over her like an animal. It excited her so that she convulsed under him, thrusting her pelvis against his with bruising urgency. And then she saw blood on her fingers, flesh beneath her fingernails, and it stoked her lust even higher. She arched her back and yowled like a cat while her contractions milked him dry. What

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was happening to her? She was becoming insatiable. And many times she’d look at herself in the mirror, thinking of the day that she would see her youth gone. Could she handle it, or would she try to recapture it as Lorna Desmond had—through blackmail, deceit—and murder! **** Lance couldn’t believe how far he had come since the night he’d been so cruelly abducted. A few weeks of absolute terror locked in a tower room had almost driven him to murder. The image of Lorna Desmond swept into his mind, and he remembered the hot, erotic nights they had spent together. He could still hear her voice calling his name. A whisper, a rasp, her voice husky and seductive. Now as he looked down at Shania who was being hailed as the new Lorna Desmond, he felt a deep love mixed with a fear of what she might someday become. Would she age gracefully, or be reluctant to let go of the past? Would her mind teeter on the edge of insanity? Would she truly be another Lorna Desmond with all her conceit, her arrogance, her insatiable lust, her drive to be the best? Just then her eyes cut upward—innocent, yet bold. Her face was not the same—and yet it was. Her make-up was pale as porcelain with a hint of blush, her eyelids dark like smoke, her lips a bright red flame. She dramatically whirled and swayed—walking in glamour. She wore pale English silk. Did the style of her clothes look rather—dated? Stiletto heels. Feathers. Glitter on netting. He was jolted out of his reverie when he suddenly felt her bold red nails biting into his arm as if afraid he would get away. His eyes quickly darted to hers, the loud music, the screaming fans, the glittering marquee flashing above their heads all falling into the background. With an eerie silence surrounding them, her green eyes met his, and with Lorna’s famous smirk

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twisting her flame-red mouth, she said the black words that sounded alarmingly like an echo from a deep, dark grave. You’re mine now—and you’ll never get away! At the sound of her trademark voice a sudden stab of terrifying fear chilled his bones. My God, it was her! It was! She was back! When had it happened? Was it the night Lorna had thrown Shania into his room? It wasn’t real, it was playacting! He wore the costume, he said the words, but he’d only been playing a part! And yet that was the night Shania had been placed on Hollywood’s altar of sacrifice! It had to be! Hollywood had claimed its next victim, and now Shania was gone, cruelly stabbed by the sharp points of Lorna’s legendary star as it rose into the cinematic heavens once again. Yes, at the expense of Shania’s life, Lorna had been given the youth she asked for—and the fame. It hadn’t happened all at once, the changes had taken place slowly. First, a show of arrogance, conceit, and then the powerful lust that had stealthily crept into their lovemaking. It was in the way she moved—the way she talked—even the look in her eyes. Lance felt locked in her grasp. Her hold, her presence, her body pressed against his was like the cold kiss of the wind, yet he could do nothing. Suddenly the hot lights blazed even brighter, the voices of the screaming fans turned to screams of torment rising from the depths of Hell—and he knew. Yes, he knew the truth at last. It was his fate to be Lorna Desmond’s Beautiful Devil forever! **** Her eyes were alive, and fiery black as they peered through Shania’s mysterious green ones. She had made it at last. Not exactly the way she had planned, but that didn’t matter. She was here—here among the screaming fans, the lights, the cameras—surrounded by all the excitement of Hollywood. Well, she deserved it. She was beautiful, her face and body perfect, and her star was hanging in the cinematic heavens once again. If Ross only knew. Yes, if the bastard only knew that her success was all his doing. But how could he possibly know, or even suspect that he had

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done her a favor the night he had killed her? The gun, the blast, the blood— it had sent her reeling into a hellish netherworld where anything was possible. From there it took only a minimum of planning to get a firm hold on both his daughter, and the beautiful devil she now knew was not a devil at all—but one hell of a man! And he was hers at last. Hers to ride to the very center of Hell and back if she wanted. Their orgasms would burst free and storm upward like the frothing sea, or be madly intense like the spasms of a riotous ocean. Yes, she would milk him dry each time—silently and fiercely! Well—maybe some wouldn’t agree, she thought, while hanging onto Lance’s arm and moving about drunkenly in the midst of the glitter and gleam of Hollywood’s cinematic magic. But this is what I call—a happy ending! **** “No!” Ross shouted as he was catapulted from his dream. He couldn’t let the story end there! The bitch can’t win! She can’t! But wait! He said to himself. Don’t go getting crazy, Ross! It would mean the loss of millions! He struggled—the love he felt for his daughter on one side, and his love for money, fame and glory on the other. He lifted his closed fist and looked at it as if he’d never seen it before. It was the symbol of a fortune gained, and to open it would mean throwing away millions—losing Lance and Shania! Others will come along, he reasoned with himself. Names and faces that would mean nothing to him. Let them be the sacrifices! And then suddenly he remembered Lorna’s brazen presence between Shania and Lance and knew it would be only a matter of time before she devoured them completely! And if she didn’t get them this decadent city would!

