nails scraped shallow furrows in his back. A woman’s body always excited him, whether slender or full, youthful or ripe. He feasted on Eve’s flesh, sinking into her lush curves, seduced by the scents, the textures, groaning as she tore at his slacks to find him hard and ready.
It wasn’t fast enough. She could still think. She could still hear the drum of water against sand, her own heartbeat, her own ragged breaths. She wanted the vacuum of sex where there was nothing, nothing but sensation. Desperate, she rolled over him, her body as agile and dangerous as a whip. He had to make her forget. She didn’t want to remember the feel of other hands cruising over her, the tastes of someone else’s mouth, the scent of someone else’s skin.
Escape would be her survival, and she had promised herself that Rory Winthrop would be that escape.
The candlelight danced on her skin as she arched over him. Her hair streamed back, an ebony waterfall. As she took him into her, she let out a cry that was only a prayer. She rode him hard until at last, at last, she found release in forgetfulness.
Spent, she slid bonelessly down to him. His heart jackhammered against hers, and she smiled, grateful. If she could give herself to him, find pleasure and passion with this man, she would heal and be whole again.
“Are we still alive?” Rory murmured.
“I think so.”
“Good.” He found the energy to run his hands down her back and slowly knead her bottom. “That was a hell of a ride, Evie.”
She smiled. No one had ever called her Evie, but she decided she liked the way it sounded in his proper, theater-trained voice. Lifting her head, she looked down at him. His eyes were closed and he wore a foolish grin of pure satisfaction. It made her laugh, and she kissed him, grateful again.
“What to try for round two?”
His eyes opened slowly. She could see both desire and affection mirrored there. Until that moment she hadn’t realized how much she had craved both. Care for me, just for me, she thought, and I’ll do my damnedest to care for you.
“Tell you what. I’ve got a great big bed upstairs, and a great big hot tub out on the upper deck. Why don’t we make use of both?”
They did, splashing in the steamy water, tearing up the satin sheets. Like greedy children they fed off each other until their bodies begged for sleep.
It was a hunger of a different kind that awakened Eve just past noon. Beside her Rory was spread out on the enormous bed, facedown in the posture of the half dead. Still floating on the afterglow, she gave him a quick kiss on the shoulder and went off to shower.
There was a choice of women’s robes in his closet—either ones he had bought for convenience or that had been left behind by other lovers. Eve chose one in blue silk because it suited her mood, and started downstairs with the idea of fixing them both a light breakfast they could eat in bed.
Eve followed the murmur of a television to the kitchen. A housekeeper, she thought. Better yet. Now she could order breakfast, not cook it. Humming, she dug out the pack of cigarettes she’d slipped into the pocket of the robe.
The last thing she expected to see standing at the kitchen counter was a young boy. From her side view in the doorway, she caught the profound resemblance to his father. The same dark, rich hair, the sweet mouth, the intense blue eyes. As the boy carefully, almost religiously spread peanut butter on a slice of bread, the television across the room switched from commercial to cartoon. Bugs Bunny popped out of his rabbit hole gnawing wryly on a carrot.
Before Eve could decide whether to walk in or to slip quietly away again, the boy’s head lifted—like a young wolf scenting the air. As his gaze met hers, he stopped slathering the bread and studied.
In her time Eve had been measured and considered by too many men to count, yet this young boy struck her speechless with his sharp, disconcertingly adult scrutiny. Later, she would laugh it off, but at that moment she felt he had punched straight through the image to the woman beneath, to Betty Berenski, the thirsty, dreamy girl who had forged herself into Eve Benedict.
“Hello,” he said in a childish echo of his father’s cultured voice. “I’m Paul.”
“Hello.” She had a ridiculous urge to tidy her hair and smooth down her robe. “I’m Eve.”
“I know. I’ve seen your picture.”
Eve felt embarrassed. He looked at her as if she were almost as funny as Bugs outwitting Elmer Fudd. She could tell he knew what went on in his father’s bedroom. There was such a cynical curl to his lip.
“Did you sleep well?”
The little shit, Eve thought as embarrassment became amusement. “Very well, thank you.” She swept in then, like a queen into a drawing room. “I’m afraid I didn’t realize Rory’s son lived with him.”
