by Nora Roberts
only shock and perhaps disapproval. She hadn’t expected to have her own heart twisted.
That was her own arrogance, she reflected. She’d been so certain she could direct the writing of the script and have all the characters take up their assigned roles. Julia…. Julia and the boy didn’t quite fit the parts Eve had cast them in. How the hell could she have anticipated she would begin to care where she had expected only to use?
Then there were the notes. Eve spread them out on her dressing table to study them. Two for her, and two for Julia, so far. All four were in the same block letters, all four trite sayings that could be construed as warnings. Or threats.
Hers had amused her, even encouraged her. After all, she was far beyond the point where anyone could hurt her. But the warnings to Julia changed things. Eve had to find out who was writing them, and put a stop to it.
Her hard, coral-colored nails tapped on the rosewood table. So many people didn’t want her to tell her tales. Wouldn’t it be interesting, wouldn’t it be plain good fun to put as many of those people as possible under the same roof at the same time?
At a knock on her bedroom door Eve swept all of the notes into a drawer of the dressing table. For now they were her secret. Hers and Julia’s.
“Come in.”
“I’ve brought you some tea,” Nina said as she walked in with a tray. “And a few letters you need to sign.”
“Just set the tea by the bed. I’ve got a couple of scripts to look at yet tonight.”
Nina set the Meissen pot and cup on the nightstand. “I thought you were taking some time off after the miniseries.”
“Depends.” Eve took up the pen Nina had brought and dashed her looping signature on the letters without bothering to read them. “Tomorrow’s schedule?”
“Right here.” Always efficient, Nina opened a leather-bound day book. “You have a nine o’clock appointment at Armando’s for the works, one o’clock lunch at Chasen’s with Gloria DuBarry.”
“Ah, yes, hence the works at Armando’s.” Eve grinned and opened a pot of moisturizer. “Wouldn’t want the old bat to spot any new wrinkles.”
“You know you’re very fond of Miss DuBarry.”
“Naturally. And since she’ll be eyeing me over her scrawny salad, I have to look good. When two women of a certain age dine together, Nina, it’s not only for comparisons, but for reassurance. The better I look, the more relieved Gloria will be. The rest?”
“Drinks with Maggie at four. Polo Lounge. Then you’re entertaining Mr. Flannigan here for dinner, at eight.”
“See that the cook prepares manicotti.”
“Already done.” She closed the book. “And she’s making zabaglione for dessert.”
“You’re a treasure, Nina.” Eve studied her own face as she swooped the cream up over her throat, her cheeks, her brow. “Tell me, how soon can we put together a party?”
“Party?” Frowning, Nina opened the book again. “What sort?”
“A large sort. An extravagant sort. Say, two hundred people. Black tie. An orchestra on the lawn, dinner and dancing under the stars. Gushers of champagne—oh, and a few well-heeled members of the press.”
Even as she did mental calculations, Nina flipped through the book. “I suppose if I had a couple of months—”
“Sooner.”
Nina let out a long breath as she thought of frantic calls to caterers, florists, musicians. Well, if she could rent an island, she could do a black tie in under two months. “Six weeks.” She noted Eve’s expression and sighed. “All right, three. We’ll slide it in right before you leave for location.”
“Good. We’ll go over the guest list Sunday.”
“What’s the occasion?” Nina asked, still scribbling in the book.
“The occasion.” Eve smiled as she sat back. In the lighted mirror of the dressing table her face was strong, stunning, and smug. “We’ll call it an opportunity to relive and revive memories. An Eve Benedict retrospective. Old friends, old secrets, old lies.”
Out of habit Nina walked over to pour the tea Eve had forgotten. It wasn’t done in the manner of an employee, but as a longtime relation used to caring for others. “Eve, why are you determined to stir up trouble this way?”
With the deft skill of an artist, Eve dabbed lotion around her eyes. “Life’s so deadly dull without it.”
“I’m serious.” Nina set the cup on the dressing table, among Eve’s lotions and creams. The scent of the room was pure female, not floral or fussy, but mysterious and erotic. “You know—well, I’ve already told you how I feel. And now … Anthony Kincade’s reaction the other night really worried me.”
“Tony’s not worth a moment’s worry.” She patted Nina’s hand before picking up her tea. “He’s slime,” she said mildly, drawing in the subtle scent and taste of jasmine. “And it’s more than past time someone told what perversions he’s tucked in that monstrous body of his.”
“But there are other people.”
“Oh, yes, there are.” She laughed, thinking of several with pleasure. “My life’s been a crazy quilt of events and personalities. All those clever half truths, genuine lies, threading through a fascinating cover, intersecting, linking. The interesting thing is, when you pull one thread, the whole pattern changes. Even the good you do has consequences, Nina. I’m more than ready to face them.”
“Not everyone is as ready as you.”
Eve sipped her tea, watching Nina over the rim of the cup. When she spoke again, her voice was kinder. “The truth isn’t nearly as destructive when it hits the light as a lie that’s hidden in the dark.” She squeezed Nina’s hand. “You shouldn’t worry.”
