The Notorious Pagan Jones

Pagan sat very still, not wanting to give away how his words affected her. She couldn’t put a name to it, but he’d touched a place inside her she hadn’t known was there. “Tell me, Mister Black,” she said. “What do I crave more than anything?”

“Redemption.” His voice pulsed with a passion that echoed in her mind. “This is your chance.”

Redemption. That was so far from possible that it hadn’t even occurred to her. She searched the riotous mess in her brain, the thousand conflicting feelings and thoughts that only alcohol had ever silenced.

In A.A. they called it recovery. That was a much more manageable word. Redemption, with its vaguely religious overtones, promised a slate wiped clean, a complete deliverance that was too much to hope for. She couldn’t hang on to that, because it would never, could never happen, no matter what strange hunger for it the complicated Devin Black seemed to have.

“Sounds more like a chance to be bullied and blackmailed.” She shook her head with finality. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“I see.” Devin swallowed hard. Was that regret in his eyes?

But then he swiveled with sudden grace, scooped up the contract and script on the desk, and dumped them into a sleek briefcase. “Let’s go, Jerry.”

Puzzlement crossed Jerry’s face as Devin snapped the briefcase closed. “But you said—”

“Pagan Jones can’t take a chance,” Devin interrupted, sliding the briefcase off the desk. “After all she’s been through, I understand.” He glanced at Pagan, who was glaring at him. “Wasn’t your mother born in Berlin?”

Her scowl became uncertain. “What? Yes. After my grandfather died, my grandmother moved to California with Mom when she was around two.”

“Berlin’s a strange place these days,” Devin said. “Divided between Communist and capitalist, with thousands of East Germans fleeing across the border to the West every day. The rumors are that the East Germans won’t wait much longer to do something drastic. I thought you might want to see where your mother was born while you’re shooting the movie, find your grandparents’ former home, before everything changes. By the time you get out of this place, it may be too late.”

The knuckles of Pagan’s hands, gripping each other, were white. “You think something big’s going to happen over there?”

Jerry drummed the desk with his fingers. “In June, the leader of East Germany said he has no intention of building a wall.”

Devin gave him a knowing look. “Walter Ulbricht studied politics under Joseph Stalin. Trustworthy he is not. Every other part of East Germany is cut off from the West. And the East Germans have just completed construction of a rail line that completely circumvents Berlin. How long can they continue to allow their best-educated citizens to flee?”

Pagan was only half listening as Jerry asked another question. Whether by accident or design, Devin Black had touched on the only real mystery left in her life. She knew all too well why Daddy and Ava were dead. But when Mama took her own life, she hadn’t left a note. She’d never mentioned suicide and had shown no signs of depression. Up to the end she’d been the same: cheerfully in charge; planning the next move in Pagan’s career; pushing Ava to practice her piano three hours a day; organizing the next fund-raiser for the German-American Heritage League.

So every day since she’d died, Pagan still asked the question: Why? Why had Mama abandoned them? Every day the wound reopened, fresh and painful as the moment it had happened.

After Mama was gone, movies and photo shoots had kept Pagan busy. She had even fallen in love. But only alcohol had closed up the wound. For a little while, at least.

Psychiatrists had told her that her mother’s suicide wasn’t her fault. They said it had nothing to do with her. But how could they know that for sure? They hadn’t spent long hours on a movie set watching Mama, a frustrated actress, act out Pagan’s dialogue for her when she messed up a line. They hadn’t heard Eva and Arthur Jones arguing late into the night about how Pagan’s latest bump in salary might not cover that month’s bills. Everything—the big house in the hills, Ava’s private school, Mama’s designer clothes, Daddy’s cars—they all would continue to exist only so long as Pagan was perfect.

Pagan knew all too well that she was nothing but a collection of flaws, a rich stew of defects, a ratatouille of failings and weakness. And in lieu of another explanation, she couldn’t help thinking that maybe that’s why it had all come crashing down and Mama had died.

Maybe.

Maybe not. The shrinks didn’t understand how the uncertainty about why Mama had wanted to die gnawed at Pagan. If Pagan could find the answer to that question, she might truly come to understand that this one thing, at least, was not her fault.

Maybe that answer lay in the place Mama was born. Berlin.

Now here was a chance, not just to get out of this horrible place, to be free, but to explore an unknown corner of Eva Jones’s life. A chance that would not come again.

“I’ll do it.” The words split open something that had long been closed inside her. She stayed very still, hoping she wouldn’t cry.

