happened between them. With her hands busy and children upstairs, she felt her confidence return. “Maybe you could tell me a little about some of the people I’ll be seeing.”
“Such as?”
“Drake Morrison’s first on my list for Monday morning.” Paul took a another swig of beer. “Eve’s nephew—only nephew. Her older sister had the one child, two stillborn children after, then took up religion in a big way. Eve’s younger sister never married.”
The information dissatisfied. “Drake’s her only blood relative. That’s public stuff.”
He waited until she’d finished patting the dough into place and ladled on the sauce. “Ambitious, personable. Drawn to slick clothes, cars, and women. In that order, I’d say.”
Lifting a brow, she looked around. “You don’t like him very much.”
“I have nothing against him.” He took out one of his slim cigars while she rooted through the refrigerator. Relaxed again, he could slide into the simple appreciation of looking at long legs in brief shorts. “I’d say he does his job well enough, but then, Eve’s his major client and she’s not exactly a hard sell. He’s enamored of the finer things, and sometimes finds himself in awkward pinches because of his weakness for gambling.” He caught Julia’s look and shrugged. “It’s not what you’d call a secret, though he is discreet. He also favors the same bookie as my father does when he’s in the States.”
Julia decided to let that lie until she had more time and had done more research. “I’m hoping to get an interview with your father. Eve seems fond of him still.”
“It wasn’t a bitter divorce. My father often refers to their marriage as a short run in a bloody good play. Still, I don’t know how he’d feel about discussing the staging with you.”
She diced green peppers. “I can be persuasive. Is he in London now?”
“Yes, doing King Lear.” He took one of the thin slices of pepperoni before she could arrange it on top of the pizza.
She nodded, hoping she wouldn’t have to make a transatlantic flight. “Anthony Kincade?”
“I wouldn’t get too close.” Paul blew out smoke. “He’s a snake that bites. And it’s a well-known secret that he prefers young women.” He toasted Julia with the bottle. “Watch your step.”
“It pays more to watch the other guy’s step.” She copped a piece of pepperoni herself. “How far do you think he’d go to keep portions of his private life from being revealed?”
“Why?”
She chose her phrasing carefully as she heaped on mozzarella. “He seemed very disturbed the other night. Even threatening.”
He waited a beat. “It’s hard to give an answer where you’re asked half the question.”
“You just answer the part you’re asked.” She slid the pizza in the oven, then hit the timer.
“I don’t know him well enough to have an opinion.” Watching her, Paul tapped out his cigar. “Has he threatened you, Julia?”
“No.”
Eyes narrowed, he stepped closer. “Has anyone?” “Why should they?”
He only shook his head. “Why are you biting your nails?”
Guilty, she dropped her hand to her side. Before she could evade him, he took her by the shoulders. “What sort of things is Eve talking to you about? Who is she involving in this trek down memory lane? You won’t tell me,” he said softly. “And I doubt Eve will either.” But he’d find out, he thought. One way or another. “Will you come to me if there’s trouble?”
That was the last thing she wanted to be tempted to do. “I’m not anticipating any trouble I can’t deal with.”
“Let me put it another way.” His fingers moved down her arms, massaging gently. Then they tightened, pulling her against him as his mouth came to hers.
He held her there, deepening the kiss before her brain could register the order to snap away. Her hands fisted at her sides, barely resisting the urge to grab on, to cling. Even while she struggled to hold something back, her mouth surrendered to the assault and answered his.
There was heat and hunger, passion and promise. The backs of her eyes stung as her emotions scrambled out of hiding to revel in the chance for freedom. God, she wanted to be needed like this. How could she have forgotten?
More shaken than he cared to admit, he slid his lips from hers to nuzzle her throat. Incredibly soft. Enticingly firm. Added to the texture, the flavor, the scent, was that quick and faint tremor he found outrageously arousing.
He thought about her too often. Since that first taste he had craved more. She was the only woman he was afraid he would beg for.
“Julia.” He murmured her name as he brushed his lips over hers again. Softer now, persuasive. “I want you to come to me. I want you to let me touch you, to show you what it could be like.”
She knew what it could be like. She would give herself. Content with his conquest, he would walk away whistling and leave her shattered. Not again. Never again. But his body felt so tempting against her. If she could convince herself she could be as tough as he, as immune to hurts and disappointments, then perhaps she could take her pleasure and walk away whole.
“It’s too soon.” It didn’t seem to matter that her voice was unsteady. It was foolish to pretend he didn’t affect her. “Too fast.”
“Not nearly soon or fast enough,” he muttered, but stepped away. Damned if he’d beg—for anyone, for anything. “All right. We’ll slow down for the moment. Seducing a woman in the kitchen with a trio of kids upstairs isn’t my usual style.” He went back for his beer. “You … change things, Julia. I believe I’d be better off to think this through as carefully as you.” He took a sip, then slammed the bottle aside. “Like hell I would.”