“Some things are better left alone,” Nina insisted. Eve sighed and set the tea aside. “Trust me. I have reasons for doing what I’m doing.”
Nina managed a nod and a thin smile. “I hope so.” She picked up her day book again and started out. “Don’t read too late. You need your rest.”
After the door shut, Eve looked at her reflection again. “I’ll have plenty of rest, soon enough.”
Julia spent most of Saturday huddled over her work. Brandon was entertained by CeeCee and her young brother, Dustin, referred to by his sister as “mondo brat.” He was the perfect compliment for Brandon’s more internal nature. He said whatever he thought the instant it struck his brain. Without a shy bone in his body, he had no trouble asking, demanding, questioning. Where Brandon could play for hours in absolute and often intense silence, Dustin believed it wasn’t fun unless it was loud.
From her office on the first floor, Julia could hear them bashing and banging in the upstairs bedroom. Whenever it came too close to destructive, CeeCee would shout out from whatever space she was dusting and tidying.
It wasn’t easy to balance the everyday sounds of children playing, the hum of a vacuum cleaner, the bright beat of the music on the radio with the vileness of the story Julia transcribed from tape.
She hadn’t expected ugliness. How to handle it? Eve wanted the unvarnished truth published. Her own insistence on it was the hallmark of her work. Still, was it necessary, or even wise, to dredge up things so painful and so damaging?
It would sell books, she thought with a sigh. But at what cost? She had to remind herself that it wasn’t her job to censor, but to tell the story of this woman’s life, good and bad, tragedy and triumph.
Her own hesitation annoyed her. Whom was she protecting? Certainly not Anthony Kincade. As far as Julia was concerned, he deserved much, much more than the embarrassment and disgrace the written story would bring to him.
Eve. Why did she feel this need to protect a woman she barely knew and didn’t yet understand? If the story was written as Eve had retold it, she wouldn’t emerge undamaged. Hadn’t she admitted to being attracted to that darker, graceless aspect of sex? To being a willing, even eager participant up until that last terrible night. Would people forgive the queen of the screen for that, or for dabbling in drugs?
Perhaps they would.
More to the point, Julia mused, Eve didn’t seem to care. There had been no apology in the retelling, nor any bid for sympathy. As a biographer, it was Julia’s responsibility to tell the story, and to add insights, opinions, feelings. Her instincts told her that Eve’s marriage to Kincade had been one of the experiences that had forged her into the woman she was today.
The book would not be complete or truthful without it.
She forced herself to listen to the tape one more time, making notes on tone of voice, pauses, hesitations. She added her own recollections on how often Eve had sipped from her glass, lifted her cigarette. How the light had come in through the windows, how the smell of sweat had lingered.
This part had to be told in Eve’s voice, Julia decided. Straight dialogue, so that the matter-of-fact tone would add poignancy. She spent almost three hours on this chapter, then went into the kitchen. She wanted to divorce herself from the scene, the memory that was so vivid it seemed too much her own. Since the kitchen was spotless, she couldn’t lose herself in the mindless task of cleaning, so she opted to cook.
Domestic chores never failed to soothe her. During the first few weeks after she’d discovered she was pregnant, Julia had spent endless hours with a cloth and lemon oil patiently, persistently, polishing furniture and woodwork. Of course, clothes had been scattered around her room, shoes lost in the closet. But the furniture had gleamed. Later, she had realized that the monotony of the simple chore had saved her from more than one bout of hysteria.
It was then she had decided, quite calmly, against abortion or adoption, both of which she had seriously, painfully considered. More than ten years later, she knew the choice, for her, had been the right one.
Now she put together one of Brandon’s favorite dishes. Homemade pizza that he had come to take for granted. The extra time and trouble helped her deal with the guilt she often felt during those weeks she was away on tour, and more, for all the times when a book was so involving and immediate that she could do no better than a quick combination of soup and sandwich.
She set the dough aside to rise and began to make the sauce. While she worked she thought of her home in the East. Would her neighbor remember to knock the snow off the yews and junipers? Would she be back in time to start sweet peas and larkspur from seed? Could she manage this spring to get that puppy Brandon so desperately wanted?
Would the nights be as lonely when she returned as they were beginning to be here?
“Something smells good.”
Startled, she glanced toward the kitchen doorway. There was Paul, leaning comfortably against the jamb, his hands in the pockets of snug, faded jeans, a friendly smile on his face. Instantly she was as tense as he was relaxed. Perhaps he had already forgotten the fevered embrace enjoyed at their last meeting. But it had left a mark on Julia.
“CeeCee let me in,” he said when Julia remained silent. “I see you’ve met Dustin, the crown prince of chaos.”
“It’s nice for Brandon to have a friend his own age.” Stiffly, she went back to stirring the sauce.
“Everyone needs a friend,” Paul murmured. “I know that look.” Though her back was to him, she heard the smile in his voice as he came into the room. “You’re waiting for an apology for my … ungentlemanly behavior the other night.” Casually, he brushed fingertips down the length of her neck, exposed as her hair was swept up in an untidy bun. “I can’t accommodate you there, Jules.”
