“You’re kidding?”

“No.” Val frowned, as if he’d already forgotten what they were talking about.

“A doctor. Jesus, is she hurt?”

“I dunno. He just wanted you to call him.”

Julian felt a strange fluttering in his chest. Kayla. Of all the women he’d known, he’d loved her the most. “Where’s the number?”

Val waved a hand and almost fell over. “I told Susan to leave it on your answering machine.”

“Thanks,” Julian answered, distracted by a sudden onslaught of memories. His first love. Kayla. He hadn’t heard from her in so long he’d almost forgotten her. Almost.

Val slid away from Julian and headed for the bed, collapsing in a heap on the edge. “It’d sure be something to find her. The missing Mrs. True. The press loved her.” He paused, looked blearily at Julian. “And so did you.”

At the gates to his home, Julian spoke into a small black intercom. Immediately the intricately wrought gates parted, revealing a short driveway that led to a sprawling Spanish bungalow. At least that’s what the designer had called it. Five families could live here, and still, in this neck of the woods, it was a bungalow.

Julian had lived here for ten years, two of those with Priscilla-of-the-dessert, four with Dorothea-the-bitch, and one with Anastasia. None with Kayla.

Not one of his wives had added anything to the interior of the house, not a photograph or a lamp or a painting. They had each come here with nothing, added nothing, and left with a few million dollars of Julian’s money. He supposed it was indicative of his problem. He cared more about this home than about the women he’d married and brought here to live.

No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t a home. It was a house that wanted to be a home. He had never had time for a home.

Julian walked up the flagstone path. Bushy green trees in huge terra-cotta pots flanked the way, releasing—even at this dozing season of the year—a soft, citrusy scent. Spotlights cast golden, latticed shadows along the path. A riot of late-blooming pink bougainvillea arched above the front entrance. A dozen Japanese-style ceramic lanterns lit the path.

The door opened and Julian’s housekeeper, Teresa, stood in the doorway. As always, her uniform was as starched and white as a brand-new sail, and not a single gray hair was out of place. “Buenos noches, Señor True. How did the movie go?”

Julian was too distracted to smile. “Another hit.” Frowning, he moved past Teresa into the cool, airy house. It was a place of sharp contrasts—white stucco walls and dark walnut trim, white denim-covered, oversized chairs and dark, heavily carved wooden tables. The floor throughout was tile, huge terra-cotta squares and rectangles that forgave any spill.

In the spotless kitchen, he poured two shots of tequila into a Waterford tumbler and downed it, without bothering to reach for salt or a lime. Tucking the bottle under his arm, he began his search. Somewhere in this house there had to be a picture of Kayla. He went from room to room, lifting every photograph, until he found what he was looking for. There, tucked in the back of the music room, on a bookshelf too high to reach, he found a framed picture of her.

He dropped slowly to his knees on the thick Aubusson carpet, staring at the photograph. It was their wedding picture.

There had not been a photograph like this taken of Julian in many years. Now, he knew he looked handsome—better looking at forty than he’d been at twenty-four—but there was something more in this shot. He realized with a shock what it was: honesty. Here, in this picture, was the last true glimmer of the man Julian had once wanted to be.

He closed his eyes, remembering her. They had been on their honeymoon, on that yacht in the Caribbean …

“Tell me your real name,” she’d whispered, smiling.

He’d grinned, but it was the Hollywood smile, and he’d known that it hurt her. “Nope, I don’t tell anyone that.”

“You will. Someday … when you’re ready.”

He’d touched her face, brushed the flyaway hair from her eyes. “That boy is dead, Kay. He isn’t coming back. I like being Julian True. It’s who I want to be for you.”

“Don’t you see, Jules? You could be anyone, anywhere, and I’d love you till I die.”

He’d opened his eyes and stared down at the photograph.

She had loved him like no one else ever had, before or since. Loved him, not the one-dimensional celluloid image of a man that was Julian True. She had said often that when Julian cut himself, she bled. Even in the blurred afterglow of a life half lived and fifteen years gone by, he knew that he was right in that one belief. She had loved him.

Chapter Thirteen

Liam sat at his desk. He didn’t bother to turn on any of the lights, or to leaven the silence by playing one of the CDs stacked by the stereo.

The intercom buzzed. Carol’s staticky voice came through the small black box. “Doctor? Are you in there?”

He pressed the button. “I’m here, Carol. You can go ahead and go home. We’re done for the day.”

“You’re not going to believe this, Doctor. There’s a man on the phone who says he’s Julian True.”

Liam’s heart skipped a beat. “I’ll take it.”

“Do you think it’s the real—”

“Patch him through, Carol, and go on home. We’re done for the day.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

The red light on line one started flashing. Liam took a deep breath, stabbed the button, and picked up the phone. “This is Dr. Campbell.”

