—Marilyn Cole Lownes
Chatsworth, California
December 15, 1961
MILONGA
A tango party
Going to Frank Sinatra’s after-party was a mistake. But it wasn’t the raucous laughter coming from darkened dens, the half dozen nearly naked women splashing in the fifty-foot swimming pool or Frank and Dean Martin fighting over Angie Dickinson that bothered Pagan Jones.
No, the trouble for Pagan came from the gentle clink of ice in a tumbler and the quiet sloshing of Scotch, vodka and rum. It came from the overstocked bar in every room, dozens of tiny paper umbrellas discarded on tables and the bright scent of cut limes.
Pagan clung to Thomas Kruger’s muscular forearm with one hand, a bottle of Coke in the other, as they wound their way into the half-lit, high-ceilinged house with its glass walls and low-slung black leather sofas.
Thomas had been a big star back in his home country of East Germany before he and his family escaped to the West. Here in Hollywood he wasn’t a star yet, but he was tall, blond and ridiculously handsome, with comedic timing that made casting directors swoon. He and Pagan had bonded as friends for life during a movie shoot and a secret, breathless escape from East Berlin back in August.
“My first big Hollywood party,” he whispered to her, trying not to stare at the sparkling company lurking in every corner of the house. “That’s Jack Lemmon!” He stared at the dapper, Oscar-winning actor, who, pool cue in hand, was playfully holding it up to his eye like a telescope, pointing it at a petite blonde actress with the world’s tiniest waist. She aimed her own cue back at him like a rifle, sticking out her tongue. “He’s playing billiards with Janet Leigh! From Psycho!”
“If you get too overwhelmed, imagine them naked,” Pagan said, an in-joke they’d shared many times whenever actor nerves overwhelmed them. She caught a powerful whiff of Scotch as two men tottered past, drinks in hand. Suddenly she needed to breathe anything other than alcohol-soaked air. “Let me show you the rest of the estate.”
They stepped out onto the long, roofed arcade beside the pool. The cool night air banished the scent of liquor, but not her longing for it. Above, the quarter moon was a silver barrette clipped into the clouds.
“Sorry,” she said, knowing Thomas would understand. “It’s my first big party since the night we danced on top of the Hilton in West Berlin. Don’t let me get too close to the booze.”
He put a hand over hers. “Of course.”
She didn’t say it, but the real problem with parties like this was how fun they were. Here everyone was an adult, and anything was permitted so long as you did it with style. Sinatra’s parties were secret and exclusive, and once you were in, nobody but Frank himself could question you.
Pagan hadn’t attended a Hollywood party since the car accident where she’d driven drunk off Mulholland Drive, killing her father and little sister, and this was her first party of any kind since her last drink, back in August. She’d forgotten how much she craved the rampant creative juices fueled by a gathering of talented people, ramped up by alcohol, music and laughter. Random couples danced entwined in dark corners; heated debates became sudden duets.
Before she stopped drinking Pagan had attended many get-togethers like this one, some in this house, and she’d danced on top of a piano or two. She and her now ex-boyfriend Nicky Raven had been buddies with Nancy Sinatra and her husband, singer Tommy Sands, and Nancy’s father, Frank, had taken Nicky under his wing, tried to win him away from his record contract to record with Sinatra’s label.
But that was a lifetime ago. Nicky was married, for crying out loud. His wife was due to have their baby in a few months.
Pagan watched Thomas tug on his beer, eyes wide as he took in the sleek modern marvel of Farralone, Sinatra’s current digs hidden high on a hill where no one ever complained about the noise, and all the beautiful, famous faces inside it.
“Was that Marilyn Monroe?” Thomas asked, glancing over his shoulder to watch a platinum-blond head disappear into the darkness at the edge of the grassy lawn.
“She’s staying in Frank’s guesthouse,” said Pagan.
Thomas squinted at the distant white building gleaming next to its own pool. “That’s a guesthouse?”
“It’s a bit different from East Berlin, isn’t it?” She shot him a half smile.
“A little.” He tilted his head toward the splashing limbs in the pool. “It’s December. Why aren’t they freezing?”
Pagan contemplated the women in bikinis pulling on the arms of grinning men in suits at the water’s edge. “Frank’s money generates a lot of warmth.”
Thomas shot her a look.
“And the water’s heated.”
“There you are! Looking marvelous.” Nancy Sinatra emerged from the house, smiling. Her dark hair was piled high; the scooped neck of her black dress was cut low. Waving from the doorway was her husband, Tommy Sands, sucking on a cigarette, his thick dark hair swept back in an Elvis pompadour. “We so enjoyed the movie tonight. I hope it makes a million dollars.”
“Oh, Nancy, a million’s a lot!” Pagan released Thomas’s arm to take Nancy’s hand and leaned in for a cheek kiss, catching a whiff of hair spray and Chanel No. 5. “You look fantastic. And the honor of attending your party after his first Hollywood movie premiere has gone straight to Thomas’s head.”
Nancy’s long-lidded eyes, heavily lined in black, slid over the tall, tan hunk of man that was Thomas Kruger. She pursed her lips and extended her hand. “You were even more gorgeous and hilarious than Pagan in the movie tonight.”
Thomas lifted her hand to his lips, bowing as he did so. “A delight to meet you, Mrs. Sands. Thank you so much for your kind hospitality.”
One corner of Nancy’s wide mouth deepened in approval. “We like ’em fancy, don’t we, Pagan? To hell with Nicky Raven. Don’t worry, we didn’t invite him.” To Thomas: “Please. Call me Nancy.”
Thomas didn’t bother to correct her, and neither did Pagan. But she and Thomas weren’t dating, not in the way Nancy meant. Their bond of friendship and trust went far deeper than that. But no one could ever know why. Just as no one could know that Thomas preferred the romantic company of men.
“You okay?” Thomas murmured to Pagan as Nancy turned to say something to Tommy. Nancy’s cavalier mention of Nicky might once have upset Pagan. But now her thoughts drifted off to an annoyingly charming dark-haired, blue-eyed Scot with a gift for accents and intrigue. Devin Black may have blackmailed and lied to get her out of reform school and back in the Hollywood game after her family tragedy, but he’d done it so MI6 could track down a double agent in Berlin, not to help her. Well, not at first. He’d posed as a publicity exec from the movie studio to recruit Thomas Kruger as a spy for the West and then used Pagan’s desire to learn more about her mother’s past to lure her to act in a movie shooting in Berlin. He’d gotten a judge to temporarily declare him Pagan’s legal guardian, even though he was barely two years older than she was. All to use Pagan’s fame to get Thomas to a garden party thrown by the leader of East Germany so he could search the place. Thomas had been caught, and it had taken every ounce of Pagan’s determination and cunning to help get him and his family to safety.
Pagan could still remember the relief as she collapsed into Devin’s arms. How safe she’d felt, how tenderly he’d cared for her. But even after all that, after all those nights sharing a hotel suite, after all their flirtations, deceptions and secret investigations of each other, when you got right down to it, one amazing kiss was all they’d shared.
“Damn Devin Black,