Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (2 page)

     She felt a quick pang. She wished he wouldn't call her that. "Where?" she said. "Where is it?"

     When he touched her and said, "Here," her eyes flew open. In the mirrored ceiling above the bed she saw herself, sprawled on the peach satin sheets, and him stretched out beside her, one hand propping up his head, the other between her legs. She saw his muscular arms, the dark hair on his chest and back, and the erection ... His recuperative strength was as astonishing as his staying power.

     Her gaze moved to the hidden hand. What was he doing?

     She gasped. She felt—

     He smiled, watching her startled expression as he slowly drew the necklace out.

     "When did you—" she began as the pearls slowly appeared, one by one. She hadn't felt the necklace go in, but now, as it emerged with agonizing slowness, she thought she could feel each hard, round pearl pressing into her as if they were fingertips, exploring. When it was all the way out, she looked at him, into amused gray eyes that she had once thought dangerous, and she marveled again at the way he kept the magic in their lovemaking alive after all these years.

     She reached for the necklace, but he said, "Wait," and swirled it around first in the crystal goblet of champagne that stood on the peach carpet beside the bed. Then he draped the string of fat, soft-looking pearls across her throat, saying, "For my movie star. My beautiful movie star."

     He bent to kiss her, and she put her arms around him, drawing him hard against her, feeling the heat of his body against her bare skin. They kissed deeply, and she tried not to cry, tried not to think of the treachery she was planning. She loved him so much, just so very much, that he must never find out what she was about to do.

     As the white stretch limousine sped along the desert highway toward the wintry dusk, Carole Page reached for the bottle of champagne nestled in the silver ice bucket and refilled her glass. She saw that her hands shook, and she wondered if her two fellow passengers had also noticed.

     Carole didn't know the women she was traveling with. They had murmured polite but brief hellos to one another when the Star's limousine had picked them up at the Beverly Hills Hotel two and a half hours ago. During the long drive from Los Angeles into the desert, not another word had been spoken.

     But there was a lot of thinking going on. And weighing heavily upon the mind of Carole Page, a movie star who had recently crossed the terrifying Forty milestone, was sex—not pleasure-sex, such as she had experienced a few hours ago with Sanford, when he had surprised her with the pearl necklace, but business-sex. She looked at her gold Cartier watch, a gift from her husband when she had finished her third picture, and realized that she would be arriving at her destination very soon. Only a short time remained in which she could still change her mind and turn back.

     But that was why she was in the Star's limousine, she reminded herself as she sipped the icy champagne, wincing because her lips still hurt from the collagen injections. She hadn't taken her own car because she couldn't risk getting scared and backing out at the last minute, turning around and going home. In the Star's limousine, she was committed. When Sanford had asked why she wasn't taking their own Rolls-Royce and driver into the desert, she had fumbled through some excuse about the possibility of his needing the car while she was gone; besides, once she was up the mountain and checked in at Star's, she wouldn't be needing the car again. She had searched his face to see if he bought it; he had. That was right after she had sneaked the condoms out of the bathroom and into her purse and Sanford had nearly caught her at it. He certainly would have enquired why she needed
those
, when she claimed she was going to Star's for a much-needed rest by herself after finishing her latest, exhausting film.

     She realized she needn't have worried. It would never occur to Sanford to be suspicious about anything his wife did. Trust was one of the mainstays of their enduring marriage. As was sex. Carole had never known a lover like Sanford. She felt the pearls resting between her breasts and marveled again at the inventive way he had given them to her. They had made love one more time after that, and then Carole had gotten ready for the long drive to Star's.

     Wondering vaguely about the two silent women who were riding with
her, wondering who they were, why they were going to Star's, and if they thought she was drinking too much (after all, the Dom Pérignon had been provided for the three of them and so far she was the only one helping herself), Carole turned her gaze to the smoked-glass window and looked out at the passing scene. The late-afternoon desert looked eerie, she thought, almost menacing; the shadows that were pooling between sand dunes and cacti seemed too deep, too dark, as if dangers were hidden there. And the old highway they had turned onto from the freeway was strangely empty. When Carole realized they hadn't passed another car in some time, she was suddenly gripped by panic. What did their driver look like? She couldn't remember, just a vaguely handsome young man in a black uniform with shiny silver buttons. And the Star's logo embroidered in silver over his left breast. But who
was
he? Had he said his name when he had helped her into the car? When he had pointed out the champagne, the crystal decanters of scotch, gin, and vodka in the bar compartment, the gold foil box of Godiva chocolates, had she bothered to really look at him and see who he was?

