Wes' eyes locked with hers. He faltered for a moment before his dark brow furrowed and he turned away, guiding Patsy towards the house. Izzy watched him leave, her heart dropping a little at his disregard.

"You sure have a thing with water, don't you?" Hank gave her a crooked smile, forcing her to turn her gaze from Wes. "First the beach and now the pool."

Seeing Izzy's frown, he backpaddled. "It's alright. You couldn't have picked a worse person to push into the pool—but she'll get over it—eventually."

Gene punched him in the shoulder, shooting Izzy an apologetic look. "He clearly doesn't know when to shut up."

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. His hazel eyes sweeping over her. "Boy, Izzy, you look beautiful. Striking, really. So different than the first time we met on the island—uh—I mean, you were pretty then too, but now—."

"Ha! And you talk about me!" said Hank. "Don't mind Gene here, Izzy. Or our pal, Wes. He's kinda got a big head since we made it."

"So, what's the tale nightingale?" asked Gene. "How did you get here?"

Izzy pulled her dress up slightly to reveal her aching knees. One of them had started to bleed. "I took a train. Came all the way here for my friend, Rita's wedding. But, it hasn't exactly turned out the way I'd planned."

She cringed, sensing Warren hovering behind her. His betrayal flashed through her mind. Her stomach twisted at the realization that she would have to tell Rita what she'd seen.

She couldn't imagine how she'd feel. And, where would she go if she left Warren? Back home? Her head began to throb again.

"Oh, Izzy, you're hurt." Gene moved in to get a better look at her knees.

"It's probably time we get Rita and head home," said Warren behind her, nearly causing her to jump.

As if on cue, Rita came rushing down the concrete, her clutch swinging in her hand. Seeing them standing at the pool, she stopped, eyes wide. "I heard there was a commotion, what on earth happened?"

Izzy opened her mouth to speak, but Warren interrupted. "It was all an accident. But things are settled now, sweetheart. No need to worry." He placed a kiss on Rita's forehead.

Izzy felt sick inside, instantly loathing Warren. He had a lot of nerve, acting as if nothing happened in the pool house just moments ago.

Rita gave her a questioning look, as if sensing there was more. But, Izzy avoided her, bile inching up her throat.

"Hold on, before you go—tomorrow night Hank and I are going to be at Ciros. You can't come all the way to Hollywood without going to Ciros." Gene looked from Izzy to Rita, then Warren. "If you're not busy, I'd love to see you there."

"Oh," said Rita, looking from Izzy to Gene, then," Oh." She giggled. "I'm sure we can arrange it—right Warren?" She blinked her long lashes at him, balancing on her toes.

Warren raised an eyebrow as he lit his cigar, his other hand wrapped around Rita's small waist. "I'll be working tomorrow night, but I can arrange a ride for you two ladies if that's what you want."

Rita clapped her hands. "Oh Izzy, this will be incredible! I haven't been there yet either!"

Before Izzy could open her mouth to object, Gene waved to them. "Fantastic! See you tomorrow."

"Come on Izzy," said Rita, grabbing her hand. "Let's go so you can rest—and tell me what that was all about," she added.

The ride home was much less joyous than the one there. By the time they pulled up to the house, she was a nervous wreck of emotions inside, struggling to keep it together.

It was dark. It seemed every star in the sky had made an appearance when she stepped out of the car. A warm breeze tickled her skin.

"I'll get something to clean up your knees," said Rita, heading to the house.

Izzy set off after her, but Warren grabbed her arm, holding her back. His blue eyes seemed to take on a steely grey as he studied her in the soft porch light. "She's pregnant."

Her breath caught in her throat and her chest threatened to cave in, but she instinctively lifted her chin. "Then, why would you do that to her?"

He let go of her arm, searching in his pocket for another cigar. "You have no clue what I was doing," he said, lighting the cigar. "And you wouldn't understand if I explained it to you. Hollywood is a lot different than the island—or wherever you're from. Rita knows what my job requires. Everyone knows. Everyone around here anyways."

His smug face irritated her, forcing a brashness to her voice as she spoke. "You don't have to explain anything to me. I've known men like you. Rita doesn't deserve that. She's been through enough already."

"Listen, Izzy. You're a nice girl and I'm glad you're here for Rita." Warren flicked the ash onto the pavement. "I'm sure you care about her and so do I. The difference is, I will take care of her. I'll give her everything she needs."

Izzy rushed after Rita, leaving Warren behind to blow his smoke rings alone.

#

Wes sat in his pristine Cadillac alone, the top folded down, overlooking the twinkling lights of the city. It was a private spot he'd found, down a dirt road most didn't know existed, a good spot to get away when one needed to sort through their thoughts.

The night before, he'd dropped Patsy off at her apartment. She'd been furious over the incident at the pool. Reputation was everything in Hollywood and Patsy's reputation was pristine. They could only hope that a picture wouldn't turn up the next day, or that some desperate nobody at the party didn't decide to go to the tabloids with the story, in hopes of a shot at fame.

He leaned his head against the seat, looking up at the stars. The breeze was getting cooler as the night moved on. What was she doing there anyway?

Sighing, he closed his eyes, remembering the island. It all seemed so long ago. He'd been a naive sop then, so clueless when it came to the business.

Now, he was a household name. Sure—fame had its headaches. He'd been chased too many times to count by feverish women who'd once went as far as ripping the arm of his jacket clear off. But, the thrill of fame never seemed to lose its edge. Somewhere, deep down, he feared that if it did lose its edge—or worse yet—if people stopped screaming his name, he'd be in a deep, dark place.