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He didn’t know if it was love or insanity, but all at once his hand flew open! Was it too late? He wondered as he jumped out of his bed. Streaking around the room like a mad man, he threw something on and burst out the front door. As he ran from his house his shirt was unbuttoned and flapping in the breeze, but he didn’t care as he breathed in the crisp night air. Grabbing his Jaguar door, he quickly opened it, climbed in and then slammed it shut. Was he doing the right thing? He sat there for a long moment grasping the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. He thought of Lorna again—could feel her presence! Don’t do it, Ross! Lorna’s voice commanded. “Get out of my head, you dirty bitch!” he mumbled. “Even if it means my life you won’t get your hands on Shania. I’m going to set them free of you and this miserable city!” With a jerk he started his car and put it in gear. In only moments he was on the street and headed for Monarch Studios. His shirt ruffled riotously in the breeze as he felt the steering wheel take on a life of its own! He struggled, his stiff lips stretched against his teeth as he mouthed a prayer. The further he went—the hills and valleys passing him by—the lights of the city blurred into streaks of colors—people walking, running—his car screeching around corners—bumping up on curbs—honking violently as he refused to stop for red lights. And then—he was there! Finally he turned into the Monarch lot and waved himself through. It won’t be long now, he thought as he parked and made his way through shadowy sets that chilled him to the bone, and soundstage ghosts that called out to him. At last seeing the door of his office, he slammed through it. Nothing would stop him—not Lorna Desmond’s ghost—not money—not— And then he saw it—the screen test. Laying there peaceful and serene in his In Box. They were designed to bring happiness and joy to those who shine on film, but all he saw was Fool’s Gold—the fabled pot at the end of the

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rainbow. Like children they all reach for the glitter, the promise—only to see it disappear in their grasp. The glitter becomes tainted by infidelity, divorce, bitterness—and at last the unbelievable knowledge that this wonderful city no longer has a place for them. Their bodies are no longer beautiful—their voices have grown tired—and they hide. In the hills, the valleys. And some go crazy! He walked over and grabbed them up. Stretching the film against the light he saw the familiar figures and his heart wrenched in his chest. It can’t be wrong, he told himself as he dug a cigarette lighter out of his pocket, and put a flickering flame to the film—to millions—to fame and glory—to immortality! When the flame finally caught and he stared into the blaze it made him think of the two beautiful careers that were about to pass unnoticed into the night—two careers that were beautiful for only a moment—two careers that were headed for stardom—two careers that went up in smoke! 2007 In some small, intimate little California town Lance and Shania live normal lives. Both have gladly turned their backs on a movie career, and now run a horse farm and attend local functions such as PTA meetings, bakes sales and hayrides. Having given up the glittering marquees, the sweeping klieg lights and the red carpet, now they are thrilled by the beauty of the sun as it sinks low in the west. If a well-meaning friend happens to stop by with news regarding the latest celebrity scandal, they are reminded of a smoldering screen test, a mad ghost and the man who gave up millions to rescue them from—Hollywood Hell!

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THE END WWW.AUDREYGODWIN.COM

ABOUT THE AUTHOR If your pleasure is to read about sex among the adults, you’ve come to the right place. Contemporary Gothic with lots of paranormal activity is what Audrey Godwin is all about. As a result, her books are dark, mysterious and atmospheric. Her writing style is highly sensuous, filled with deep, sultry romance, beautiful heroines, handsome heroes, and enough conflict and action to have you sitting on the edge of your seats. Her writing style has been compared with the dark, lush descriptive phrases of Anne Rice, and the hot, sizzling love scenes of Jackie Collins. Frankly speaking, Audrey is the first author to bring hate sex and dirty passion into her books for those readers who like it rough. Her bigger-than-life storylines have plenty of substance, so if you choose to take a bite—be prepared for a mouthful! Since Audrey was born and raised in the rough country of Texas—a place rumored to have only the biggest and the best, you might understand why her style of writing is a bit—shall we say— passionate. She talks with a Texas twang and doesn’t say too much unless it’s important—then watch out! Today she lives on the East Coast with her two sons and a beautiful, but mischievous Maine Coon cat named Tigger.

Siren Publishing, Inc. www.SirenPublishing.com