The two men, in mid conversation, stopped speaking. Devin Black’s long-lashed eyes held a knowing look that should have bothered her, but didn’t.

He’d succeeded in manipulating her this time. But it didn’t matter, not in the long run. What was important was that soon she’d be able to hunt down the answers she needed, whether they were in Berlin or somewhere else.

“I said, I’ll do it.” She gave them her best I’m practicing patience look.

With a flourish, Devin put the briefcase on the desk and unsnapped the clasps.

Jerry took out the contract and laid it in front of Pagan. “Are you sure?”

Devin Black shot him a suppressing look. “An excellent choice, Miss Jones. One I’m sure you won’t regret.”

She took hold of Miss Edwards’s best fountain pen. “Worry about your own regrets, Mister Black. How soon do I get to see Mercedes?”

Devin peeled back the top pages of the contract to show her the signature line. “Why not immediately? Then we’ll send a car for you at four o’clock this afternoon. You’ll spend the night in your own home. Tomorrow you’ll fly to Berlin.”

“Very well.” Her mother had often used that phrase, and Pagan enjoyed the way it sounded coming from her own lips. She ran her eyes over the last page of the contract. It looked like standard language, except for a clause about her being on parole and having a court-appointed guardian with all the power of a parent on hand during the film shoot and thereafter at the court’s discretion.

“My father’s lawyer is going to be at the film shoot?” she asked. At their confused looks, she added, “He’s my court-appointed guardian, and it says here—”

“A new guardian will be appointed,” Devin said.

She looked back and forth between them. “Who?”

“You’ll be the first—or the second—to know,” Jerry said.

Which probably meant it would be someone the studio approved of, to keep an eye on their investment. That chafed, but given her history it was hard to blame them. She leaned down and signed her name. Devin Black’s eyes followed her hand, watching as the jagged lines of her signature formed.

“Never thought anyone would ask me to sign a contract again,” she said. “The world is a very strange place.”

“You have no idea.” Jerry stuffed the contract into the briefcase. “Go pack your things.”

She went to the door and turned. “What if I’d put on weight?” she asked. “Or sprouted a million pimples? Or cut off all my hair?”

Jerry darted a glance at Devin Black. “Enquiries were made.”

She nodded. Of course. “I imagine Miss Edwards is very bribable.”

“You’ll learn that anyone can be made to do just about anything,” Jerry said, grabbing his hat with an angry swipe.

“You’re walking back into a different world than the one you left nine months ago.” Devin Black slid himself between her and the door so that he could open it for her, as if they were coming to the end of a formal date rather than an exercise in blackmail. “Have you kept up on the news? There’s a new president, a new attitude, and new fears.”

Pagan took a few steps into the hallway, her heart lifting. She’d be leaving this place today. It was really happening.

A shiver overtook her and she wrapped her arms around herself to make it stop. She couldn’t tell if she was thrilled or terrified.

Miss Edwards waited just down the hall, bony arms crossed. Pagan ignored her and tilted her head up at Devin Black. “I keep up on the news that matters, Mister Black, thanks to Ed Sullivan reruns and old copies of Photoplay. Elizabeth Taylor’s going to be Cleopatra, the new Dior suit dresses are divine, and everyone’s twisting again with Chubby Checker.” She flashed him a genuine smile. Warmth was spreading through her, a feeling perilously close to happiness. “Is every hit song getting a sequel now?”

Devin Black loosed the first spontaneous grin she’d seen from him. “Why not? I can’t wait to hear ‘Cathy’s Clown Gets a Job under the Big Top.’”

Caught by surprise, Pagan laughed. Devin’s smile widened, lighting up his face and the whole dreary hallway, a thousand times more genuine and charming than his earlier studied elegance.

“How about ‘Fallen Teen Angel’?” Pagan said. “That could be my theme song.”

Devin loosed a hoot of laughter, nodding at her knowingly, as if to say touché.

“I think,” Miss Edwards’s icy voice cut in, “I’d better get you back to solitary, young lady.”

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Edwards.” Devin’s grin soured into something formidable as he turned to her. The playful boy vanished behind the man’s sharp gaze. “Miss Jones will be going to the infirmary immediately to see Miss Duran, where they will be allowed to converse in private for at least an hour.”

The color drained from Miss Edwards’s face. “Oh, I… Is Mercedes back? I hadn’t heard.”