There was a pause at the other end, then: “Dr. Liam Campbell?”

Even through the impersonal medium of the phone lines, Liam would have recognized the voice. “This is he.”

“This is Julian True. You left a message with my agent, Val Lightner, regarding Mikaela Luna—”

“She’s been injured.”

“Oh, God. How bad?”

“She’s in a coma.”

Another pause crackled through the lines, and Liam realized that Julian was on a car phone. “A coma. Jesus … What can I do? I’ll pay for her hospital bills, and for the best doctors in the country—not to say that you’re not great, Dr. Campbell, but—”

“She doesn’t need your money, Mr. True. I called you because … well, she shows some response to your name. I … we thought that maybe if she heard your voice—”

“You think she’ll wake up for me?”

Liam was unprepared for the pain that came with that simple question. “We think there’s a chance.”

“I’ve got an interview this afternoon, but I can be there tomorrow. Where is she?”

“In the Ian Campbell Medical Center in Last Bend, Washington. About sixty miles east of Bellingham.”

“Okay, I’ll get Antoinette to set me up.”

“When you get to the medical center, ask for me. I’ll be in my office there.”

“Okay.”

Liam waited for Julian to end the conversation, but he just hung on the line, breathing, not saying anything. Finally Liam said, “Is there something else?”

“Yeah. Uh … how does she look? I mean, I need to be prepared.”

It was a perfectly human question, nothing wrong with it, so why did Liam feel suddenly angry? His answer was barely audible along the crackling line. “She looks as beautiful as you probably remember.”

Val’s office was a huge, open space tucked into the northeastern corner of a high-rise on Wilshire Boulevard. Huge glass windows paneled the corner, capturing a vista of other tall buildings. Behind them lay a filmy layer of brown smog.

A few sleek chairs were gathered around a glass coffee table. Movie posters and theater announcements graced the walls, each one representing a client. A huge television, flanked by fifteen smaller screens, dominated one corner. Currently a music video pulsed on every screen.

Val’s desk was an immense, rectangular sheet of green glass. He was slouched over in his chair, holding his head in his hands.

Julian didn’t need to be told to keep his voice down. He’d partied with Val enough over the years to know when his best friend was nursing an ugly hangover. He crossed the room and sat down in the cushiony black leather chair opposite the desk.

“Quieter,” Val moaned.

“Look, Val, I know you feel like four kinds of shit, but I really need to talk to you.”

“Whisper, please.”

“I called that doctor in Podunk, Washington. It was about Kayla. She’s had an accident. She’s in a coma.”

Slowly Val lifted his head. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot. “So, what, they need money for her hospital bills?”

“No. The doc said she responded to my name. They seem to think it would help if I talked to her.”

Val ran a hand through his hair. The greasy blond locks fell right back in front of his ashen face. A slow-growing smile plucked one corner of Val’s mouth. Julian recognized the look: It was Val’s we-can-make-money-here look. “It’s like one of those chick fairy tales. A kiss of true love to wake her up—get it? True love wakes her up. Now, there’s a hell of a headline.”

“This is serious, Val. She’s pretty bad off. She could die.”

“Oh.” Val’s smile faded.

Julian stared at his friend. Val was so goddamn transparent. Now he was thinking that it wouldn’t do much good if the headline was TRUE LOVE KILLS.

“So, what are you going to do?” Val said at last.

Julian leaned back. The chair squeaked, rolled an inch backward. Images and memories drifted through his mind like clouds on a summer’s day. “She was the one, Val. She really loved me.”

“They all love you, Julian.”

“Kay was different. I loved her, too.”

“I’ve seen movies that run longer than your love.”

That stung. “I’m going up there. Right after the Rolling Stone interview.”

“What? This fucking movie’s gonna be big, Juli. Big. We’ve got a shitload of press scheduled—”

Julian smiled. There was nothing he liked better than surprising Val; it was damned hard to do. “It’s not like I’m vanishing. I’m just going out of town for a day or two. I pay you two and a half million a year. Make it work.”

Val shook his head. “Okay, Jules. Go play Prince Charming. But be back in two days. I mean it.”

“And no press. I want to do this alone.”

Val looked at him hard. “Jesus, Juli, you never do anything alone.”

“There’s always a first time.”

The kitchen lights were off, but Liam could see two blue spots of flame on the stove. The mouth-watering aroma of Rosa’s arroz con pollo wafted up from the pots. In the dining room, the table was set for dinner. A vase of fern fronds and pine boughs made a graceful centerpiece.

In the great room, there were candles on every windowsill and tabletop. The candelabra on the grand piano was a blaze of flickering golden light.

He heard the soft, even patter of Rosa’s slippered feet on the stairs.