by Nora Roberts
around?”
“I didn’t see much need for it.” Settling back, Paul scanned the room. “Once they see she’s sitting with you, they’ll figure it out and introduce themselves.”
He was exactly right. Before Drake returned with the wine, people began to trickle over. All through dinner, Eve sat like a queen granting audience as other luminaries table-hopped, always making their way to her throne. As crème brulée was served, a thin-haired, amazingly fat man waddled over.
Anthony Kincade, Eve’s second husband, had not weathered well. In the past two decades he had put on so much weight that he resembled an unsteady mountain crammed into a tux. Each wheezing breath caused an avalanche of flab to jiggle over his stomach. The journey across the room had turned his face the bright pink of a two-day sunburn. Jowls waggled, and his trio of chins swayed in tandem.
He’d gone from being a husky, literate director of major films to an obese, weedling director of minor ones. Most of his wealth had been amassed in the fifties and sixties in real estate. Lazy at heart, he was content to sit on his comfortable portfolio and eat.
Just looking at him made Eve shudder to think she’d been married to him for five years. “Tony.”
“Eve.” He leaned heavily on her chair, waiting for air to fight its way into his lungs. “What’s this crap I hear about a book?”
“I don’t know, Tony. You tell me.” She remembered what fine eyes he’d once had. Now they were buried under layers of flesh. His hand pressed on the back of her chair—a thick meat patty with five stubby sausages. Once those hands had been big and bruising and demanding. They had known and enjoyed every inch of her body. “You know Paul and Drake.” She reached for a cigarette to coat some of the bile in her throat with smoke. “And this is Julia Summers, my biographer.”
He turned. “Be careful what you write.” With his breath back, his voice had a hint of the full-throated power of his youth. “I for one have enough money and enough lawyers to keep you in court for the rest of your life.”
“Don’t threaten the girl, Tony,” Eve said mildly. It didn’t surprise her that Nina had come to the table to stand silently at her other side, ready to protect. “It’s rude. And remember”— she deliberately aimed a stream of smoke toward his face— “Julia can’t write what I don’t tell her.”
He clamped a hand on Eve’s shoulder, hard enough to have Paul starting out of his chair before Eve waved him down again. “Dangerous ground, Eve.” Kincade sucked in another spoonful of air. “You’re too old to take risks.”
“I’m too old not to take them,” she corrected him. “Relax, Tony, I don’t intend for Julia to write a word that isn’t the sterling truth.” Though she was quite sure her shoulder would ache in the morning, she lifted her glass. “A good dose of honesty never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.”
“Truth or lies,” he murmured. “It’s a long-standing tradition to kill the messenger.” With that, he left them, weaving his way through the crowd.
“Are you all right?” Nina murmured. Though she kept a placid smile on her face as she leaned over, Julia could see the concern in her eyes.
“Of course. Jesus, what a disgusting slug.” Eve tossed back champagne and grimaced at her crème brulée. The visit had ruined her appetite. “Hard to believe that thirty years ago he was a vital, interesting man.” A glance at Julia made her laugh. “My dear child, I can see those literary wheels turning.
We’ll talk about Tony,” she promised, patting Julia’s hand. “Very soon.”
The wheels were turning. Julia sat silently through the after-dinner talks, the comedy act, the glossy production number. Anthony Kincade hadn’t been annoyed by the possibility that Eve would reveal their private marital secrets. He’d been furious. And threatening. And there was little doubt in her mind that his reaction had pleased Eve enormously.
The reactions of the men at the table had been just as telling. Paul had been ready to haul Kincade off by his flabby nape. The man’s age and health would have made no difference. The flash of violence had been very real and very shocking when it had sprung from a man sipping champagne from a tulip glass and wearing a tux.
Drake had watched, taking in every detail. And he had smiled. Julia had the impression that he would have continued to sit, continued to smile if Kincade had wrapped his beefy fingers around Eve’s throat.
“You’re thinking too much.”
Julia blinked, then focused on Paul. “What?”
“You’re thinking too much,” he repeated. “We’ll dance.” Rising, he pulled her to her feet. “I’ve been told when I’ve got my arms around a woman she finds it hard to think at all.”
“How did you manage to tuck that ego in your tux without it showing?”
He joined other couples on the dance floor, then gathered Julia close. “Practice. Years of practice.” He smiled down at her, pleased by the way she fit into his arms, excited by the fact that the dress dipped in the back, low enough so he could slide his hand up and touch her flesh. “You take yourself too seriously.” She had the loveliest jaw, he thought. Very firm, slightly pointed. If they had been alone, he would have given himself the pleasure of taking a couple of gentle nips at it. “When you’re living in fantasyland, you should go with the flow.”
There was no dignified way she could tell him to stop skimming those fingers over her back. There was certainly no safe way to admit what the sensation was doing to the inside of her body. Like tiny electric currents, they set off a charge that had her blood sizzling.