“You know very well she’s been here since last night,” Devin said. “It’s a shame you didn’t bother to inform her worried roommate. I’m sure the judge will find that detail of my visit quite illuminating.”

Miss Edwards’s countenance became positively chalky. “No need for that, Mister Black, I’m sure. I’ve been and will be happy to abide by the judge’s orders, of course. But I’m a busy woman. I can’t be expected to—”

“When Miss Duran is released from the infirmary,” Devin said, in tones that brooked no further discussion, “she is to be allowed all of her normal privileges. Her attackers are being removed to a more appropriate facility as we speak. If we hear of any further injury to or issue with Miss Duran, we will take further action.” He paused. “Action you may not appreciate.”

How could a mere studio executive know these things and wield such power? Still, it did Pagan’s heart good to see fright fill Miss Edwards’s perfectly lined eyes, to watch the lips in their expensive red lipstick press themselves together as if pushing back a desire to plead or to protest. “I understand,” the matron said.

Devin’s smile was chilly. “Meanwhile, Miss Jones will leave this facility for good at four o’clock this afternoon. See to it her things are ready when the car arrives.”

Miss Edwards opened her mouth, but Devin Black simply stared at her, and the woman shut her lips again. It was like magic.

He turned to Pagan and took her hand again to shake it. “The studio will make all the arrangements. Welcome back, Miss Jones.”

She pressed his strong fingers with her own firmly. “Thank you.” She slid her eyes to Miss Edwards. “For everything.”

He held her hand for a long moment. Her heart was hammering, but that didn’t mean anything. She was just out of practice when it came to boys. Well, she’d mend that soon enough. Carefully, maintaining composure, she removed her hand and walked out of the office, into the hallway.

“Wish me luck, Jerry,” Pagan said over her shoulder. “I’ll do the same for you.”

“Good luck, Pagan,” Jerry said, adding under his breath, “We’re both going to need it.”

The hallway. As she moved down it after the erect form of the headmistress, Pagan slowed, remembering how the strange acoustics of the bent corridor sent sounds bouncing from one end to the other. If she hovered in the sweet spot for a moment, she might catch some of Jerry and Devin’s private conversation.

They were speaking now, but she couldn’t distinguish the words over her own footsteps and Miss Edwards’s. Miss Edwards, at least, was in front, her back to Pagan, and pulling away rapidly. Pagan slackened her pace and softened her footfalls.

“You’re not as cool a customer as I thought, Jerry.” That was Devin. He sounded different. More clipped, or something. It was hard to tell from the hallway echo. “Next time, don’t smoke so much.”

“Next time?” Jerry’s voice got louder with alarm. “Why should there be a next time?”

Devin’s voice moved farther away. He must be heading toward the stairs that led down to the first floor. “You never know.”

“Keep up!” Miss Edwards’s command cut through her thoughts. Pagan began walking again, straining to hear more.

Jerry was saying, peeved, “One drink and she could sink the whole thing. And that girl has a lot of reasons to drink.”

Pagan was nearing the next bend in the hallway, after which she wouldn’t be able to hear any more. Miss Edwards had already turned the corner, so Pagan dropped to one knee and slowly tied her sneaker laces.

“Go home, Jerry.” Devin Black’s footsteps trotted lightly down the stairs, nearly out of range. “We got what we wanted.”

His steps faded into nothing. A moment of silence.

“Who,” Jerry asked of the empty echoes, “is we?”

Mercedes was asleep when Pagan got to the infirmary, so she sat down quietly next to the bed and stared at the wad of bandages wrapped around her friend’s shoulder.

That was where Susan Mahoney’s stiletto had slid into Mercedes. It had made a sickeningly slick noise as she’d yanked out the thin, shiny blade. Blood had dripped from the knife’s tip as Susan had poised it over Mercedes’s throat.

Stop thinking about that, stop! The important thing was that Susan hadn’t succeeded in finishing off Mercedes. She was going to be okay.

Pagan focused on her friend’s relaxed left hand, studying the smooth brown skin and clear nails. They were cut short, but not too short. Pagan had begun to keep hers the same length after Mercedes had explained that you needed enough nail to effectively rake your enemy’s face or neck to draw blood. But let the nails grow too long, and they’d bend back or snap during a fight, which not only hurt but might distract you at a crucial moment.

