Genuine Lies

by Nora Roberts

  with.” Taking her hand, he kissed her fingers gently. “At least I’ll go home confident that tonight you’ll think of me.”

  “Since I’ll be working for another hour, I’m afraid I won’t.”

  “Oh, you’ll think of me,” he told her as he strolled to the door. “And you’ll miss me.”

  She nearly smiled when he closed the door behind him. The hell of it was, he was right.

  It was good to be back in harness again. For Eve, there was nothing quite like filming to jolt the mind and body to full alert. Even preproduction work was its own kind of arousal, a long and incredible foreplay to the climax of performing for the camera.

  This kind of lovemaking involved hundreds of people, and it pleased her when she recognized some of the faces. The grips, the gaffers, the property men, the sound crew, even those assistants to the assistants. She didn’t think of them so much as family, but as participants in an orgy of work that, if done well, could result in intense satisfaction.

  She had always been cooperative and patient with the technicians she’d worked with—unless they were slow, incompetent, or lazy. Her ease and lack of arrogance had earned her the affection of crews for half a century.

  As a matter of professional pride, Eve would tolerate hours of makeup and hairdressing without complaint. She detested the whiners. She was never late for a wardrobe fitting or rehearsal. When necessary—and it had often been necessary— she would stand in the blazing sun or shiver in the rain while a shot was being reset.

  There were some directors who considered her difficult to work with, for she was not a complacent puppet who danced at the pull of a string. She questioned, argued, insulted, and challenged. By her own count, she had been right as often as wrong. But there was no director, no honest one, who would label her unprofessional. When action was called, Eve Benedict hit her marks. She was usually the first off book, with her lines fully memorized—and when the lights were on and the cameras rolling, she slipped into character as effortlessly as a woman might step into a bubble bath.

  Now, after nearly a week of last-minute meetings, script changes, photo sessions, and fittings, she was ready for some meat. She sat, smoking and silent, while her wig was arranged. Today they would rehearse, full costume, the ball scene where Eve’s character, Marilou, met Peter Jackson’s Robert.

  Due to a scheduling conflict, the prior blocking and choreography had been done with Jackson’s stand-in. Eve knew the actor was in the studio now. Several of the females on set had been murmuring about him.

  When he walked in, she understood why. The dynamic sexuality she’d seen onscreen was as much a part of the real man as the color of his eyes. The tux showed off his broad-shouldered build to perfection. Since he’d be required to go shirtless through much of the film, Eve imagined that beneath silk and studs he had the chest for it. His rich blond hair was unstyled and added a touch of little-boy appeal. His eyes, heavy lidded and tawny, added straight sex.

  Eve knew his bio listed him at thirty-two. It could be true, she thought, getting her first good look at him.

  “Miss Benedict.” He stopped beside her, smooth voice, silky manners, sexuality purring in neutral. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. An honor to have the chance to work with you.”

  She extended a hand, and wasn’t disappointed when he lifted it gallantly to his lips. A scoundrel, she thought, and smiled. Maybe those weeks in Georgia wouldn’t be so trying after all. “You’ve done some interesting work, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Thank you.” When he grinned, Eve thought—oh, yes, a scoundrel. The kind every woman needs in her life at least once. “I have to confess, Miss Benedict. When I learned you’d accepted the part of Marilou, I was torn between ecstasy and terror. I still am.”

  “It’s always gratifying to keep a man on the point between ecstasy and terror. Tell me, Mr. Jackson …” She picked up another cigarette and tapped it gently against the dressing table. “Are you good enough to convince the audience that a virile, ambitious man could be completely seduced by a woman nearly twice his age?”

  His eyes never left hers as he took a book of matches, striking one, letting the flame flare, then leaning close to touch it to the end of the cigarette. “That, Miss Benedict, will be”—over the small, hot fire, the look held—“effortless.”

  She felt the quick tug, the frisson of animal excitement. “And are you a method actor, darling?”

  “Absolutely.” He blew the match out.

