by Nora Roberts
“Eager to get to work?”
“Of course.”
So, she’d been right in her judgment, Eve thought. This was a woman who had been trained—or had trained herself—to push straight ahead. Eve sipped the tea and considered. “All right then, my assistant will give you a schedule. Week to week.”
“I’ll need Monday morning to take Brandon into school. I’d also like to rent a car.”
“There’s no need for that.” She gave a dismissive wave. “There’s a half a dozen in the garage. One will suit. Lyle, my driver, will take the boy to school and back.”
“In the big white car?” Brandon asked with his mouth full, his eyes wide.
Eve laughed before sipping her tea. “I think not. But we’ll see that you have a ride in it now and again.” She noted he was eyeing the tray again. “I once lived with a young boy just about your age. He had a fondness for petits fours.”
“Are there any kids here now?”
“No.” The shadow came and went in her eyes. She rose then, a swift and casual dismissal. “I’m sure you’d both like to rest before dinner. If you go through the terrace doors and follow the path to the pool, the guest house is just to the right. Shall I have one of the servants show you?”
“No, we’ll find it.” Julia stood, placing a hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
At the doorway Eve paused and turned. “Brandon, if I were you, I’d wrap a few of those cakes in a napkin and take them with me. Your stomach’s still on East Coast time.”
She was right. Brandon’s first coast-to-coast flight had his system jumbled. By five he was hungry enough that Julia fixed him a light supper from the small but well-stocked kitchen in the guest house. By six, cranky with fatigue and excitement, he nodded off in front of the television. Julia carried him into his bedroom, where one of Eve’s efficient servants had already unpacked his things.
It was a strange bed, in a strange room, despite the addition of his Erector set, his books, and the favorite toys that had traveled with them. Still, as always, he slept like a rock, not stirring when she stripped off his shoes and slacks. Once he was tucked in, Julia called the main house to give Travers her apologies and regrets for dinner that evening.
She was weary enough herself to consider slipping into the tempting whirlpool tub or directly into the king-size bed in the master suite. But her mind refused to shut off. The guest house was both luxurious and tasteful, a two-story structure with warm wood trim and cool pastel walls. The curving stairs and open balcony gave it a spacious, informal feel. She much preferred the gleaming oak floors and colorful throw rugs to the acres of white carpet in the main house.
Julia wondered who might have stayed in the guest house, enjoying its own tidy English garden and the warm, scented breezes. Olivier had been a friend of Eve’s. Had the great actor brewed tea in the charming country-style kitchen with its bright copper pots and little brick hearth? Had Katharine Hepburn fussed in the garden? Had Peck or Fonda napped on the long, cushy sofa?
Since childhood Julia had been fascinated with the people who made their living on screen or stage. Briefly in her teens she had dreamed of joining them. A crushing shyness had caused her to sweat her way through auditions in high school plays. Desperate desire and determination had won her roles, fed the dream … and then there had been Brandon. A mother at eighteen, Julia had changed her course. And she’d survived betrayal, fear, and despair. There were some, she felt, who were meant to grow up early and fast.
Different dreams, she mused as she slipped into a frayed terry-cloth robe. She wrote about actors now, but would never be one. Knowing her child slept safe and content in the next room left no room for regrets. And knowing her own strength and competence would help her give her son a long and happy childhood.
She was reaching up to take the pins from her hair when she heard a knock at the door. Julia glanced down at her faded robe, then shrugged. If this was home for the time being, she had to be able to relax in it.
Julia opened the door to a pretty young blond with lake-blue eyes and a bright smile. “Hi, I’m CeeCee. I work for Miss Benedict. I’m here to look after your son while you have dinner.”
Julia lifted a brow. “That’s very kind of you, but I phoned my regrets to the main house earlier.”
“Miss Benedict said that the little boy—Brandon, right?—was tired out. I’ll baby-sit while you have dinner at the main house.”
Julia opened her mouth to decline, but CeeCee was already breezing through the door. She was in jeans and a T-shirt, her California-blond hair sweeping her shoulders, her arms full of magazines.
