by Nora Roberts
this afternoon.”
“Do you really?”
“Yeah.” He fondled her lightly, smiled. “We can go to the movies.”
“To the movies?”
“Sure, you’ve heard of movies. That’s where people sit down and watch other people pretend they’re other people. What do say, Eve? We’ll catch a matinee, eat some popcorn.”
She considered a moment, then realized it sounded like fun. “You’re on.”
• • •
Julia took off her shoes and let her feet sink into the carpet in her room at the Savoy. It was a small, elegant suite, tastefully appointed. The bellman had been so scrupulously polite when he’d delivered her bags, he’d looked almost apologetic as he’d waited for his tip.
Julia wandered to the window to watch the river and let some of the travel weariness drain away. Nerves would take longer. The flight from L.A. to New York hadn’t been so bad—as far as torture went. But from Kennedy to Heathrow— all those hours over the Atlantic—that had been a sheer and quiet hell.
But she’d gotten through it. And now she was in Britain. And she had the pleasure of reminding herself that Julia Summers was staying at the Savoy.
It still surprised her that she could afford such tony surroundings. But it was a good feeling, that surprise, telling her she hadn’t forgotten what it was to earn, to climb, or to need.
The city lights winked at her on this March night. It was as if she were in someone else’s dream, all that velvet darkness, the misty slice of moon, the shadow of water. And so warm here, so blissfully quiet. After one huge yawn, Julia turned away from the window, from the lights. Adventures would have to wait for the morning.
She unpacked only what she needed for the night, and was deep in her own dreams within twenty minutes.
In the morning she stepped out of a cab in Knightsbridge and paid off the driver, knowing she was overtipping. She was equally sure, however, that she would never manage the British currency. She remembered to ask for a receipt—her accountant all but frothed at the mouth over her bookkeeping system—then stuck it carelessly in her pocket.
The house was everything she’d imagined. The enormous redbrick Victorian was sheltered by huge, gnarled trees. She imagined they would be beautifully shady in the summer, but for now, the wind rattled through their bare branches in a kind of Dickensian music that was oddly appealing. Smoke puffed from chimneys in thick gray wisps that were quickly tossed higher into the slate sky.
Though there were cars whizzing by on the street behind her, she could easily imagine the clop-clop of horses, the rattle carriages, the cries of street vendors.
She moved through the little iron gate, up the cobbled path that cut through the winter-yellow lawn and up the sparkling white steps that led to a sparkling white door. Julia shifted her briefcase, annoyed that her palms were damp and chilled. There was no use denying it, she told herself, she was thinking of Rory Winthrop not so much as Eve’s one-time husband, but as Paul’s father.
Paul was six thousand miles away, and furious with her. What would he think, she wondered, if he knew she was here, not only pursuing the book, but about to interview his father? He wouldn’t think kindly of it, she was sure, and wished there were a way to mesh his needs with hers.
She reminded herself that business came first, and pressed the doorbell. A maid answered within moments. Julia caught a glimpse of an enormous hall, all towering ceilings and tiled floors.
“Julia Summers,” she said. “I have an appointment with Mr. Winthrop.”
“Yes, ma’am, he’s expecting you. Please come in.”
The tile was a checkerboard of maroon and ivory, the ceilings graced with heavy brass and crystal chandeliers. To the right was a staircase that swept in a regal curve. Julia surrendered her coat to the waiting maid, then followed her past two George III hall chairs that flanked a mahogany table graced with a vase of hibiscus and one woman’s glove of sapphire leather.
Instinctively she compared the sitting room with Eve’s. This setting was certainly more formal, more steeped in tradition than Eve’s airy, sun-drenched parlor. Hers shouted wealth and style. This murmured of old money and deep roots.
“Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Summers. Mr. Winthrop will be along directly.” “Thank you.”
The maid moved almost soundlessly from the room, shutting the thick mahogany doors behind her. Alone, Julia walked to the hearth to hold her chilled hand out toward the leaping flames. The smoke smelled pleasantly of applewood, offering welcome and comfort. Because it reminded her a bit of her own fireplace in Connecticut, she relaxed.
The carved mantel above the fire was crowded with old photographs in ornate and highly polished silver frames. The maids, Julia was sure, would curse each time they had to fight the tarnish in all those curves and crevices.
She amused herself walking from one to the next, studying the dour-faced, stiff-shouldered ancestors of the man she had come to see.
She recognized Rory Winthrop, and caught a portion of his humor, in the black and white photo where he had posed in beaver hat and starched collar. The movie had been Delaney Murders, she recalled, and he’d played the ultra-proper, evilly deranged murderer with eye-glinting delight.
Julia wasn’t content simply to look at the next picture. She had to pick it up, to hold it. To devour it. It was Paul, she was certain, though the boy in the portrait was no more than eleven or twelve. His hair was lighter, shaggier, and from the expression on his face, he’d been none too pleased to find himself bundled into a stiff suit and snug tie.
The eyes were the same. Odd, she thought, that even as a child he’d had those intense adult eyes. They weren’t smiling, but looked back at her as if to say that he’d already seen, heard, and understood more than someone twice his age.
