to do with Natasha's death, because there were other paragraphs in Natasha's journal that had spoken of their great love. And Wallace was the only one who had hired a private investigator.
Her grandfather had told her to remind Wallace of his great love for Natasha, that that was the only way she would be able to get his help, so that's what she would do.
Seeing several speculative gazes turning in her direction, Maya moved across the room, pulling out the chair across from Wallace and sitting down.
He gave her a startled look. "Who are you?"
"I'm Natasha Petrova's granddaughter, Maya Ashton. I need a few minutes of your time, Mr. Jagger."
His face paled, and his brown eyes darkened with what appeared to be pain. "You're the girl who has been calling my house."
"Yes. I'm making a movie about Natasha's life, and I need your help."
"I'm not interested in talking about her."
"I realize that discussing her might be painful, but I want to tell her story, and you were a big part of her life. I only know bits and pieces from her journal. I'm hoping you can fill in some of the blanks."
His gaze widened. "Her journals? What journals?"
"She kept diaries throughout her life, starting as a teenager. She wrote during her marriage to my grandfather, to you, and up until her death. You didn't know that?"
He stared back at her. "I remember her writing sometimes, but I didn't pay much attention. You have these journals?"
"I do."
"What did she say about me?"
Maya chose her words carefully. "She said she fell in love with you at first sight, that you had a really intense gaze that made her feel both cherished and nervous."
As Wallace gazed back at her, she could see what her grandmother had meant. There was a mix of emotions in his eyes and one of those emotions was anger. A shiver ran down her spine. Wallace was seventy-six years old, but he didn't seem feeble or weak, but rather dark and a bit dangerous.
He'd been a shark in his younger years, ruthless and bold. He'd built first a talent agency and then a media company that had not only created superstars but had on occasion destroyed people.
"Natasha made me nervous, too," he said, surprising her with his words. "She was so beautiful—exotic, mysterious, passionate—but she had her secrets, and I could never get to them."
"What kind of secrets?"
"I don't know. I just knew she held a part of herself back. But she did that with everyone." He cleared his throat. "What do you want to know?"
"I'd love to know about your marriage, how you met, why your relationship ended."
"That's not really why you're here," he said harshly. "You want to know who killed Natasha."
She flinched inwardly at his sharp words but didn't look away. "Yes, I want to know that. You hired a private investigator after she died. His report was inconclusive."
"Yes, it was, but that didn't change my mind. However, I have no idea who killed her, so if you think I can give you that answer, I can't. Maybe your grandfather knows, or your father. I assume you're Rex's daughter."
"Yes."
"What do they have to say?"
"My father was a teenager when Natasha died. My grandfather has had his suspicions for years, but he could never get to the truth. He's hoping I can do that."
"What makes you think you can?"
"Because I'm willing to talk to everyone, and my grandfather was not. He didn't want to speak to you or to Constantine or to anyone who he thought Natasha loved more than him. And I'm guessing you felt the same way. Am I wrong?" she challenged. "Did you try to work with anyone else in Natasha's life to get to the truth?"
"I didn't know who I could trust. Neither do you."
"That's the point. I don't have to trust anyone. I can be an objective investigator."
"You don't think the police were objective?"
"Were they?" she countered. "I read the reports. It felt like they didn't ask a lot of questions."
Wallace's gaze shifted as a man came over to the table. He appeared to be in his late forties, with dark hair, dark eyes and a suspicious glint in his eyes.
"Your opponents are getting prettier," the man said, but there wasn't as much charm in his cool smile as there was in his words.
"She's not an opponent, just…an old friend," Wallace said.
"She doesn't look that old. And I'm surprised I haven't met an old friend of my father's," he said pointedly.