She knew what it was to want. And she didn’t choose to want again.
“Why do you stay here?” she asked. “You could write anywhere.”
“Habit.” He glanced over her shoulder toward their table. “Eve,” When she started to speak again, he shook his head. “More questions. I must not be doing this right, because you’re still thinking.” His solution was to draw her closer so that she was forced to turn her head to avoid his mouth. “You remind me of taking tea on the terrace of an estate in the English countryside. Devon, I think.”
“Why?”
“Your scent.” His lips teased her ear and sent out shock waves. “Erotic, ethereal, cunningly romantic.”
“Imagination,” she murmured, but her eyes were drifting closed. “I’m none of those things.”
“Right. A hardworking single parent with a practical bent. Why did you study poetry at Brown?”
“Because I enjoyed it.” She caught herself before her fingers could tangle in the tips of his hair. “Poetry is very structured.”
“Imagery, emotion, and romance.” He drew back far enough to look at her, close enough that she could see her reflection captured in his eyes. “You’re a fraud, Jules. A complex, fascinating fraud.”
Before she could think of a response, Drake strolled up and tapped Paul’s shoulder. “You don’t mind sharing the wealth, do you?”
“Yes, I do.” But he backed off.
“How are you settling in?” Drake asked as he picked up the rhythm of the dance.
“Fine.” She felt an immediate sense of relief and wondered that she could have forgotten how different one man’s arms could be from another.
“Eve tells me you’re making considerable progress. She’s had an amazing life.”
“Yes, putting it on paper will be a challenge.” He moved her gracefully across the floor, smiling and nodding at acquaintances. “What angle are you shooting for?” “Angle?”
“Everyone has an angle.”
She was sure he did, but merely tilted her head. “Biographies are pretty straightforward.”
“The tone, then. Are you going for a year-by-year foray into the life a star?”
“It’s early to say, but I think I’ll be taking the obvious approach, writing about the life of a woman who chose a demanding career and made herself a success, a lasting success. The fact that Eve is still a major force in the industry after nearly fifty years speaks for itself.”
“So
you’ll concentrate on the professional end.”
“No.” He was digging, she realized, carefully but deep. “Her professional and personal lives are interlinked. Her relationships, marriage, family, are all vital to the whole. I’ll need not only Eve’s memories, but documented facts, opinions, anecdotes from people she was or is close to.”
A different tact, he decided. “You see, Julia, I have a problem. If you could keep me abreast of the book, the content, as you went along, I’d be able to plan the press releases, the hype, and promotion.” He offered her a smile. “We all want the book to be a hit.”
“Naturally. I’m afraid there’s little I can tell you.”
“But you will cooperate as the book takes shape?”
“As much as possible.”
She dismissed the conversation as the night wore on. There was still enough starry-eyed girl inside Julia to be rattled when she was asked by Victor to dance, and by other of the flesh-and-blood counterparts to the shadows that flickered on movie screens.
There were dozens of impressions and observations she wanted to write down before the evening faded to a dream. Sleepy, more relaxed than she’d thought possible, she slipped back into Paul’s car at two A.M.
“You enjoyed yourself,” he commented.
She lifted a shoulder. She wasn’t going to let that trace of amusement in his voice spoil her evening. “Yes, why not?”
“That was a statement, not a criticism.” He glanced toward her and saw that her eyes were half closed and there was a slight smile on her lips. The questions he’d wanted to ask seemed inappropriate. There would be other times. Instead, he let her doze through the ride.
By the time he pulled up in front of the guest house, she was sound asleep. With a little sigh, Paul took out a cigar and sat smoking, and watching her.
Julia Summers was a challenge. Hell, she was a paradox. There was nothing Paul liked better than tugging on the threads of a mystery. He’d intended to get close to her, to make certain Eve’s best interests were protected. But … He smiled as he pitched the cigar out of the window. But there was no law that said he couldn’t enjoy the proximity while he was at it.
He brushed a hand over her hair, and she murmured. He traced a fingertip down her cheek, and she sighed.
Thrown off by the stirring in his gut, he pulled back, tried to think it through. Then, as had been his habit most of his life, he did what he wanted to do. He covered her mouth with his as she slept.
Soft and lax in sleep, her lips yielded beneath his, slipped apart as he traced their shape with his tongue. Now he tasted her sigh as well as heard it. The punch of sensation slapped into his system, leaving him straining for more. His hands itched to touch, to take, but he curled them into fists and contented himself with her mouth.
There were some rules that weren’t meant to be broken.
She was dreaming, a glorious, heavenly dream. Floating down a long, quiet river. Drifting with the current, dozing on cool blue water. The sun rained down on her in golden streams, warm, healing, compassionate.
Her mind, hazy with fatigue and wine, gave only minimal effort to clearing the mists. It was much too comfortable in dreams.
But the sun heated, the current quickened. Excitement bounced like tiny red-tipped sparks along her skin.