“Spooky little beggar, wasn’t he?”
Julia turned, the portrait still clasped in her hand. She’ been so intent on it, she hadn’t heard Rory Winthrop entrance. He stood watching her, a charmingly crooked smile on his face, one hand casually dipped into the pocket of pearl-gray slacks. Physically he could have been taken for Paul’s brother rather than father. His mahogany hair was full and swept back like a lion’s mane. Rory allowed the gray only to dash the temples, where it added dignity rather than age. His face was as firm and as fit as his body. He, too, was no stranger to the fountain of youth offered by cosmetic surgeons. Besides the lifts and tucks, he had weekly treatments that included seaweed masks and facial massage.
“Excuse me, Mr. Winthrop. You caught me off guard.”
“The best way to catch a beautiful woman.” He’d enjoyed the fact that she stared. A man could preserve his face and body with care, diligence, and money. But it took a woman, a young one, to preserve the ego.
“Interested in my miniature rogues’ gallery?”
“Oh.” She remembered the portrait in her hand and returned it to the mantel. “Yes, it’s very entertaining.”
“That one of Paul was taken right after Eve and I were married. I didn’t know what to make of him then any more than I do now. He mentioned you to me.”
“He—” Surprise, pleasure, embarrassment. “Really?”
“Yes, I can’t recall him ever mentioning a woman by name before. It’s one of the reasons I was glad you could make this trip to see me.” He crossed to her to take her hand in both of his. Up close, the smile that had devastated women for generations was very potent. “Let’s sit by the fire, shall we? Ah, and here’s our tea.”
A second maid wheeled in the cart while they settled in two balloon-back chairs before the blaze. “I want to thank you for agreeing to see me, and on a weekend.”
“My pleasure.” He dismissed the maid with a friendly nod, then poured out himself. “I have to be at the theater by noon for the matinee, so I’m afraid my time’s limited. Lemon or cream, dear?”
“Lemon, thank you.”
“And do try these scones. Believe me, they’re delightful.” He took
two, treating himself to a hefty portion of marmalade. “So, Eve’s stirring up mischief with this book, is she?”
“You could say she’s generated a great deal of interest and speculation.”
“You’re diplomatic, Julia.” Again that quick, woman-melting smile. “I hope we’ll be Julia and Rory. More comfortable that way.”
“Of course.”
“And how is my fascinating ex-wife?”
Though it wasn’t blatant, Julia caught the affection in his tone. “I’d say she’s as fascinating as ever. She speaks fondly of you.”
He sipped his tea with a murmur of appreciation. “We had one of those rare friendships that grew warmer after lust cooled.” He laughed. “Not to say she wasn’t more than a little peeved at me toward the end of the marriage—with good cause.”
“Infidelity often ‘peeves’ a woman.”
His grin flashed, so much like Paul’s, Julia couldn’t prevent an answering smile. Direct women had always charmed him. “My dear, I’m the foremost expert on just how women react to infidelity. Fortunately, the friendship survived—in large part, I’ve always thought, because Eve is so tremendously fond of Paul.”
“You don’t find it odd that your ex-wife and your son are so close?”
“Not at all.” He sampled a scone as he spoke, eating slowly, enjoying every morsel. It wasn’t difficult for Julia to imagine he had enjoyed his women in much the same way. “Frankly, I was a poor father. I’m afraid I simply had no idea what to do with a growing boy. Now, in babyhood, you just stood by the crib now and again and cooed, or walked through the park pushing a pram, looking proud and rather smug. We had a nanny to deal with the less pleasant aspects of parenting.”
Unoffended, he chuckled at her expression, then patted her hand before freshening the tea. “Julia dear, don’t judge me too harshly. At least I admit my failings. The theater was my family. Paul had the misfortune to be born to two disgracefully selfish and extraordinarily gifted people who hadn’t a clue about how to rear a child. And Paul was so terrifyingly bright.”
“You make that sound like an offense rather than a compliment.”
Aha, he thought, and covered his unrepentant grin by dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. The lady was smitten. “At the time I’d say the boy was more of a puzzle I hadn’t the wit to solve. Now, Eve was quite natural with him. Attentive, interested, patient. I’ll confess that through her Paul and I enjoyed each other more than we had before.”
Making judgments again, Jules, she cautioned herself, and struggled to shift back into objective gear. “Would you mind if I turned on my tape recorder? It makes it easier for me to be accurate.”
He hesitated for only a moment, then gestured his assent. “By all means. We want accuracy.”
With a minimum of fuss, she set it on the edge of the tea table and switched it on. “There was quite a bit written about you and Eve, and Paul during the first year or so of your marriage. A kind of family portrait emerges.”
“Family.” Rory tested out the word, then nodded over his teacup. “It was an odd concept for me, but yes, we were a family. Eve wanted a family very badly. Perhaps because of what she felt she missed growing up. Or perhaps due to the fact she had reached the age when a woman’s chemistry tricks her into yearning for prams and nappies, the patter of little feet. She had even convinced me that we should have a child of our own.”
This new and fascinating information put Julia on alert. “You and Eve planned to have a baby?”