Before he had taken a step toward her, stomping feet sounded on the stairs.
Gloria DuBarry was at an awkward age for an actress. Her official bio listed that awkwardness at fifty. Her birth certificate, under the name of Ernestine Blofield added five dangerous years to that mark.
Heredity had been kind enough that she had required only minor tucks and lifts to maintain her ingenue image. She still wore her honey-blond hair in the short, boyish style that had been copied by millions of women during her heyday. Her gamine face was offset by huge and guileless blue eyes.
The press adored her—she made sure of it. Always, she had graciously granted interviews. A press agent’s dream, she had been generous with pictures of her one and only wedding, had shared anecdotes and snapshots of her children.
She was known as a loyal friend, a crusader of the right charities, Actors and Others for Animals being her current project.
In the rebellious sixties, mainstream America had placed Gloria on a pedestal—a symbol of innocence, morality, and trust. They had kept her there, with Gloria’s help, for more than thirty years.
In their one and only film together, Eve had played the carnivious older woman who had seduced and betrayed the innocent and long-suffering Gloria’s weak-willed husband. The roles had capped the image for each. Good girl. Bad woman. Oddly enough, the actresses had become friends.
Cynics might say the relationship was aided by the fact that they had never been forced to compete for a role—or for a man. It would have been partially true.
When Eve strolled into Chasen’s, Gloria was already seated, brooding over a glass of white wine. There weren’t many who knew Gloria well enough to see past the placid expression to the dissatisfaction beneath. Eve did. It was, she thought, going to be a long afternoon.
“Champagne, Miss Benedict?” The waiter asked after the women had exchanged quick cheek pecks.
“Naturally.” She was already reaching for a cigarette as she sat and gave the waiter a slow smile as he lighted it for her. It pleased her to know she was looking her best after her morning session. Her skin felt firm and taunt, her hair soft and sleek, her muscles limber. “How are you, Gloria?”
“Well enough.” Her wide mouth tightened a little before she lifted her glass. “Considering how Variety
gutted my new movie.”
“The bottom line’s the box office line. You’ve been around too long to let the opinion of one snot-nosed critic worry you.”
“I’m not as tough as you.” Gloria said it with the hint of a superior smirk. “You’d just tell the critic to—you know.”
“Get fucked?” Eve said sweetly as the waiter placed her champagne on the table. Laughing, she patted his hand. “Sorry, darling, not you.”
“Eve, really.” But there was a chuckle in Gloria’s voice as she leaned closer.
The prim little girl caught giggling in church, Eve thought with some affection. What would it be like, she wondered, to actually believe your own press?
“How’s Marcus?” she asked. “We missed you both at the benefit the other night.”
“Oh, we were sorry to miss it. Marcus had the most vile headache. Poor dear. You can’t imagine how difficult it is, being in business these days.”
The subject of Marcus Grant, Gloria’s husband of twenty-five years, always bored Eve. She made some noncommittal noise and picked up her menu.
“And the restaurant business has to be the worst,” Gloria went on, always ready to suffer her husband’s woes—even when she didn’t understand them. “The health department’s always snooping around, and now people are crabbing about cholesterol and fat grams. They don’t take into account that Quick and Tasty’s practically fed middle-class America single-handedly.”
“The little red box on every corner,” Eve commented, describing Marcus’s fast-food chain. “Don’t worry, Gloria, health conscious or not, Americans will always go for the burger.”
“There is that.” She smiled at the waiter. “Just a salad, tossed with lemon juice and pepper.”
The irony of that would escape her, Eve thought, and ordered chili. “Now …” Eve picked up her glass again. “Tell me all the gossip.”
“Actually, you head the list.” Gloria tapped her short clear-coated nails against the wineglass. “Everyone’s talking about your book.”
“How satisfying. And what do they say?”
“There’s a lot of curiosity.” Stalling, Gloria switched from wine to water. “More than a little resentment.”
“And I was hoping for fear.”
“There’s that too. Fear of being included. Fear of being excluded.”
“Darling, you’ve made my day.”
“You can joke, Eve,” she began, then clammed up as the bread was served. She broke off a corner of her roll, then crumbled it in her plate. “People are worried.”
“Specifically?”
“Well, it’s no secret how Tony Kincade feels. Then I heard that Anna del Rio was muttering about libel suits.”
Eve smiled as she slathered butter on a roll. “Anna’s a delightful and innovative designer, God knows. But is she so stupid to believe the general public cares what she snorts in the back room?”
“Eve.” Flushed and embarrassed, Gloria gulped her wine. Her gaze darted nervously around the room as she checked to see if anyone could hear. “You can’t go around saying things like that. I certainly don’t approve of drugs—I’ve done three public service announcements—but Anna’s very powerful. And if she uses a bit now and then, recreationally—”
“Gloria, don’t be any more stupid than necessary. She’s a junkie with a five-thousand-dollar-a-day habit.”