Her mouth moved under his, then parted on a groan so that he was invited in. Without hesitation he slid his tongue over hers and was driven half mad by her lazily seductive response. With a quiet oath he nipped her bottom lip. Julia shot awake, stunned and stirred.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She pushed herself back in the seat and shoved at him in one indignant move. When the heel of her hand connected with his breastbone, he realized how much stronger she was than she appeared to be.
“Satisfying my curiosity. And getting us both in trouble.”
She snatched the purse off her lap but managed not to smash it into his face. Words were better. “I had no idea you were so desperate, or so lacking in conscience. Forcing yourself on a woman while she sleeps takes a special kind of perversion.”
His eyes narrowed, flashed, and darkened. When he spoke, his voice was deceptively mild. “It was a long way from force, but you may have a point.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he hauled her against him. “But you’re awake now.”
This time his mouth wasn’t soft or seducing, but hot and hard. She could taste the anger, the frustration. And desire shot like a bullet through her.
She needed. She’d forgotten what it was like to really need. To thirst for a man the way one thirsted for water. Her defenses in shambles, she was assaulted by sensations, longings, desires. The barrage left her weak enough to cling to him, hungry enough to plunge greedily into the kiss and take.
Her arms were around him, binding them together like rope. Her mouth—God, her mouth was urgent and frantic and hot. He could feel the quick, helpless tremors that coursed down her body, hear her shuddering breaths. He forgot to be angry, and frustration was ripped apart by edgy blades of passion. That left only desire.
His fingers dived into her hair, curled tight. He wanted her here, in the front seat of the car. She made him feel like a teenager fumbling for skill, like a stallion quivering to mate. And like a man rushing headlong over the verge of safety into the unknown.
“Inside.” He could hear his own blood pump as his mouth raced over her face. “Let me take you inside. To bed.”
When his teeth scraped lightly down her throat she nearly cried out with need. But she struggled back. Responsibility. Order. Caution. “No.” She called out years of restraint, spiced with painful memories, and resisted. “This isn’t what I want.”
When he cupped her face in his hands, he realized he, too, was trembling. “You lie very poorly, Julia.”
She had to regain control. Her fingers closed around her purse like wires as she stared at him. He looked dangerous in the moonlight. Compelling, reckless. Dangerous.
“It’s not what I intend to have,” she said. She reached for the door handle and jerked twice before she managed to unlatch it. “You’ve made a mistake, Paul.” She streaked across the narrow patch of lawn and into the house.
“There’s no doubt about that,” he murmured.
Inside, Julia leaned against the door. She couldn’t go racing upstairs in this state. Taking quiet deep breaths to settle her jackhammering heart, she turned off the light CeeCee had left burning for her and started upstairs. A peek in the spare bedroom showed her that CeeCee was asleep. In the room opposite, she looked in on her son.
That was enough to calm her, enough to assure her she had made the right choice in turning away. Needs, however tumultuous, would never be enough to make her risk what she built. There would be no Paul Winthrops in her life. No smooth lovers who excited, enticed, and walked away. She took a moment to tuck up Brandon’s covers and smooth them before going into her own room.
The shaking started again, and she swore, tossing her purse toward the bed. It slipped off, spilling its contents. Though she was tempted to kick them around the room, she knelt and retrieved the compact, the comb, the slim wallet.
And the folded paper.
Odd, she thought. She didn’t remember putting any paper inside. Once she opened it, she was forced to use the bed as a brace in order to rise.
LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP.
Leaving the scattered contents of her purse on the floor, she sat on the bed. What the hell was this? And what the hell was she going to do about it?
Julia saw Brandon off to school, grateful he was tucked inside the discreet black Volvo with Lyle behind the wheel. Brandon would be safe with him.
Of course there was nothing to worry about. She’d told herself that over and over through the restless night. A couple of foolish anonymous notes couldn’t hurt her—and certainly couldn’t hurt Brandon. But she’d feel better once she’d gotten to the bottom of the whole business. Which was something she intended to do right away.
He
r thoughts veered to how odd she felt watching her little boy drive off to his own world of classrooms and playgrounds where her control didn’t reach.
When the car was out of sight, she shut the door on the early morning chill. Julia could hear CeeCee cheerfully singing along with the radio as she tidied the kitchen. Happy sounds— the rattle of dishes and the young, enthusiastic voice competing with the spice of Janet Jackson’s. Julia didn’t like to admit they bolstered her for the simple reason they meant she wasn’t alone. She carried her half-empty cup into the kitchen for a refill of coffee.
“That was a great breakfast, Ms. Summers.” Her hair scooped back in a bouncy pony tail, CeeCee wiped the counter with a damp cloth while her foot tapped the next top forty hit. “I just can’t imagine someone like you cooking and all.”
Still sleepy-eyed, Julia tipped more coffee in her cup. “Someone like me?”
“Well, famous and everything.”