How had she made it all the way here to Hollywood and what was she doing with that dirty rat, Warren? And—what was she running away from so frantically when she'd crashed into Patsy?

He'd been on stage, finishing his last number when it happened. He'd heard the splash, then the familiar scream—he'd cut the song short and raced over.

It wasn't until he'd pulled Patsy out that he'd looked up to see her standing there. Seeing her, just out of the blue, sent a surprising jolt through his body—one he'd quickly harnessed. How ridiculous, after all those months, there still was something about her that set him off kilter.

She was just a plain girl, one of a hundred that threw themselves at him everyday on his way to the recording studio, or at the club. She was a nobody.

But Patsy—there was nothing ordinary about Patsy. That woman had drive and spirit, and a keenness about her that shocked him at times. Together they'd risen to places neither of them had ever thought they'd be. They inspired each other to reach higher and work harder.

Their producer, Jack Corbin, was thrilled when they'd told him about their engagement.

"The public's gonna eat this up!" he'd said. "Maybe the two of you will do an album together."

Jack was right. He and Patsy's love life had taken on a life of its own in the tabloids. Every move they made, every date, every kiss was captured on camera and speculated on in the gossip columns.

RCA was making a production of their wedding, one that would rival princess Elizabeth's. Everything was being orchestrated, down to the design of the napkins on the tables. All of Hollywood's top stars had been invited. In just a few short months, the cameras would be rolling as he became a married man.

Old Judd couldn't have been more wrong. Show business wasn't a facade, it was his entire life. And he was proving he could have both love and fame.

Of course, Judd had been wrong about a lot of things. If it were up to him, he and the boys would be sweltering in that little studio in Los Angeles, barely making enough to get by.

He sat up, looking at his watch. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he'd forgotten he was supposed to pick up Patsy for their date at Ciros. He cranked the car on, backed away from the hill and headed down the dark street.

#

Wes and Patsy pulled up to the club and parked under its neon sign.

"I hope Frank's not here tonight," Patsy muttered as she stepped out of the car. "I'm not in the mood to witness another brawl."

"I think old Frank's on his third strike as far as fights go," said Wes. "According to the rules, three strikes and you're out. Plus, you can't hardly blame the guy, they said the columnist he slugged called him a dago. I would've slugged him too."

"Frank's such a star, I'm sure they'll make an exception." Patsy undid her headscarf, letting her golden curls spill out. She batted her long lashes at him. "How do I look?"

Her pulled her to him. "Stunning."

A camera flashed as they kissed, signaling it was time to get inside the protection of Ciros before a mob of reporters showed up.

They stroll through the pillared archway hand in hand, exuding fame. Wes in his pinstriped suit and tie, Patsy in an emerald green gown with a low neck and frills around her hips.

"There's our lovely couple! " The bouncer waved them in.

"Is Frank here tonight?" Patsy asked.

"No, not tonight, ma'am. I believe he's in France right now, on tour."

"Good, it should be peaceful then."

Wes laughed. "Nothing's ever peaceful at Ciros, my dear. I believe that's why most people come—to shake things up."

"After last night, I'm through being shaken." Patsy scowled. "Harry, get us a table in the corner, will you?"

"No problem, Patsy. I saved your favorite spot." The tall, thin waiter with a slight sway to his hips seated them at a private table with subtle lighting, furthest from the stage. "Shall I get you your usual?"

"That's fine, Harry." Wes said, waving him off. His eyes travelled to the stage, where a young black man was crooning. He leaned back in his chair. "Now, he's got some pipes."

"He's good, but I'm not sure he belongs here," Patsy said.

Wes eyed her, frowning. "What do you mean?"

Patsy studied him, her blue eyes wide. "I just think it's a little too much, don't you? There are plenty of negro clubs around. They're going to start to think they're just like us if we let them in on everything we do. They'll be using our bathrooms and—well you heard about Lisa dating that negro crooner a few months ago. Her producer put an end to that affair real quick."

"Back in New York, quite a few of my good friends were colored." Wes's eyes drifted back to the stage. "Talent is talent. If you're good you're good, as far as I'm concerned. Great artists should be able to play anywhere."

"Wes," said Patsy, her voice low. "We've discussed this before. Watch the things you say. You could be accused of supporting communism, that would get as both blacklisted."

"Cigar?" A pretty blond with green eyes appeared next to them, the cigarette tray strapped around her neck. She wore the typical cigarette girl attire, a red sequined leotard with a short black tutu, revealing her long legs.

"Cuban," said Wes. "You're new here, aren't you? I haven't seen you before."

"I am." The girl had gave him a wide smile, her eyes holding a confidence that he found interesting. "I plan on working here until I can find a lead role as an actress."

Patsy let out a belittling laugh. "Join the crowd. You and every other cigarette girl working here."

The girl shot her a haughty look, her chin lifting. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Wes Rizzo," she said, giving him a sultry look. He could feel Patsy simmering with jealousy next to him. "My name's Gloria."

"Ugh, the nerve." Patsy grabbed her drink taking a swig of it. "Who does that little slut think she is?"

Wes smiled at her. Patsy was a jealous woman. Pretty girls made an ugly side come out of her.

On the other side of the room, something caught his eye.

Izzy. He straightened in his chair, leaning forward to get a better look. What was she doing here?

She was with another brunette. But, when he saw a familiar man grab a chair for her, his blood went cold. Gene—that dirty bastard.