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he never stopped hoping to divert some of Alexi’s wealth in his own direction, and, in the end, Alexi felt the rivalry more keenly.
    Beneath his charm Alexi Savagar was a man who took life seriously. As an aristocrat, he disdained Flynn’s inferior breeding and lack of formal education. As a businessman, he scorned his playboy lifestyle and contempt for self-discipline. But at thirty-eight—his fortune secure andhis power unquestioned—amusement had become a precious commodity. Besides, Flynn had never posed a serious threat to him. Not until the moment Alexi had gazed at the mermaid swimming in the pool at the Garden of Allah.
    Their tastes were similar—young girls with the bloom of innocence still on their flushed cheeks. Flynn’s fame and sexual magnetism seemed to give him an advantage, but Alexi’s wealth and carefully executed charm were a formidable aphrodisiac. Flynn saw Belinda as a new pawn in the game the men had played over the years. He had no way of knowing Alexi viewed her differently.
    Alexi’s visceral reaction to Belinda Britton had taken him by surprise. She was a silly child absurdly obsessed with movie stars. Except for her youth, she had little to recommend her. Although she was intelligent, she’d been badly educated. She was undeniably beautiful, but so were other women he’d known. Still, next to Belinda’s air of tainted innocence, his more sophisticated female companions seemed old and weary. Belinda was the perfect combination of child and whore, her mind untouched, her body lush and experienced.
    But his attraction to Belinda went deeper than sexual desire. She was a bright-eyed child, eager for life to begin and full of trust in the future. He wanted to be the one to introduce her to the world, to shelter and protect her, to mold her into the ideal woman she could become. As the days passed, the accumulated years of his cynicism peeled away. He felt like a boy again with his life stretching before him, full of promise.
    Toward the end of November, Flynn announced he was going to Mexico for a week and asked Alexi to watch after her. Alexi gave Belinda a slow smile, then turned to Flynn. “You might wish to think twice about deserting the field.”
    Flynn laughed. “Belinda won’t even wear the trinkets you give her, will you, my dear? I don’t believe I have much need to worry.”
    Belinda laughed as if it were all a wonderful joke, butAlexi Savagar made her uneasy. No one had ever treated her with so much courtesy. Her feelings confused her. He was an important man, but he wasn’t a movie star—he wasn’t Errol Flynn—so why should she be so disturbed by him?
    For the next week, Alexi became her constant companion. They drove everywhere at breakneck speed in a red Ferrari that seemed like an extension of Alexi’s well-tuned body. She watched his hands on the controls, observed the sureness of his touch, the steady grip of his fingers. What would it be like to have such self-confidence? As they roared through the streets of Beverly Hills, she felt the surge of the car’s engine through her thighs. She imagined everyone speculating about her. Who was this blond-haired woman who’d managed to capture the interest of two such important men?
    In the evening they went to Ciro’s or Chasen’s. Sometimes they spoke French, with Alexi keeping his vocabulary simple so she could follow it. He described his classic car collection, he detailed the beauties of Paris, and one night, with the Ferrari parked on a hill and the city lights spread at her feet, he spoke more personally.
    “My father was a Russian aristocrat wise enough to leave for Paris before the First World War broke out. He met my mother there. She convinced him to shorten his name from Savagarin to Savagar so he’d fit into Parisian society. I was born a year before the war ended, and a week before my father died. I’ve received my love of fine things from my French mother. But do not fool yourself. Beneath it all, I