“Isn’t this a great place?” she went on in her bubbly champagne voice. “I love cleaning it, and I’ll be doing it for you while you’re here. You just let me know if you want anything special.”
“Everything’s perfect.” Julia had to smile. The woman vibrated with energy and enthusiasm. “But I really don’t think I should leave Brandon on his first night with someone he doesn’t know.”
“You don’t have to worry. I have two little brothers, and I’ve been baby-sitting since I was twelve. Dustin, the youngest, was a late baby. He’s just ten—and a real mega monster.” She gave Julia another flashing smile—her even white teeth those of a toothpaste commercial. “He’ll be okay with me, Ms. Summers. If he wakes up and wants you, we’ll call the house. You’re only two minutes away.”
Julia hesitated. She knew Brandon would sleep through the night. And the perky blond was exactly the kind of sitter she herself would have chosen. She was being overcautious and overprotective—two things she struggled not to be.
“All right, CeeCee. I’ll change and be down in a couple of minutes.”
When Julia returned five minutes later, CeeCee was sitting on the couch leafing through a fashion magazine. The television was tuned to one of the bright Saturday-night sitcoms. She glanced up and studied Julia.
“That’s a great color on you, Ms. Summers. I want to be a designer, so I pay attention to, you know, tones and lines and material. Not everybody can wear a strong color like that tomato red.”
Julia smoothed the jacket she’d paired with black evening pants. She’d chosen it because it gave her confidence. “Thanks. Miss Benedict said informal.”
“It’s perfect. Armani?”
“You’ve got a good eye.”
CeeCee flipped back her long, straight hair. “Maybe one day you’ll wear a McKenna. That’s my last name. Except maybe I’ll just go by my first. You know, like Cher and Madonna.”
Julia found herself smiling, until she glanced back upstairs. “If Brandon wakes up—”
“We’ll get along fine,” CeeCee assured her. “And if he’s nervous, I’ll call right away.”
Julia nodded, even as she turned the black evening bag over and over in her hands. “I won’t be late.”
“Enjoy yourself. Miss Benedict gives great dinner parties.”
Julia lectured herself during the short walk from house to house. Brandon wasn’t a shy or a clinging child. If he did wake up, he would not only accept the baby-sitter, he’d enjoy her. And, she reminded herself, she had a job to do. Part of that job—the hardest part for her—was to socialize. The sooner she began, the better.
The light was softening, and she could smell roses, jasmine, and the damp green smell of leaves freshly watered. The pool was a curving half moon of pale blue fed by an arching fountain at one corner. She hoped pool privileges went along with the guest house, or Brandon would be hell to live with.
She hesitated on the terrace, then decided it would be more correct to go around to the front. She passed yet another gurgling fountain, a hedge of gloriously perfumed Russian olives, then spotted two cars in the drive. One was a late model Porsche in flaming red, the other an old, beautifully reconditioned Studebaker in classic cream. Both meant money.
The antacid pill had dissolved on her tongue by the time she rang the bell at the front door. Travers answered, gave a frigid n
od, then led Julia to the salon.
The cocktail hour was in progress. Debussy was playing softly, and the evening garden scent had been captured indoors by a huge bouquet of scarlet roses. The lighting was subtle, flattering. The stage set.
From the doorway Julia quickly surveyed the people in the room. There was a busty redhead in a tiny, glittery black dress who looked miserably bored. Beside her was a tanned Adonis with sunstreaked blond hair—the Porsche.
He was wearing a very correct, very expensive pearl-gray suit and lounged against the mantel as he sipped his drink and murmured to the redhead. A sleek woman in an ice-blue sheath with cropped fawn-colored hair served Eve a flute of champagne. The mistress of the house was stunning in royal blue lounging pajamas piped in chartreuse. And she was smiling at the man beside her.
Julia recognized Paul Winthrop instantly. First, because of his resemblance to his father. And second, from the picture on the dust covers of his books. Like his father, he would always draw eyes and provoke fantasies. His looks weren’t as polished as those of the other man in the room, but they were far more dangerous.
