The Blonde Read Online Free PDF Page A

got overworked, the way he cared for me, and that’s why it gave out.”
    “You know it wasn’t his heart.”
    She took a sip of whiskey and laughed. “I knew he wanted to screw me, if that’s what you mean. He was a man, you know.”
    Alexei ignored this. “I meant that it wasn’t his heart giving out that killed him.”
    “Oh.” She exhaled audibly through her nose, blowing away her previous levity, as well as his insinuation. Tonight she had no interest in other people’s shadowy insinuations. “Well, that’s all about a million years ago, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, a lot has happened.” Alexei folded his forearms against the table and smiled. The light in his eyes was just for her. “Look at you! A real star, like I always knew you would be. You’ve even exceeded my expectations—you’rean artist, my dear. Beloved by the whole world. I cried, you know, when I went to see you in Bus Stop .”
    “Honey, I have publicity men and lawyers and husbands to tell me how wonderful I am and how I deserve it all and yada yada. They get paid pretty good for that service, too. But I’m low on funds these days. Why don’t you just tell me what it is you want?”
    If he was taken aback by her directness, he didn’t show it. “You remember, that day in Schwab’s, when I told you Johnny would help you? I told you we’d call on you someday. Well, now we are.”
    “You want a favor.” She winked decadently. She didn’t owe him anything—so many shysters had promised to change her life in those days that Alexei barely stood out; in fact, she had only thought of him once or twice over the years—but she didn’t mind doing for others when she was asked nicely. “What kind of favor?”
    “There’s a publicity tour, for Some Like It Hot . They go to Chicago tomorrow. I want you to go with them.”
    They had been speaking in hushed tones, but when she laughed at that—a mirthless, one-syllable laugh—it rose above the quiet barroom mumble. A few heads lifted off the tabletops. Alexei swiveled, watching the others until they looked away, and she knew he cared if they were overheard. That he cared, but she didn’t. “I haven’t been on a tour like that since I was a kid,” she snapped, her voice devoid of its usual breathiness. “I don’t do that kind of thing anymore. I don’t have to. I’m Marilyn fucking Monroe, and you’re just some funny foreign fellow I met at Schwab’s a lifetime ago.”
    “But my dear,” he replied easily. “We made you.”
    “Let’s say you did have something to do with it.” The anger was at a boil inside her now, and she leaned toward him so that he could see it in her face. “Just for a laugh, let’s say you did. What are you going to do about it now? Take it back? Make me not famous all of a sudden? I’d like to see you try.”
    “Of course we could take it away,” he replied, quietly amused. “Though we haven’t the least intention of wasting a talent like yours.”
    She gazed back at him, one eyebrow aloft. Her anger was under control now—she had it in a corner where she needed it. Without flinching, she lifted her whiskey glass and drained it. “Go right ahead.” She put her coat over her arm and slid around the booth away from him. She was almost to the door when he called out for her.
    “N.J.” It was that gentle intensity again, and this time he didn’t seem to mind the curious glances from the strangers in the bar. Slowly, with exquisite indifference, she turned toward him. “Don’t you want to know why we chose you?”
    “I guess I seemed like the most desperate girl in Schwab’s that afternoon.” She rested a hand on one hip and put her weight on the other. “Is that it?”
    With a shake of his head, he reached into the hidden chest pocket of his coat. He pulled out a photograph, too large for a wallet but not large enough to frame, and put it down on the table. Someone came in behind her on a gust of cold March air, and she stepped toward