  Her body might have been tired, but her mind was very much alert when Eve returned home. The tingle, the one she felt whenever anticipating an affair, kept the blood moving. Peter Jackson, she was sure, would make an interesting and inventive lover.

  Starting up the stairs, she called, “Nina dear, ask the cook to fix me some red meat. I feel like a carnivore.”

  “Would you like it brought up?”

  “I’ll let you know.” Eve lifted a brow when she saw Travers on the landing.

  “It’s Mr. Flannigan,” Travers told her. “He’s waiting in the back parlor. He’s been drinking.”

  Eve hesitated only a moment, then continued up. “Have the cook serve up two portions of red meat, Nina. We’ll take it in the parlor. And light a fire, dear, will you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell Victor I’ll be with him directly.”

  She took nearly an hour, selfishly, needing the time to gird herself for whatever trouble waited. There had always been trouble waiting with Victor.

  Victor Flannigan was still as married as he had been a lifetime before. He could not, or would not, leave his wife Over the years Eve had battled, raged, wept, and ultimately accepted that unmovable wall of matrimony as seen through the eyes of Victor’s church. She could not give him up, this man who had made her weep as no other man had.

  Christ knew she’d tried, Eve thought as she slipped on scarlet silk robe. Marrying again and again—taking lovers, didn’t matter. With her head back, her eyes closed, she spritzed perfume down the column of her neck, then slowly fastened the ornate gold frogs so that the scent would breathe its warm breath through the silk.

  She had been Victor Flannigan’s woman since the first day she’d met him. She would die Victor Flannigan’s woman. There were worse fates in life.

  She found him pacing in the parlor, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He filled the room as he filled his suit. With arrogance and style. She’d always felt it was only men who lacked the latter who made the former unpalatable.

  He could have come upstairs, confronted her in the bedroom with whatever was troubling him. But Victor had always respected her work without question, and her privacy when she’d requested it.

  “I should have known you’d fall off the wagon and land on my doorstep.” Her voice was mild, without censure.

  “I’ll pay tomorrow.” Even as he gulped another shot of fire, he wished he could set the glass aside. “Irish genes, Eve. All Irishmen love their mothers and a good glass of whiskey. My mother’s dead, God rest her. But there’ll always be whiskey.” He took out a cigarette because the act forced him to put the glass down for a moment.

  “I’m sorry I kept you.” She walked to the bar and opened the compact refrigerator. It took only a moment for her to decide to open a full bottle of champagne rather than a split. It looked like a long night. “I wanted to wash the day’s work off.”

  He watched as she competently opened the bottle so that the cork eased out with a muffled pop. “You look beautiful, Eve. Soft, sexy, sure.”

  “I am soft, sexy, and sure.” She smiled as she poured the first glass. “Aren’t those three reasons you love me?”

  With a jerk, he turned his back to stand before the fire Nina had kindled. Between the flames and the liquor, he imagined he could see his life pass before his eyes. In nearly every frame of the long, long film, there was Eve.

  “Christ, I do love you. More than any sane man should. If all I had to do was kill to have you, it would be easy.”

&nbs
p; It wasn’t his drinking that disturbed her, but the desperate tone in his voice she knew had nothing to do with Irish genes or Irish whiskey. “What it is, Victor? What’s happened?”

  “Muriel’s been hospitalized again.” The thought of his wife sent him back for the glass of whiskey, and the bottle.

  “I’m sorry.” Eve laid a hand over his, not to stop him but to offer as she always had—always would—all the comfort she could. “I know what hell it is for you, but you can’t continually blame yourself.”

  “Can’t I?” He poured and drank deliberately, with desperation and without enjoyment. Eve knew he wanted to get drunk. Needed to. And the hell with tomorrow’s payment. “She still blames me, Eve, and why shouldn’t she? If I had been there, if I had been with her when she went into labor instead of off in London shooting a fucking movie, we might all be free today.”