He seemed tougher-looking in person, she noted. Less scholarly and more approachable. He, at least, had taken the informal rule to heart and wore slacks and scuffed Nikes with his jacket. He was grinning as he lighted Eve’s cigarette. Then he turned, looked at Julia, and the grin vanished.
“It seems your last guest has arrived.”
“Ah, Ms. Summers.” Eve glided across the room, silks whispering. “I take it CeeCee has everything under control.”
“Yes, she’s delightful.”
“She’s exhausting, but that’s youth. What will you have to drink?”
“Just some mineral water.” A sip of anything stronger, and she knew jet lag would settle her into a coma.
“Nina, dear,” Eve called, “we have a teetotaler who needs a Perrier. Julia, let me introduce you around. My nephew, Drake Morrison.”
“I’ve been eager to meet you.” He took Julia’s hand and smiled. His palm was smooth and warm, his eyes a compelling if slightly tamer version of Eve’s bright green eyes. “You’re the one who’ll dig all Eve’s secrets out. Even her family hasn’t succeeded in doing that.”
“Because it’s none of my family’s business until I say so.” Eve expelled a slow stream of smoke. “And this is—what was your name again, dear? Carla?”
“Darla.” The redhead corrected Eve with a pouty lisp. “Darla Rose.”
“Charming.” Eve’s voice held an edgy amusement that put Julia on alert. A few degrees sharper, and it could have rent flesh. “Our Darla is an actress-model. Such a fascinating phrase. More catchy than that lowering term, starlet, we used to use. And this is Nina Soloman, my right and left arms.”
“Pack mule and whipping boy,” the sleek blond said as she handed Julia a glass. There was good humor in the voice and quiet confidence in the bearing. On closer view, Julia noted that the woman was older than she’d first thought. Nearer fifty than forty but with a sleekness that age rolled off. “I’ll warn you, you’ll need more than mineral water if you work with Miss B. long.”
“If Ms. Summers has done her homework, she already knows I’m a professional bitch. And this is my own true love, Paul Winthrop.” Eve all but purred as she traced fingers down his arm. “A pity I married the father instead of waiting for the son.”
“Anytime you want to take a shot, gorgeous.” His voice was warm for Eve. His eyes were cool for Julia. He didn’t offer his hand. “Have you done your homework, Ms. Summers?”
“Yes. But I always take the time to form my own opinions.”
He lifted his drink and watched as Julia was immediately drawn into small talk. She was smaller than he’d pictured her, more finely built. Despite Darla’s flash and Nina’s elegance, she was the only woman in the room who could compete with Eve’s beauty. Still, he preferred the redhead’s blatant show of wares and wants to Julia’s cold composure. A man wouldn’t have to dig deeply to learn all there was to know about Darla Rose. The aloof Ms. Summers was another matter. But for Eve’s sake, Paul intended to find out all there was to learn about Julia.
Julia couldn’t relax. Even when they went into dinner and she accepted a single glass of wine, she couldn’t force the muscles of her neck and stomach to loosen. She told herself it was her own nerves that had her imagining hostility. There was no reason for anyone in the little group to resent her. Indeed, Drake was going out of his way to be charming. Darla had stopped moping and was packing away stuffed trout and wild rice. Eve was cruising on champagne, and Nina was chuckling over some comment Paul had made about a mutual acquaintance.
“Curt Dryfuss?” Eve put in, catching the end of the conversation. “He’d be a better director if he’d learn to keep his fly zipped. If he hadn’t had the leading lady bouncing on him so often during his last project, he might have gotten a decent performance out of her. Onscreen.”
“He could have been a eunuch and not gotten a decent performance out of her,” Paul corrected Eve. “Onscreen.”
“It’s all tits and ass these days.” Even skimmed a glance over Darla. Julia took time to hope that she was never on the wrong end of that coldly amused stare. “Tell me, Ms. Summers, what do you think of our current crop of actresses?”