     Carole snapped her gaze back from the spooky, lonely desert and stared at the solid partition that separated the front seat from the passenger compartment. Fighting the impulse to press the button that would lower the divider and give her a view of the chauffeur and the highway up ahead, she sipped her champagne again and wondered again if she was drinking too much. But she needed it for courage, she told herself, to go through with her plan.

     How was it possible, she wondered, for three people, even if they were strangers, to ride in the same car for such a long time without speaking? But then again, what would she say to them? "You see, ladies, I'm not really going to Star's for a rest now that I've finished my latest picture, even though that's what my press agent is telling everyone. I'm going there to seduce an unsuspecting man, a man I hardly know. And I'm doing it to save my marriage."

     No, she couldn't say that. Instead, she drained her champagne glass, reached for the bottle, and blurted, "I don't normally drink like this, but I'm just so nervous."

     The other two looked at Carole as if she had just materialized in their presence.

     The one sitting opposite, a woman in her fifties who wore tortoiseshell glasses and an old-fashioned page boy, blinked at her and said, "Nervous?"

     "Yes," Carole said, sweeping a strand of ash-blond hair from her face and waving toward the snow-covered mountains that seemed to be creeping closer and closer to the car. "I'm terrified of tramways."

     "Tramways! What tramway?"

     Carole gave her a puzzled look. "Why, the one that takes us up to Star's. The resort is up there," she said, pointing to the formidable snowy peaks that had been so distant during the drive but that were suddenly there, almost next to them, looming and threatening. "On top of Mount San Jacinto. There's no other way to get to Star's than by tramway."

     The other woman looked out the window, craning her neck to see the top of the mountain. "Yes, I know Star's is up there," she said. "But I thought there would be a road." She paused, studying the snow-covered mountain. "My God, it looks like the Alps! I'm not prepared for snow," she said plaintively. She picked up the attaché case that had been between her feet and drew it against her, as if for protection.

     Taking in the woman's light linen pants, rayon blouse, and open-toed shoes, Carole thought of the small overnight case that had gone into the limousine's trunk—the woman's only luggage. Back at the Beverly Hills Hotel, the chauffeur had had to use some skill to get all of Carole's matched eelskin pieces into the trunk; after all, she was going to be at Star's for several days. He had also had to wrangle with the baggage of the third passenger, the woman who sat next to Carole and who so far had not spoken. She, too, had brought along a surprising number of suitcases, except that hers were all unmatched and included a set of skis and a large nylon duffel bag, which had been stacked on the front seat next to the driver. All she had brought into the car with her was a small black bag that resembled a medical kit. Carole had glimpsed a name stamped in the leather in gold: J. Isaacs, M.D.

     As she refilled her glass and tried not to gulp it all down at once, wishing that the champagne would at least numb the pain in her pumped-up lips, Carole took another look at the woman facing her and realized now that she was somehow familiar. It came to her after a moment: she was an actors' agent named Frieda Goldman, with whom Carole had brushed elbows
during an after-Oscar party last April. Ms. Goldman must have represented one of the nominees to have gotten into such an exclusive bash, and Carole wondered who it had been. When she saw the way Frieda hugged the attaché case and looked anxiously out the window, checking her watch every few minutes, Carole decided that she must be going to Star's to work a deal. A
hot
deal. In fact, Carole realized as she caught the smile playing around Frieda's lips, the woman looked as if she were bursting with good news. Carole wondered for a moment what it was; then, retreating into the luxurious embrace of her silver fox coat, she steered her thoughts back to the subject of sex and the complex problem of how she was going to get into Larry Wolfe's bed.

     The car turned off the old highway and followed a rutted road that wound toward the foothills, gradually climbing up from the desert floor. As the limousine slowed down and rolled to a stop, the three passengers looked out and saw a guardhouse and a gate barring the road. This was the first of three checkpoints designed to keep sightseers, unwelcome guests, and paparazzi away. There was nothing else here, just the lonely road that didn't look as if it had been traveled in years, flat tracts of scrub that rose in gentle drifts against the foothills, and a uniformed guard who engaged the chauffeur in a brief conversation while the desert wind fluttered the papers on his clipboard.