  “That was almost forty years ago,” Eve said impatiently. “Isn’t that enough penance for any God, for any church? And your being there wouldn’t have saved the baby.”

  “I’ll never be sure.” And because of that, he’d never found absolution. “She laid there for hours before she managed to call for help. Goddamm it, Eve, she should never have gotten pregnant in the first place, not with her physical problems.”

  “It was her choice,” Eve snapped. “And it’s an old story.”

  “The beginning of everything—or the end of it. Losing the baby broke her until she was as delicate mentally as she was physically. Muriel’s never gotten over the loss of the child.”

  “Or let you. I’m sorry, Victor, but it hurts me, it infuriates me to watch her make you suffer for something that was beyond your control. I know she’s not well, but I find her illness a poor excuse for ruining your life. And mine,” she added bitterly. “By God, and mine.”

  He looked at her, troubled gray eyes seeing the pain in hers and the wasted years between them. “It’s hard for a strong woman to sympathize with a weak one.”

  “I love you. I hate what she’s done to you. And to me.” She shook her head before he could speak. Again her hands reached out to cover his. This ground had been well trod. It was fruitless to drag their heels over it again. “I’ll survive. I have and will. But I’d like to believe that before I die I’d see you happy. Truly happy.”

  Unable to answer, he squeezed her fingers, drawing what he needed from the contact. After forcing himself to take several long breaths, he was able to tell her the worst of his fears. “I’m not sure she’ll pull out of this one. She took Seconal.”

  “Oh, God.” Thinking only of him, she wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, Victor, I’m so sorry.”

  He wanted to burrow against her, against that soft sympathy—and the want sliced at him because he could still see his wife’s colorless face. “They pumped her out, but she’s in a coma.” He scrubbed at his face, but couldn’t wipe away the weariness. “I’ve had her transferred, discreetly, to Oak Terrace.”

  Eve saw Nina come to the door, and shook her head. Dinner would wait. “When did all this happen, Victor?”

  “I found her this morning.” He didn’t resist when Eve took his arm and led him to a chair. He settled there, before the fire, with his lover’s scent and his own guilt hammering at his senses. “In her bedroom. She’d put on the lace peignoir I’d bought her for our twenty-fifth anniversary, when we’d tried, again, to put things back together. She’d made up her face. It’s the first time I’d seen her in lipstick for over a year.” He leaned forward, burying his head in his hands while Eve massaged his shoulders. “She was clutching the little white booties she’d knitted for the baby. I thought I’d gotten rid of all those things, but she must have hidden them somewhere. The bottle of pills was beside the bed, with a note.”

  Behind them the fire crackled, full of life and heat.

  “It said that she was tired, that she wanted to be with her little girl.” He sat back, groping for Eve’s hand. “The worst of it was, we’d argued the night before. She’d gone out to meet someone, she wouldn’t tell me who. But whoever it was had gotten her stirred up about your book. When she got home she was wild, in a dangerous rage. I was to stop you, I had to stop you. She would not have her humiliations and tragedies put into print. The only thing she’d ever asked of me was that I keep my sinful relationship private and spare her the pain of exposure. Hadn’t she honored her vows? Hadn’t she nearly died trying to give me a child?”

  And hadn’t she chained a man to her in a loveless, destructive marriage for nearly fifty years? Eve thought. She could feel no sympathy, no guilt, and no regret for Muriel Flannigan. And beneath the love she felt for Victor was a resentment that he should wish her to.

  “It was an ugly scene,” he continued. “With her damning my soul and yours to hell, calling on the Virgin for strength.”

  “Good Christ.”

  He managed a wan smile. “You have to understand, she means it. If anything’s kept her alive these past years, it’s been her faith. It’s even kept her calm most of the time. But the book, the idea of it, sent her over the edge into a seizure.”

  He closed his eyes a moment. The image of his wife writhing on the floor, her eyes rolled back, her body bucking, made his skin clammy.