“I’d say it’s the same in this as in any generation. The cream rises to the top. You did.”
“If I’d waited to rise, I’d still be making B movies with second-rate directors.” She gestured with her glass. “I clawed and chewed my way to the top, and I’ve spent most of my life in a bloody battle to stay there.”
“Then I suppose the question would be, is it worth it?”
Eve’s eyes narrowed and glittered. Her lips curved. “You’re goddamn right it is.”
Julia leaned closer. “If you had it to do over again, would you change anything?”
“No. Nothing.” She took a quick and deep drink. A headache was beginning to play behind her eyes, and the dull pain infuriated her. “To change one thing is to change everything.”
Paul put a hand on Eve’s arm, but his eyes were on Julia. Because he didn’t bother to disguise it, Julia now could see the source of the hostility she’d been feeling. “Why don’t we let the interview wait until working hours?”
“Don’t be so snotty, Paul,” Eve said mildly. With a laugh, she patted his hand. She turned to Julia. “He disapproves. I’m sure he thinks I’ll spill his secrets along with mine.”
“You don’t know mine.”
This time her laugh took on an edge. “My dear boy, there is no secret, no lie, no scandal I don’t know. At one time it was thought that Parsons and Hopper were the ones to worry about. But they didn’t know how to hold on to a secret until it had ripened.” She drank again, as if toasting some private triumph. “How many calls have you fielded in the last two weeks, Nina, from worried luminaries?”
Nina let out a sigh. “Dozens.”
“Exactly.” Pleased, Eve sat back. In the candlelight, her eyes glittered like the jewels at her ears and around her throat. “It’s tremendously satisfying to be the one throwing the shit at the fan. And you, Drake, as my press agent, what do you think about my project?”
“That you’re going to make a lot of enemies. And a lot of money.”
“I’ve spent fifty years doing both of those things already. How about you, Ms. Summers, what do you hope to get out of this?”
Julia set her glass aside. “A good book.” She caught Paul’s look of derision and stiffened. She would have preferred to empty her water goblet into his lap, but relied on dignity. “Of course, I’ve gotten used to people considering celebrity biographies a long step below literature.” Her gaze shifted to meet his. “Just as many people consider popular fiction a bastard form of writing.”
Eve threw back her head and laughed; Paul picked up his fork to toy with the remnants of his trout. His clear blue eyes had darkened, but his voice was mild as he asked, “What do you consider your work
, Ms. Summers?”
“Entertainment,” she said without hesitation. “What do you consider yours?”
He ignored the question and leapt on her answer. “So you believe it’s entertaining to exploit the name and the life of a public figure?”
She no longer felt like biting her nails, but pushing up her sleeves. “I doubt Sandburg thought so when he wrote of Lincoln. And I certainly don’t believe an authorized biography is exploitative of its subject!”
“You’re not comparing your work to Sandburg’s?”
“Yours has been compared to Steinbeck’s.” She moved her shoulders carelessly, though her temper was heating fast. “You tell a story based on imagination—or lies. I tell one based on facts and memories. The result of both techniques is that the finished work is read and enjoyed.”
“I’ve certainly read and enjoyed works by both of you,” Nina said, stepping in as peacemaker. “I’ve always been in awe of writers. All I do is compose business correspondence. Of course, Drake has those punchy press releases.”
“Which are a mix of truth and lies,” he said. He turned to Julia with a smile. “I suppose you’ll be interviewing people other than Eve, for a rounded picture.”
“That’s the usual procedure.”
“I’m available. Anytime.”
“It looks like Darla’s ready for dessert,” Eve said dryly and rang for the last course. “The cook made raspberry trifle. You’ll take some back to Brandon.”
“Oh, yes, your little boy.” Satisfied the conversation had cooled, Nina poured more wine. “We were hoping to meet him tonight.”
“He was exhausted.” Julia snuck a peek at her watch. It succeeded only in reminding her that her body insisted it was past midnight. “I imagine he’ll be wide awake by four A.M. and wondering why the sun hasn’t come up.”
