The Notorious Pagan Jones. Nina Berry

waiter, she realized that for a good five minutes she hadn’t thought about Nicky Raven and his new bride. Maybe that’s just how Devin Black had wanted it.

      The Dior suit dress withstood the trip to Berlin without a wrinkle, but by the time they landed Pagan was very much looking forward to getting out of it and into a nice soft bed, faraway from everyone on earth, particularly Devin Black.

      While on the plane, and with a showy flourish to demonstrate how she was ignoring him, Pagan had plunged into an article in Time about the Cold War.

      She’d found herself caught up in the article in spite of herself. Nothing like the serious threat of nuclear war to grab your attention.

      A defeated Germany had been divided into four parts after the Second World War, each part governed by a different Allied nation—the United States, England, France, and the Soviet Union. They’d similarly divided up the German capital, Berlin.

      But the alliance soured fast after Soviet leader Joseph Stalin effectively took control of all the countries east of Germany, as well as a big chunk of Germany itself, now known as East Germany.

      So the other three powers remained huddled in the three quarters of Berlin that had been given to them, surrounded on all sides by the new country of the German Democratic Republic, or East Germany as Westerners liked to call it.

      The man now in charge of that country, Walter Ulbricht, had been tight with Stalin, and even more than the Soviets, maintained rigid control of every aspect of daily life—from the price of bread to what people could read and say.

      Well, that was glum, restricting, and oddly familiar. Pagan’s biggest hit, Beach Bound Beverly, would never have been made in East Germany—too frivolous. Also, the East German government spied on its citizens all the time, so even if you managed to get your hands on something “decadent” like a Dior suit dress, you could never wear it out or the government would punish you.

      This Walter Ulbricht guy sounded a lot like a balding, grumpy version of Mama.

      Pagan giggled, then caught herself guiltily. Mama had been warm as well as firm, and Pagan loved her. The world had seemed to bow to Mama’s control. Pagan had been safe with her around, and Mama had taught her many useful ways in which to navigate the strange world of Hollywood. That was one of many reasons her suicide had cast Pagan so adrift.

      But Mama had been a perfectionist—overseeing Pagan’s every word and gesture, grooming her meticulously for success, managing every tiny detail of her career. Pagan had barely been allowed to breathe out of her mother’s sight. As long as Pagan was perfect, the family would get to keep their fine house in the Hollywood Hills, and Mama would be happy. One mistake could ruin them.

      All of that effort had paid off. Pagan had become a star. She hadn’t made any mistakes until Mama died. After that it had been the secret stashes of alcohol that soothed her anxieties instead of her mother’s firm hand on her shoulder.

      Maybe Ulbricht’s approach was paying off for East Germany, too. Maybe he loved his people the way Mama had loved Pagan. Pagan couldn’t be sure, but she doubted it. You couldn’t mold millions of people the way you could your own child.

      It was for the best that Mama hadn’t been in charge of an entire country. Every little girl would have been forced to walk for thirty minutes each day with a book on her head, and every husband would have been lectured regularly on how to fold the morning newspaper just so.

      Hours passed, and Devin sat next to her the whole way. He never seemed to sleep. She would nod off, then jerk up her head to find him alert and reading the latest editions of the New York and London newspapers. He was polite; he knew when to speak and when to be quiet, but he was there.

      They changed planes in Frankfurt to Air France, one of the airlines with permission to fly into Berlin’s Tegel airport. By then Pagan was so tired and grumpy, the plane could have been a flying palace and she would have found something to complain about. Devin Black just kept reading, taking one of the German language journals from the stewardess with a smile. By the time they reached Berlin, fatigue had smudged dark circles under his eyes, but he seemed alert. Pagan decided he was either a robot or one of the aliens from Invaders from Mars.

      Tegel airport had a dreary, military air, and men in French uniforms stamped their passports. A chauffeur was waiting in a large Mercedes-Benz. The sight of the car set off the usual jitters in Pagan, echoes of the accident, but as she had with the cab to LAX, she shoved them into a dark corner of her mind and made herself get in. As they left the airport with the rising sun at their backs, her nerves calmed and she could look around.

      The car sped down a tree-lined road with the blue-gray River Spree on the left. The streets were busy with foot traffic, motorcycles, and cars, but Pagan couldn’t help noticing the number of armed men in uniform either walking or stationed on various street corners. A vivid reminder that West Berlin was a lone island surrounded on all sides by the hostile Communist East Germany.

      “We’re in the French sector of the city at the moment,” Devin said. “But we’re staying in the American sector at the new Hilton. It’s very close to the Tiergarten, which has grown back nicely since the war—”

      “It sounds lovely.” She interrupted him in a repressive tone. “Perhaps after I’ve gotten some rest far away from you, I’ll give a damn.”

      “You can rest,” he said, his voice calm in a way that only irritated her more. “But I won’t be far away.”

      She turned to look at him. “What does that mean?”

      “It means I can’t trust you.” His voice was bland, but his face carried a warning.

      “I never promised you anything—” she started to say.

      “You signed a contract,” he said, voice getting sharper, “which includes a clause stating that you have a guardian, with all the authority of a parent. Deviate from my orders and you could go back to prison.”

      “I’m not your child,” she said, just as sharp. “Or your slave, or your wife.”

      “You’re my ward,” he said. “You’re on parole, and it’s very easy for me to make a call to the judge.”

      She lapsed into fuming silence, her head abuzz with fatigue and fury. Maybe some of this was her fault. Fine. But why, when boys broke the rules, did they get called “rebels” and “hotheads,” while girls were “bad”? Pagan being a nice little girl hadn’t kept Mama from dying, so she’d done what she wanted after that. She saw no reason to change now.

      There had to be a way out from this new Devin-bound prison, an escape. That’s what alcohol had always provided, and without that tool available to her, she had to find a new way to be free.

      Devin had too much power over her. But he also had secrets­—there was more to him than just some minor studio executive. If she could decrypt the riddle that was Devin Black, she might find her freedom that way.

      They drove past a crowd of people lining up in front of a warehouse-like building. Thousands of men and women in neat summer clothes were carrying suitcases and shepherding children. Pagan remembered what she’d read about the mass exodus of people from East Berlin and craned her neck to see if these were indeed immigrants from East Berlin. No way was she going to ask Devin a question now. She glimpsed a sign: Réfugiés/Flüchtling.

      “That’s the French sector processing center for refugees,” Devin said as if she’d asked him aloud. His voice was friendly as ever. “The city gets nearly two thousand a day. The other borders with East Germany are closed, so Berlin’s the last place of escape. For now.”

      She didn’t reply as the car entered a wooded area. Up ahead loomed a column that glinted gold on top. She leaned forward to look up at it through the windshield and caught sight of a glittering winged statue with arms outstretched.

      “The Victory Column,” Devin said, still in his best tourist guide voice. “But the Berliners call it Goldenelse—Golden Lizzy. The