“Who's your press agent, by the way?” She sounded a little bit annoyed, and his eyes looked worried as he watched her.

“I suppose Rita did that. I'm sorry … do you mind very much?” It was no secret that Hedda Hopper disliked Orson, but she had always been fond of Rita. And Ward, but Faye didn't know that.

She smiled. It was impossible to be annoyed with him. He was so ingenuous and generous and obviously happy to see her, and she had to admit that, even knowing he was a playboy, he still had enormous appeal. There was something overwhelmingly attractive about him. There had been, even in Guadalcanal. And now, in his own element, he was even more so. He exuded confidence and sex appeal, and Faye was far from immune to him.

“At least now I know who you are.”

He shrugged with a grin. “None of that junk means very much, or is very accurate, as you know.” He made no comment about the “beaux” mentioned in the piece, but he smiled at her in a way that touched her heart. He had a knack for doing that. “Shall we follow their suggestion, Faye?” There was something funny in his eyes and she didn't know him well enough yet to know if it was serious or playful.

“What was that?” She was so tired she couldn't think and he watched her eyes carefully as he answered.

“Remember the bit about wedding bells … we could surprise the hell out of them and get married.”

“What a great idea,” she mocked, glancing at her watch and squinting. “Let's see … it's six twenty-five … how about at eight o'clock tonight, that way it could make the morning papers.”

“Great idea.” He ran around to the other side of her car, and before she could object, he hopped in beside her. “Okay, let's get going, kid.” He sat back against the seat matter-of-factly, and grinned at her, and suddenly she was amused at him too. She forgot how tired she was. Actually, she was happy to see him. More so than she meant to be.

“You mean you expect me to drive? What kind of marriage is this?”

“You read the papers. It said I was a playboy. Playboys don't drive. They get driven around.”

“That's gigolos. That is not the same thing, Ward Thayer.” They were both laughing, and he had moved closer to her on the seat, but she didn't mind it.

“Why can't a playboy be driven too? I'm tired. I had a hard time today. I had lunch with three friends and we drank four bottles of champagne.”

“My heart bleeds for you, you lazy dog. I've been working since six o'clock this morning and you've been drinking champagne all day!” She tried to sound angry but all she could do was laugh as an enormous limousine pulled up for Vance Saint George.

“That's what you need, Faye.” He almost sounded serious and she laughed at him.

“A car like that? Don't be ridiculous. I enjoy driving myself.”

“It's not ladylike.” He assumed a prim expression, and glanced at her. “Besides, it's not suitable for the victim of a playboy.”

“I'm your victim, am I?”

“Hopefully you will be.” He looked at his watch and then back at her. “Now what time are we getting married? You said eight o'clock … we'd better step on it … or would you rather just stop for a drink after all?”

She shook her head, but she was less convincing than she had been before. “No. I'd rather go home, Mr. Thayer. Remember me, I'm the working girl, and I happen to be exhausted.”

“I can't imagine why. You probably went to bed at ten o'clock last night.”

“Nope.” She crossed her arms and grinned at him. “I had a date with a playboy millionaire.” Now that it was out in the open they were both having a good time with it. It all seemed totally absurd, like a joke on them both, and Faye refused to take it any more seriously than he did.

“No, you didn't!” He attempted to look shocked. “Who?”

“I can't remember his name.”

“Was he nice?”

“More or less. Terrible liar of course, but they all are.” “Handsome?”

She looked him square in the eye. “Very.”

“Now you've picked it up from him, lying again. Come on, I've got some friends you ought to meet.” He put an arm around her and she could smell the spicy fragrance of his after-shave, which was masculine and sexy. “Let's go have a drink. I promise I'll get you home early tonight.”

“I can't, Ward. I'd fall asleep on the table.”

“Don't worry. I'll pinch you.”

“Were you serious about meeting friends?” That was the last thing she wanted to do tonight. All she wanted to do was go home. She had some new lines to study in the script, and with Saint George performing so poorly she felt an obligation to work even harder to compensate for him. Otherwise, they'd make a botch of the whole movie.

Ward shook his head. “I was kidding about seeing friends. Just the two of us. I'd take you to my place, if you'd come, but I don't have one.” He laughed. “That makes it a bit difficult.”

“I'll say.”