She shrugged off his hand in a move she knew was bad tempered. “I’m not looking for an apology.” Her brows were drawn together as she glanced over her shoulder. “What are you looking for, Paul?”
“Conversation, companionship.” He leaned closer to the pot and sniffed. “Maybe a hot meal.”
When he turned his head, his face was inches from hers. There were twin lights of humor and challenge in his eyes. Damn him, that quick spear of heat jabbed right into her midsection.
“And,” he added, “whatever else I can get.”
She jerked her head around. The spoon clanged against the pot. “I’d think all of those things would be available to you elsewhere.”
“Sure. But I like it here.” In a move too smooth to be threatening, he put his hands on the stove, effectively caging her. “It’s good for my ego to see just how nervous I make you.”
“Not nervous,” she said, having no compunction about the lie. “Annoyed.”
“Either way. It’s a reaction.” He smiled, amused by the knowledge that she would go on stirring the sauce from now until Armageddon rather than turn and chance being caught in his arms. Unless he made her mad enough. “The problem with you, Jules, is you’re too uptight to take a kiss at face value.”
Her teeth set. “I am not uptight.”
“Sure you are.” He sniffed at her hair, deciding it was every bit as enticing as the bubbling herbs. “I did my research, remember? I couldn’t find one man you’ve been linked to seriously in the past decade.”
“My personal life is just that. However many men I chose to include in that life is none of your damn business.”
“Exactly. But it’s so fascinating that the number is zero. My dear Julia, don’t you know there’s nothing more tempting to a man than a woman who holds her passion on a choke chain? We tell ourselves we’ll be the one to make her lose her grip.” Adroitly, he touched his mouth to hers in a brief, arrogant kiss that infuriated rather than stirred. “I can’t resist.”
“Try harder,” she suggested, and nudged him aside.
“I thought about that.” There was a bowl of plump green grapes on the counter. He plucked one and popped it into his mouth. It wasn’t the taste he wanted, but it would do. For now. “Trouble is, I like giving into impulse. You have such pretty feet.”
With a cookie sheet in one hand she turned to stare at him. “What?”
“Whenever I stop by unexpectedly, you’re barefoot.” He leered at her feet. “I had no idea that naked toes could be arousing.”
She didn’t mean to laugh—certainly didn’t want to. But it bubbled out. “If it’ll help things, I’ll start wearing thick socks and heavy shoes.”
“Too late now.” She began to grease the sheet in deft, housewifely moves he found incredibly seductive. “I’d only fantasize about what’s underneath. Are you going to tell me what you’re making?”
“Pizza.”
“I thought that came frozen or in a cardboard box.” “Not around here.”
“If I promise not to nibble on your very attractive toes, will you ask me to lunch?”
She considered, weighing the pros and cons as she preheated the oven, then sprinkled flour on a wooden board. “I’ll ask you to lunch if you agree to answer a few questions honestly.”
He sniffed the sauce again, then gave in to temptation and sampled a bit from the wooden spoon. “Done. Do we get pepperoni?”
“All that and more.”
“I don’t suppose you’d have a beer.”
She began to knead the dough, and he lost track of the question. Though her fingers were deft as a grandmother’s, they didn’t make him think of sturdy old women, but of clever young ones who knew where to touch, and how. She said something, but it passed through his brain without comprehension. It had started as a joke, but now he couldn’t quite understand how watching her perform some ancient female ritual could make his mouth dry.
“Did you change your mind?”
He brought his eyes from her hands to her face. “What?” “I said CeeCee stocked a lot of cold drinks in the fridge. I’m pretty sure there’s a beer.”
“Right.” After clearing his throat, he opened the refrigerator. “Do you want one?”
“Hmm. No. Something soft maybe.”
He took out a bottle of Coors and a bottle of Pepsi. “Hooking up any interviews?”
“Here and there. I talk regularly with Eve, of course. And I’ve spoken with Nina, bounced a few questions off Fritz.”
“Ah, Fritz.” Paul took a quick chug. “The Viking god of health. Wha
t’d you think?”
“I thought he was sweet, dedicated, and gorgeous.”
“Gorgeous?” Brows knit, he lowered the bottle again. “Christ, he’s built like a freight train. Do women really find all those hulking muscles appealing?”
She couldn’t resist. Turning back to him briefly, she smiled. “Honey, we love being taken by a strong man.”
He drank again, scowling a bit, and resisted the urge to test his biceps. “Who else?”
“Who else what?”
“Who else have you talked to?”
Pleased with his reaction, she went back to work. “I have a few appointments next week. Most of the people I’ve been able to contact are being very cooperative.” She smiled to herself as she spread the dough. “I think they’re banking on pumping me for information rather than vice versa.”
That was exactly what he was doing—rather, what he’d intended to do before she’d distracted him. “And how much will you tell them?”
“Nothing they don’t already know. I’m writing Eve Benedict’s biography, with her authorization.” It was easier now, Julia realized, since they were over the awkward hump of what had