“My dear, Eve is a very persuasive woman.” He chuckled and settled back. “We planned and strategized like two generals camped on the enemy line. Month after month, my sperm waged war on her ovum. The battles were not without their excitement, but we never achieved total victory. Eve went to Europe—France I believe, to see some specialist. When she returned, it was with the news that she could not conceive.” He set his cup down. “I must say, she took what I knew was, for her, devastating news on the chin. No weeping and wailing or cursing God for Eve. She threw herself into her work. I know she suffered. She slept poorly, and all her appetites diminished for several weeks.”
Objective? Julia asked herself as she stared into the leaping fire. Not a chance. Every sympathy was aroused. “You never considered adoption?”
“Odd that you should mention adoption.” Rory’s eyes narrowed as he thought back. “It was an option that occurred to me. I hated to see Eve fighting off the unhappiness. And to tell you the truth, she had gotten me stirred up about the idea of having another child. When I mentioned the possibility to her, she got very quiet. She even cringed, as if I had struck her. She said—how did she put it exactly? Rory, we’ve both had our chance. Since there’s no going back, why don’t we concentrate on moving forward?”
“Meaning?”
“I suppose I thought she meant that we had done our best to make a child, and had failed, so it was wiser to get on with our lives. That is what we did. As it happened, getting on with our lives eventually meant getting on with them separately. We parted amicably, even discussed doing another project together.” His smile was a bit wistful. “Perhaps we will yet.”
Eve might have been so interested in the story of Brandon’s conception—the girl who had become pregnant unwillingly—because she herself had been a woman unable to become pregnant, Julia reflected. But this wasn’t something Rory could answer. She led him back to an area he could discuss.
“Your marriage was considered a solid one. It was a shock to most people when it dissolved.”
“We had a hell of a good run, Eve and I. But the curtain must come down on every performance sooner or later.”
“You don’t believe in ‘until death do us part’?”
He smiled, wickedly charming. “My dear, I believe it, have believed it with a full heart. Each time I’ve said it. Now I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. The theater is a man’s most demanding mistress.”
She turned off her recorder, then tucked it into her briefcase. “I appreciate your time, and your hospitality, Mr. Winthrop.”
“Rory,” he reminded her, taking her hand as they rose. “I hope this isn’t good-bye. I’d be happy to talk with you again. The theater’s dark tomorrow. Perhaps we could continue this over dinner.”
“I’d like that, if it wouldn’t interfere with your plans.”
“Julia, a man’s plans are meant to be changed for a beautiful woman.” He lifted his hand to her lips. Julia was smiling at him when the sitting room doors opened.
“Smooth as ever, I see,” Paul commented.
Rory kept Julia’s tensed hand in his as he turned to his son. “Paul, what a delightful and ill-timed surprise. I don’t have to ask what brings you.”
Paul kept his eyes on Julia’s. “No, you don’t. Isn’t there a matinee today?”
“Indeed there is.” Rory stiffled a laugh. It was the first time he’d seen that reckless hunger in his son’s eyes. “I was just taking my leave of this charming lady. Now, I believe I’ll have to pull rank and secure two tickets for tonight’s performance. It would please me very much if you’d attend.”
“Thank you. I—”
“We’ll be there,” Paul interrupted.
“Excellent. I’ll have them delivered to your hotel, Julia. Now I’ll leave you in what I’m sure are very capable hands.” He started out, pausing beside his son. “At last you’ve given me the opportunity to say you have faultless taste. If it wasn’t for Lily, old boy, I’d give you a hell of a run for her.”
Paul’s lips quirked, but when his father made his exit, the smile disappeared as well. “Don’t you think traveling to London is a rather elaborate way to avoid me?”
“I’m doing my job.” All nerves and annoyance, she picked up her briefcase. “Don’t you think following me to London is a rather elaborate way to hold this conversation?”
“Inconvenient would be my word.” He crossed the room with the kind of economic grace that reminded Julia of an expert hunter who’d caught
the scent. Skirting the chair, he stopped to stand with her in front of the fire. It sizzled through a log and shot out a rain of angry sparks. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to see my father?”
His words were as measured as his steps had been, she noted. Slow and patient. As a result, hers came out too quickly.
“It didn’t seem necessary to tell you my plans.” “You’re wrong.”
“I see no reason to check with you.”
“Then I’ll give you one.” He pulled her against him, crushing her mouth, jumbling her senses. The move was so violent, so unexpected, she didn’t have time to protest. She managed, barely, to draw in a breath.
“That’s not a—”
He covered her mouth again, cutting off her words, clouding her thoughts. On a throaty moan, she dropped the briefcase to hold him closer. In that instant when rational thought was overtaken by the senses, she gave him everything.
“Am I making myself clear enough?”
“Shut up,” she muttered, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Just shut up.”
He closed his eyes, outrageously moved by the way she rested her head on his shoulder. The gesture, the catchy little sigh she made, had him wanting to carry her off somewhere safe and quiet. “You worry me, Julia.”
“Because I came to London?”
“No, because I came after you.” He drew her back. He ran the