“I was going to stay at my parents' place, but it's all closed up and it's too damn big. I've got a cottage at the Beverly Hills Hotel until I find something I like, so I'm afraid all I can offer you is the hotel bar, for the moment.” It would have been highly improper to suggest coming to his cottage for a drink, and he wouldn't have considered suggesting that to her. She wasn't that kind of girl, no matter how big a movie star she was, or how many beaux she'd had. There was still more than a hint of the well-brought-up young lady about her, and he liked it that way. The papers weren't far off the mark as to his intentions. “So what do you say? Half an hour and then I'll take you home. Okay?”

“Okay, okay … my God, you drive a hard bargain. I'm glad I don't work for you, Ward Thayer.”

“Ah, my little chickadee,” he pinched her cheek, “that could be arranged. Now slide over and I';ll drive.” He hopped out and got back in behind the wheel.

“Won't you need your car?”

“I'll take a cab and come back for it after I take you home.”

“That's not too much trouble for you, Ward?”

He looked at her, amused. “Not at all, little one. Why don't you put your head back and rest on the way to the hotel? You look tired.” She liked the tone of his voice, the look in his eyes … the feel of his hand as he touched hers … she watched him through half-closed eyes as they drove along. “How's work?”

“Vance Saint George is an awful pain in the neck. I don't know how he's gotten as far as he has.” Ward knew, but he didn't say anything to her. He had slept with everything that moved, woman or man, and collected favors from everyone in town, but it had to catch up with him someday.

“Is he any good?”

“He would be, if he'd stop worrying about drafts and how much makeup he wears and studied his lines for a change. It's difficult to work with him, he's never prepared, and it delays us for hours.” She sat up and looked out as they neared the hotel.

“I hear you're awfully professional, Miss Price.” He looked admiringly at her.

She smiled. “Who told you that?”

“I saw Louis B. Mayer at lunch today. He said you're the finest actress in town, and of course I agreed.”

“A lot you know.” She laughed. “You've been gone for four years. You've missed all my best films.” She sniffed primly and he laughed. He was happy with her. Happier than he'd been in years.

“Yeah, but don't forget, I saw you in Guadalcanal.” He glanced over at her tenderly and touched her hand again. “How many people can boast of that?” and then suddenly they both laughed, thinking of the thousands of troops she'd entertained. “All right, never mind …” He pulled up in front of the pink hotel, and jumped out, as a doorman rushed to his aid, touching his hat and murmuring Ward's name. And he went to open Faye's door himself, as she stepped out and looked down at her slacks.

“Can I go in like this?”

“Faye Price?” He grinned. “You could go in wearing a bathing suit and they'd kiss your feet.”

“Would they now?” She smiled at him. “Or is that just because I'm with Ward Thayer?”

“What a lot of nonsense that is.” But as usual, the headwaiter gave him the best table. And this time, three people asked her for her autograph, and when they left the hotel an hour later, much to her dismay someone had called the press, and a flashbulb exploded almost in their faces as they walked out of the hotel.

“Damn. I hate that stuff.” She looked annoyed as they took refuge in her car, and the photographer had followed them all the way. “Why can't they leave us alone? Why do they have to make a thing of it?” She liked her privacy and the same thing had happened to her before. And this time she wasn't even involved with Ward yet. It was only their second date.

“You're big news, kid. It can't be helped.” He wondered then if she objected to being paired off with him, maybe there was someone else. He hadn't thought of that before, but it made perfect sense. And as he drove her home, he brought it up gingerly. “It won't … it won't mess up anything else for you, will it, Faye?” He looked concerned, and she smiled as she saw the worried look in his eyes.

“Not the way you mean. But I don't like to go around advertising how I spend my private hours.” She still looked annoyed and also tired.

“Then we'll have to be discreet about where we go.” She nodded, but they both seemed to forget the vow the following night when he picked her up in his own car, a custom-built Duesenberg he had bought before the war and had left up on blocks in his garage. It was the car the doorman at Ciro's had been referring to, and Faye could see why. It was the most beautiful car she'd ever seen.

He took her to the Mocambo that night, and Charlie Morrison, the gray-haired owner, had run up and almost kissed Ward as he hugged him and pumped his arm. Like everyone else, he was ecstatic over Ward's safe return, and another mammoth bottle of champagne appeared as Faye glanced around the room, wondering who was there. She had been there before of course, and it was the most glamourous place in town, with an entire wall of rare, live birds flying around, while couples danced, and big film stars drifted in and out, just as she did now with Ward.