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