Not exactly something Pagan’s manicurist had chatted about, back in the day. Life in Lighthouse had been horrible, but it had taught her a few things Hollywood couldn’t. Not just how to put your body weight into a punch or how to choke down canned meat for dinner, but things like how to know when someone meant you harm, and how stay in the moment. Mercedes had impressed upon her that if you let too many thoughts of the past or fears of the future cloud your thoughts, you might not survive the present.

All those lessons might come in handy if she was going back into the real world.

If she was going to stay sober.

Mercedes’s eyelids fluttered and snapped open. Like Pagan, she slept lightly and woke all at once. It was one of the many things they’d been surprised to find they had in common.

“Hey,” said Pagan. She wanted to squeeze Mercedes’s hand, but she refrained. M didn’t care for sentimental words or physical demonstrations of affection. “You’re doing great.”

The brown eyes studied her, crinkling a little at the corners. “Thanks,” Mercedes said. Her normally smooth, deep voice was scratchy but calm. “For saving my life.”

Oh, right. Pagan had so thoroughly avoided thinking about how Susan Mahoney had almost succeeded in stabbing Mercedes a second time, how the big redhead had aimed for the throat, that she had also blanked out how she herself had stopped it. Her vision had narrowed down to the freckled hand holding that stiletto, and a strange conviction had taken over.

Not this time.

Somehow, despite her own injuries, Pagan had fought her way to her feet and propelled herself into Susan, tearing her off Mercedes before Pagan had blacked out.

“Thanks for not dying,” Pagan said, her voice hoarse but steady.

Mercedes let out the barest breath of a laugh. “Anytime.” Her gaze traveled over Pagan and the room they were in, empty except for the bed and some medical equipment. “It’s not like the witch to lock us in here together.”

“We’re not locked in,” Pagan said. “We’re free. Well, free of solitary anyway.” As Mercedes listened, frowning, Pagan told her all that had happened that morning, stumbling a little as she tried to convey the bizarre dynamic between Devin Black and Jerry Allenberg.

“I’m hoping I can call you from Berlin,” she said. “So if Miss Edwards tries to retaliate against you at all, you let me know.”

“I’ll be fine.” Mercedes was dismissive. “It’s your situation that’s radioactive, so you better call me.”

“It’s just a movie shoot,” Pagan said, sounding as casual as she could. “It’s not life and death.”

Mercedes slanted her eyes at Pagan in her best who are you kidding look. “First thing, you go to one of those meetings.”

“A.A.” Pagan shifted uneasily on the bed. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Mercedes raised her eyebrows. “You promise me you’ll go?”

Pagan waved one hand airily. “I’m fine, really.”

Mercedes’s brown eyes took on an implacable look. “Promise me you’ll go to a meeting.”

Pagan looked at her best friend, her only friend, and said reluctantly, “If there’s time, and if they have meetings in Berlin, I’ll go.”

“If, if!” Mercedes made a tsking sound with her tongue. “Just go.”

“Okay, okay!” Pagan threw up her hands. “Can I hang out here with you for a bit longer before I leave, at least?”

Mercedes relaxed. “Who’s going to tell me crazy stories about the guests on Ed Sullivan after you’re gone?”

“You won’t need Ed Sullivan,” Pagan said. “I’m going to send you every single brand-new tabloid magazine I can lay my hands on.”

“Coolsville,” Mercedes said, looking sly. “I can read what they’re saying about you.”

* * *

The tiny windowless room they’d shared felt so empty without Mercedes. Miss Edwards had brought Pagan the suit she’d worn the day she walked into Lighthouse, but it was now too big in the chest and the hips. Prison was apparently an excellent dieting tool.

Now the suit looked like something another girl would wear. Pagan wasn’t sure who that girl was—a spoiled drunk movie star or a sad orphan going off to juvenile detention—but she wasn’t either of those people anymore, and the outfit was all wrong. After they allowed her to shower, she folded up the suit and her old white gloves and left them behind for Mercedes to trade, donning her saggy garters, stockings, and scuffed flat shoes under the scratchy gray Lighthouse uniform for the last time.

She didn’t take anything else with her. As Miss Edwards clomped angrily in front of her toward the front door, Pagan paused to listen to the voices of the girls in the distant classroom, now reciting geometry proofs. Their chant faded behind her as she walked out the double doors and the sunshine hit her face.

All the snappy last words she had prepared to say to Miss Edwards fled her brain the moment she gazed up at the azure sky. Hot, dry August air swept through her hair. After nine long months, she was free.