  “I called for the nurse. She and I were able to give Muriel the medication. When we finally got her to bed, she was quiet, weepy, apologetic. She clung to me awhile, begging me to protect her. From you. The nurse sat up with her until dawn. Sometime after that and before I checked on her at ten, she took the pills.”

  “I’m very sorry, Victor.” She had her arms around him now, her face pressed to his, rocking, rocking, as she would a small child. “I wish there was something I could do.”

  “You can.” He put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her back. “You can tell me that whatever you have written, you won’t include our relationship.”

  “How can you say such a thing?” She jerked away, amazed that after all these years, after all the pain, he could still hurt her.

  “I have to ask you that, Eve. Not for myself. God knows not for myself. For Muriel. I’ve taken enough from her. We’ve taken enough from her. If she lives, this would be more than she could survive.”

  “For nearly half of my life Muriel has held the upper hand.”

  “Eve—”

  “No, dammit.” She swooped back to the bar to slop champagne in her glass. Her hands were shaking. By God, she thought, there wasn’t another man on earth who could make her tremble. She wished she could have hated him for it. “I’ve taken from her?” Her voice cut the air between them like a scapel, separating it into two equal parts that could never, never make one whole. “My God, what a crock. She’s been your wife, the woman you’ve felt obligated to spend Christmas with, the woman you’ve had in your home night after night while I’ve been forced to live with whatever’s left over.”

  “She’s my wife,” he said quietly while shame gnawed at him. “You’re the woman I’ve loved.”

  “Do you think that makes it easier, Victor?” How much easier, she wondered bitterly, was it to swallow a handful of pills? To end all pain, to erase all mistakes instead of facing them. “She had your name, carried your child inside her in front of the world. And I have your secrets, your needs.”

  It shamed him that he’d never been able to give her more. It ripped at him that he’d never been able to take more. “If I could change things—”

  “You can’t,” she interrupted. “And neither can I. This book is vital to me. Something I cannot and will not turn away from. To ask me to do so is to ask me to turn away from my life.”

  “I’m only asking you to keep our part of it ours.”

  “Ours?” she repeated on a laugh. “Yours, mine, and Muriel’s. Plus all the others we’ve taken into our confidence over the years. Trusted servants and friends, self-righteous priests who lecture and absolve.” She made an effort to beat back the worst of her anger. “Don’t you know the saying that a secret can be kept by thre
e people only if two of them are dead?”

  “It doesn’t have to be made public.” He rose, snatching at his glass. “You don’t have to put it in print and sell it at any bookstore … or supermarket!”

  “My life is public, and you’ve been a part of that life for nearly half of it. Not for you, not for anyone will I censor it.”

  “You’ll destroy us, Eve.”

  “No. I thought that once, a long time ago.” The last of the anger drained out of her as she looked down into the bubbles dancing in her glass, and remembered. “I’ve come to believe I was wrong then. The decision I made was … incorrect. I might have liberated us.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She smiled secretively. “Right now it only matters that I do.”

  “Eve.” He tried to bury his own anger as he crossed to her. “We’re not children any longer. Most of our lives are behind us. The book won’t make any difference to you or to me. But for Muriel, it could be the difference between a few years of peace, or of hell.”

  And what of my hell? The question raced through her mind, but she wouldn’t voice it. “She’s not the only one who’s had to live with loss and pain, Victor.”

  His face ruddy with emotion, he pushed himself out of the chair. “She might be dying.”

  “We’re all dying.”

  The muscles in his jaw worked. At his sides his big hands closed into fists. “Christ, I’d forgotten how cold you can be.” “Then it’s best you remember.” Yet she put a hand over his and it was warm and soft and loving. “You should go to your wife, Victor. I’ll still be here when you need me.”

  He turned his hand over, held hers tight for a moment, then left.

  Eve stood for a long time in a room that smelled of woodsmoke and whiskey and packed-away dreams. But when the decision was made, she moved quickly.

  “Nina! Nina, have someone bring my meal to the guest house.”