     When the car was moving again and Carole saw a sign at the side of the road that read TRAMWAY BOARDING AREA—2 MILES, she realized with dismay that in just a few minutes there would be no turning back. She reached for the champagne.

     Snow! Frieda Goldman thought as she looked at her watch for the zillionth time since leaving L.A. She should have expected it, since this place was on top of a mountain, and this
was
December. Oh well, Frieda thought, barely able to contain her excitement, I can cope with anything, even snow, if it means nailing the biggest deal in Hollywood.

     And for the past few hectic, furious days, Frieda had had to cope with a lot. She couldn't believe how complicated things had gotten. First, Bunny mysteriously extending her stay at Star's when she was only supposed to have been there for a couple of weeks—four months ago! Then, her inexplicable
refusal to talk to Frieda on the phone, and now this dramatic cavalry charge up a snow-covered mountain. It hadn't been easy getting a room at Star's; the place was booked up months in advance. Only a last-minute cancellation had saved Frieda. She had telephoned Syd Stern, the director, and promised him that she would have Bunny signed, sealed, and delivered to him by tomorrow.

     When Frieda had hastily packed that morning, she had thought of Palm Springs, which was at the foot of the mountain, an oasis of desert warmth, palm trees, and sunshine. She had thrown some toiletries, her few cosmetics, a spare blouse, and a change of underwear into her overnight case and grabbed a taxi to Beverly Hills. But now, as she gazed uncertainly at the mountain that seemed to grow right before her eyes, she pictured snowdrifts, frost, and icicles.

     Frieda was anxious to see the resort that had industry tongues wagging. Star's was kept wrapped in secrecy, like a giant Christmas package in gold foil and silver ribbons. You never read about the place in magazines or newspapers; its rare advertisements disclosed nothing; and travel agents couldn't provide brochures. You heard about it through the movie colony's grapevine, those who had been to Star's possessing bragging rights over those who had not. Frieda recalled what one of her clients had told her about Star's, about a "diversion" that was offered—some sort of discreet escort service, for both men and women. Ostensibly the escort was a dinner companion or a dance partner, but the service could extend to the bedroom, if that was your wish.

     It reminded Frieda of her last trip to New York, when she had been sitting alone in the bar of her hotel and a smooth young man in a bellman's uniform had quietly approached her. "You visiting Manhattan alone?" he had asked politely. "You a guest here at the hotel? I tell you what, you need anything, day or night, you dial housekeeping and you ask for Ramon. I get it for you." He had leaned forward and, with a conspiratorial wink, added, "
Anything
."

     Frieda had been appalled then, as she was now, at the thought of having sex with a total stranger. She hadn't been with a man since Jake died, sixteen years ago; it was a long time to be celibate, but Frieda believed that sex had
to stem from love, especially for a woman of fifty-three with two grown children and five grandchildren. As she wondered what the Star's "escorts" were like, she thought of the chauffeur who sat on the other side of the solid partition and the way he had smiled at her back at the hotel when he had taken her overnight case. A flash of white teeth, dimples high on the cheeks, a square
GQ
jaw, and long, long black hair. Did he do "escort" work, she wondered, when he wasn't driving the Star's limousine?

     Frieda pushed the thought from her mind. She wasn't going up that iceberg to get laid, she reminded herself, she was going up there to find Bunny. And soon. The deal wasn't going to wait; she had to get Bunny's signature on these papers within the next twenty-four hours, as she had promised Syd Stern. As the car whispered through the desert sunset, putting miles between its passengers and civilization, Frieda wondered again what had happened to Bunny. The poor girl seemed to have holed herself up in that mountain hideaway, as if the wounds of losing the Oscar in April had not yet healed. Was that why Bunny wasn't taking her calls? Whatever funk the kid was in, she was going to be snapped out of it soon, in a big way. Frieda could hardly stand it, she was so excited. Why didn't the limousine go faster? Just wait until Bunny heard the news—wait until the
world
heard the news!