At the bottom of the steps lurked a long black limousine with fins like a shark. Leaning against it with the passenger door open beside him was Devin Black.

He pulled the door open wider. “Ready to go home?”

Home. Without a family waiting for her, she didn’t know what that meant anymore.

In a blink everything seemed oppressive—the heat; the hard yellow light; the empty, waiting house that still held Ava’s stuffed animals and Daddy’s golf clubs.

And the car. It wasn’t remotely red or a convertible, but the thought of getting in it made her queasy. Nine months since the accident, and the memories were waiting there, circling like vultures.

“What are you waiting for? You can’t stay here.” Miss Edwards’s voice sliced through the dread. “Even if you’re not ready to go.”

Pagan glanced over her shoulder. Something about Miss Edwards’s condescending smirk made the big scary world out there a lot more appealing. “Thanks ever so much for all your kindness.” She bestowed a wide, fake smile on the woman. “I’ll be sure to mention you in my first magazine interview.”

Miss Edwards’s face froze. Knowing that she probably looked more like a war refugee than a movie star in her stained uniform and ponytail, Pagan nonetheless did her best model sashay down the steps. The dark depths of the car swallowed her. She didn’t look back as Devin got in after her and slammed the door.

Inside it was air-conditioned. She sank back into the smooth, deeply cushioned black leather seats as the driver stepped on the accelerator and they glided away. The limo’s velvety bounce was nothing like the low-down rumble of her Corvette, and she began to relax. Low storefronts and empty, fenced yards flashed past as they headed west. She was free.

Or was she? The unreadable expression on Devin Black’s face wasn’t reassuring.

“Does the car bring back bad memories?” he asked, his voice mild.

“The car?” Dang, he was perceptive. She’d have to be careful around him. “It’s no big deal. I’m cool.”

He leaned forward and opened a small cabinet set into the partition between them and the driver. “Something to drink?”

She stared at the tiny refrigerator. The luxury of it being here, inside a car, reminded her of her old life. Limousines, movie premieres, and fridges full of alcohol. She’d never appreciated it, or feared it, the way she did now. “Got a Coke?”

“Sure.” He grabbed a bottle and used an opener to remove the cap. She took it and sipped, her first taste of Coke in months. It was delicious and icy cold.

Devin reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a red-and-white pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”

Winston. Her brand. This guy had done his homework. But why? She took the unopened pack, and the plastic wrap crackled in her hand. She could almost taste the smoothly acrid smoke and feel the filter of the cigarette between her index and middle fingers. All she needed was a martini in the other hand. Cigarettes and alcohol went together like drive-in movies and making out. One without the other just didn’t make sense.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll save these for later.”

He nodded and removed his sunglasses. In the cool dark of the limousine interior, his eyes were shadowed. “The plan was to take you directly home. We got permission from Judge Tennison to air out your house. The studio has sent over a designer with some clothes for you to choose from, with a hairdresser and manicurist on standby. Is there anywhere you’d like to go first?”

“You mean, like a record store?” She tucked the cigarettes away in her skirt pocket. Maybe one day she could face them without a drink. “I wouldn’t mind seeing what’s new from Ray Charles.”

“We could do that if you like. Or is there some sort of organizational meeting you should attend?” When she looked at him blankly, he added, “The Friends of Bill W?”

Pagan nearly did a spit take with her Coke. “A.A?”

He regarded her, his face neutral, and said nothing.

Of course, he meant well, and she had promised Mercedes. So she’d go. She really would. But certainly not with Devin Black tagging along. She’d attended exactly two meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous between getting out on bail after her arrest and being sentenced to Lighthouse. Everyone there had been her parents’ age or older. They’d tried so hard not to stare at her that she’d felt both conspicuous and invisible, like a ghost no one wants to admit is haunting their house.

“I’m fine,” she said to Devin Black. It came out sharper than she intended.

“If you say so.” He couldn’t keep a slight tone of skepticism out of his voice. “You should know that the studio has assigned me to make sure you get to Berlin without incident.”

Which meant he’d been assigned to keep her off the bottle. Resentment flared. “What I drink is none of the studio’s—or your—business.”

He didn’t drop his gaze. “We have a considerable investment in you.”

She stared right back. “You knew the risks when you brought me into this.”

Unexpectedly, a slow smile spread over his face, as if he couldn’t help it. “The risks. And the rewards.”