“You can’t know—”
“I do know.” For once Eve was discreet enough to pause as the waiter returned to serve their food. At her nod, their glasses were refilled. “Exposing Anna might save her life,” Eve continued, “though I’d be lying if I claimed to have any altruistic motive. Who else?”
“Too many to count.” Gloria stared at her salad. As she did for any role, she had rehearsed this lunch for hours. “Eve, these people are your friends.”
“Hardly.” Her appetite healthy, Eve dug into the chili. “For the most part, they are people I’ve worked with, attended functions with. Some I’ve slept with. As for friendship, I can count on one hand the people in this business I consider true friends.”
Gloria’s mouth moved into the pout that had charmed millions. “And do you count me?”
“Yes, I do.” Eve enjoyed another spoonful before she spoke again. “Gloria, some of what I’ll say will hurt, some might heal. But that’s not the point.”
“What is the point?” Gloria leaned forward, her big blue eyes intense.
“To tell my story, all of it, no wavering. That includes the people who have walked in and out of that story. I won’t lie for myself or for anyone.”
Reaching out, Gloria clamped her fingers around Eve’s wrist. Even that move had been practiced, but in rehearsal Gloria’s fingers had been soft and pleading. In the performance they were strong and urgent, hardened by genuine emotion. “I trusted you.”
“With good cause,” Eve reminded her. She’d known it was coming, was sorry it couldn’t be avoided. “You had no one else to go to.”
“Does that give you the right to take something so private, so personal, and destroy me with it?”
With a sigh, Eve used her free hand to lift her drink. “As I tell the story, there will be people and events that interlink, that will be impossible to delete. If I left one part out to protect one person, the whole business collapses.”
“How could what I did all those years ago have possibly affected your life?”
“I can’t begin to explain,” Eve murmured. There was a pain here, a surprising one, one the medication wouldn’t touch. “It will all come out, and I hope with all my heart you’ll understand.”
“You’ll ruin me, Eve.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Do you really believe that people will be shocked or appalled by the fact that a naive twenty-four-year-old girl who fell unwisely in love with a manipulative man chose to have an abortion?”
“When that girl is Gloria DuBarry, yes.” She snatched her hand back. It hovered by the wine a moment, then veered toward the water. She couldn’t afford to get sloppy in public. “I made myself an institution, Eve. And dammit, I believe in what I’ve come to stand for. Integrity, innocence, old-fashioned values and romance. Do you know what they’ll do to me if it comes out that I had an affair with a married man, had an abortion, all the while I was filming The Blushing Bride?”
Impatient, Eve pushed aside the chili. “Gloria, you’re fifty-five years old.”
“Fifty.”
“Christ.” Eve yanked out a cigarette. “You’re loved and respected—all but canonized. You have a wealthy husband who—lucky you—isn’t in the movie business. You have two lovely children who have gone on to live very tidy, very normal lives. Some people probably believe they were conceived immaculately, then found under a cabbage leaf. Does it really matter at this stage—when you are an institution—if it’s revealed that you actually had sex?”
“In the bounds of marriage, no. My career—”
“You and I both know that you haven’t had a decent part in over five years.” Gloria bristled, but Eve held up a hand for silence. “You did good work, and will do more yet, but the business hasn’t been the focus of your life for quite some time. Nothing I can say about the past is going to change what you have now, or will have.”
“They’ll slap my face on all the tabloids.”
“Probably,” Eve agreed. “It might just get you an interesting part. The point is, no one is going to condemn you for facing a difficult situation and making something of the rest of your life.”
“You don’t understand—Marcus doesn’t know.”
Eve’s brow shot up in surprise. “Why the hell doesn’t he?”
The pixie faced flushed, the guileless eyes hardened. “Damn you, he married Gloria DuBarry. He married the image, and I’ve made certain that image has never been marred. Not even a whiff of scandal. You’ll ruin that for me. You’ll ruin everything.”
“Then I’m sorry. Truly. But I don’t feel responsible for the lack of intimacy in your marriage. B
elieve me, when I tell the story, it will be told honestly.”
“I’ll never forgive you.” Gloria plucked her napkin off her lap and tossed it on the table. “And I’ll do anything and everything to stop you.”
She made her exit dry-eyed, petite and elegant in her white Chanel suit.
Across the room a man lingered over his lunch. He’d already taken half a dozen pictures with his palm-size camera and was satisfied. With any luck, he would finish his day’s work and get home in time to watch the Super Bowl.
Drake watched the game alone. For once in his adult life he didn’t want a woman within arm’s reach. He didn’t want any pouty blond sprawled on his sofa sulking because he paid more attention to the game than to her.
He watched from the game room of his cedar and stone home in the Hollywood Hills. The big-screen TV where the teams had already