Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [70]
“Police?” cried Fabrizio. “But what are you doing bursting in on us like this? What’s happened?”
“I might ask you the same question, signore.”
“I am a friend of the family—they lent me the house for the weekend.”
“I see.” The policeman’s eyes flickered disbelievingly over India. She cowered back, feeling very naked beneath the blanket. “And the signora, too, I suppose?”
“What is all this?” demanded Fabrizio angrily.
“You are both under arrest for breaking and entering this establishment. Do you deny that you broke the window and forced an entrance?”
“No, of course not, but I can explain—”
“You will do your explaining at the police headquarters and I warn you my men are searching the house for the rest of you.”
“The rest of us?” India glared at him. “You fool, there are no others. We’re spending a peaceful weekend at the house of friends. How dare you burst into my bedroom like this!” Her Italian had a very pronounced American accent when she was angry and the policeman looked at her with new interest.
“A foreigner, I see…. Well, I hope you have your passport, signora?”
“Oh, my God,” groaned Fabrizio, holding his head in his hands, visualizing the scandal. “This is ridiculous. Can you imagine what the papers will do to us?”
India stared at him in horror. It was only a few hours ago that she had been thinking that she was as indiscreet as her mother. This was getting worse and worse—she didn’t want her name spread through the press again, linked, as she knew it would be, to her mother and her mother’s indiscretions. She sank back against the pillows, frightened.
“But how did they know we were here?” she whispered to Fabrizio as the men inspected the room, making a note of the food and the wine on the table near the fireplace.
“The alarm, signora.” The captain missed nothing. “This whole house is wired—there are pressure pads beneath the carpets in every room. Normally, we would have been here immediately, but with such a storm, the roads were washed out. And now I must ask you to get your clothes and come with me.” He ushered his men outside the door. “We will wait outside for the signora to dress.”
The door closed behind the policemen. India and Fabrizio, sitting in bed, looked at each other.
“The window …” gasped India wildly.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Fabrizio climbed out of bed and pulled on his shirt. “We’re in a lot of trouble, India. Oh, not from the charge, obviously it will be sorted out, but from the scandal. We’ve been caught. I’ve got to keep Marisa from knowing.”
“But how?” India sat on the edge of the bed contemplating the idea of an Italian jail cell and Marisa’s wrath and wondering which would be worse.
“I have the feeling,” replied Fabrizio, pulling on his pants, “that it’s going to cost a great deal of money.”
9
Rory was upset. Very upset. So upset he was muffing his lines—and as they only gave him a couple to say at a time, it really made him look bad. He sniffed impatiently as the makeup girl repowdered his forehead. Over in a corner the director, Dirk Bonner, was conferring with Shelly James, his female costar. Shelly was nodding her head, eyes downcast, listening intently to what Dirk was saying. Dirk was probably talking about him, putting him down, telling her she was the greatest!
Paranoia flared as Rory stomped back onto the location of Chelsea’s Game—a downtown L.A. jail, the real thing, complete with iron bars and padlocked doors. Unused now and empty, of course, but it still gave him a shudder just being there. Bill had probably got them to shoot here just to back up his threat and keep him in line. Fuck! As if the whole thing were his fault!
“Tell Dirk I’m in my dressing room—whenever he’s ready,” he said curtly.
As he laid down the neat line of coke, Rory pondered on his problem. He had really lucked out meeting Jenny Haven at that party—at least that’s what he’d thought then! She was still lovely, still sexy, and being with her had been a real high in the beginning—before he