He slid stormy blue eyes over her, and a warm flush stole up her neck to her cheeks. She hadn’t blushed for a boy since the last time she’d seen Nicky, her first and only boyfriend. She’d forgotten how exciting it was to get flustered like that.

“The reward of seeing me look like a fugitive from a chain gang?” She made her voice tart, which helped the flush subside. It wasn’t as if she could truly be attracted to Devin Black. He was a studio minder, her jailer. He might be useful for now, but he was her adversary.

“You’re talented enough to make any role believable.” At her incredulous look, he leaned forward and said, “No, really. I remember seeing that they’d cast you in Leopard Bay as a homeless street girl and I thought, That will never work. But it was an astonishing performance. For once they gave the right person the Golden Globe for most promising newcomer.”

The role in Leopard Bay had been her most challenging, something to be proud of before her career devolved into fluff like The Bashful Debutante and Beach Bound Beverly. By then, she was too busy hanging on Nicky’s arm and getting down to some serious drinking to worry about the quality of her movie roles. If they’d all been as rigorous as Leopard Bay, her drinking problem might have been noticed—by her father, by her fellow actors, by the studio. Maybe things would have been different.

“I was more excited about getting the BAFTA,” she said. “As far as I know the British Academy can’t be bought, unlike the Hollywood Foreign Press.”

He smirked. “As far as you know. What was it like to work with Richard Burton?”

Pagan looked out the window, remembering a brooding, pockmarked face, a warm presence. “He’s even more charismatic in person, but he was sort of sad. He caught me sipping from his hip flask one day, and all he did was take it away from me very gently and shake his head.” Leopard Bay had been shot not long after her mother died. She’d started drinking in secret. “He helped me practice my Welsh accent.”

Pagan shook off the memory. Time to learn more about the mysterious Mister Black. “Where are you from?”

“New York.” He eased back into the leather seat and stretched out his long legs so that they almost touched hers. “Born and raised.”

“You don’t have a New York accent,” she said. “You sound like me.” Pagan had been coached in elocution from an early age. Once her career as a baby model had taken off, her mother had made sure she grew up trained in how to speak, move, sing, and dance. She now spoke with a nondescript American accent, instead of sounding like a California girl.

“Education drills out the quirks,” he said with a shrug. “But I don’t have your gift for mimicking accents.”

After the barest pause, he gave her another smile. It was warm. Deep. But she didn’t blush this time. That pause, that fraction of a second, before he flashed her that smile, opened up a part of her brain she hadn’t used in months, years. The smile was perfect. His eyes even crinkled at the corners exactly the way they should. But Pagan knew it was fake, because she was trained to know.

Devin Black was acting. Behind his seeming spontaneity lay an iron control.

Pagan curved her lips into a shy smile to simulate her own coy response, her mind racing. Liars were a dime a dozen in Hollywood. She herself was one of the best. But Devin Black was more than a liar. He was dangerous.

Strange forces were at work. And for her own sake, she had to unmask them.

Devin Black wasn’t the only one who could flirt to get what he wanted.

“You’re a New Yorker, so you must have been to the Stage Deli over on Houston,” she said.

The Stage Deli was on Seventh Avenue, not Houston. If Devin was indeed from New York, he’d know that. “My dad and I ate there all the time when I was shooting that musical in Manhattan. He had the pastrami sandwich five times in a row.”

Devin’s blue eyes narrowed slightly. “Katz’s Deli is on Houston. The Stage Deli’s on Seventh.”

“Oh, Katz’s!” She lifted one palm to the sky as if asking heaven to return her brain. “That’s what I meant.”

So Devin knew New York. That didn’t mean he wasn’t lying. She scooched an inch closer to him on the leather seat. “We’ll be stopping in New York on the way to Berlin probably, right? What’s the hot new thing on Broadway these days?”

He tilted his head, musing. “I was hoping to see The Happiest Girl in the World, but it closed in June.”

“I was hoping to be The Happiest Girl in the World.” She gave him a rueful smile. “Then my life turned into West Side Story in a hurry.”

“Have you heard from Nicky Raven recently?” he asked, his voice deceptively light.

Nicky. Just the sound of his name squeezed all the blood from Pagan’s heart. Born Niccolo Randazzo, Nicky sang smoother than Sinatra and could swing like Louis Armstrong. Nicky, with his thick brown hair swept back in a wave, those flexible lips that had kissed her so many times, and that slightly crooked nose lending his boyish face a tougher cast. Just the sound of his name sent everything inside her swirling upward like a dust devil.