“Sometimes.” He picked up a jar of jelly and began to coat another piece of bread. “I didn’t like my last school, so my parents decided to transfer me to California for a year or two.” He fit the two pieces of bread together, matching up the edges. “I was driving my mother crazy.”
“Were you?”
“Oh, yes.” He turned to the refrigerator and chose a large bottle of Pepsi. “I’m rather good at it. By summer I’ll have driven my father crazy, so I’ll go back to London. I enjoy flying.”
“Do you?” Fascinated, Eve watched him settle himself at the glass-topped kitchen table. “Is it all right if I fix myself a sandwich?”
“Of course. You’re making a film with my father.” He said it matter-of-factly, as though he expected all of his father’s leading ladies to stand in the kitchen on Saturday afternoons in a borrowed robe.
“That’s right. Do you like movies?”
“Some of them. I’ve seen one of yours on the telly. TV.” He corrected himself, reminding himself he wasn’t in England now. “You were a saloon singer and men killed for you.” He took a neat bite of the sandwich. “You have a very pleasant voice.”
“Thank you.” She looked over her shoulder to assure herself she was having this conversation with a child. “Are you going to be an actor?”
His eyes lit with laughter as he took another bite. “No. If I were going to go into films, it would be as a director. I think it would be satisfying to tell people what to do.”
Eve decided against making coffee, plucked another soft drink from the refrigerator, and joined him at the table. Her notion of taking a snack up to Rory and indulging in an afternoon tussle was forgotten. “How old are you?”
“Ten. How old are you?”
“Older.” She sampled the peanut butter and jelly and was rewarded by a flash of sensory memory. The month before she had met Charlie Gray, she had lived on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and canned soup. “What do you like best about California?”
“The sun. It rains a lot in London.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Did you always live here?”
“No, though sometimes it feels like it.” She took a long drink of Pepsi. “So, tell me, Paul, what didn’t you like about your last school?”
“The uniforms,” he said immediately. “I hate uniforms. It’s as if they want to make you look alike so you’ll think alike.”
Because she’d nearly choked, she set the bottle down. “Are you sure you’re ten?”
With a shrug he polished off the last of the sandwich. “I’m almost ten. And I’m precocious,” he told her with such sobriety she swallowed her chuckle. “And I ask too many questions.”
Under the veneer of a smart aleck was the poignant tone of a lonely little boy. A fish out of water, Eve thought, and checked the urge to ruffle his hair. She knew the feeling very well. “People say you ask too many questions only when they don’t know the answers.”
He gave her another long, searching look with those direct, adult eyes. Then he smiled and became an almost ten-year-old with a missing tooth. “I know. And it makes them crazy when you just keep asking.”
This time she didn’t resist ruffling his hair. The grin had hooked her. “You’re going to go pla
ces, kid. But for now, how do you feel about a walk on the beach?”
He stared for a full thirty seconds. Eve would have bet her last dollar that Rory’s lovers never spent time with him. She’d also bet that Paul Rory Winthrop desperately wanted a friend.
“Okay.” He ran a finger down the Pepsi bottle, making designs in the condensation. “If you want.” It wouldn’t do to seem too eager.
“Good.” She felt exactly the same way, and rose casually. “Just let me find some clothes.”
“We walked for a couple of hours,” Eve said. She was smiling now, and her cigarette had burned down to the filter, untouched in the ashtray. “Even built sand castles. It was one of the most … intimate afternoons of my life. By the time we got back, Rory was awake, and I was head over heels in love with his son.”
“And Paul?” Julia asked quietly. She’d been able to picture him perfectly, a lonely little boy fixing a solitary sandwich on a Saturday afternoon.
“Oh, he was more cautious than I. I realized later that he suspected I was using him to get to his father.” With a restless movement Eve shifted and took out a fresh cigarette. “Who could blame him? Rory was a very desirable man, powerful in the industry, wealthy—in his own right and also through family.”
“You and Rory Winthrop were married before the picture you were working on was released.”
“One month after that Saturday in Malibu.” For a few moments Eve smoked in silence, looking out over the orange grove. “I admit I went after him, single-mindedly. The man didn’t have much of a chance. Romance was his weakness. I exploited it. I wanted that marriage, that ready-made family. I had my reasons.”
“Which were?”
Focusing on Julia again, Eve smiled. “For now we’ll say Paul was a large part of it. It’s true enough, and I don’t intend to lie. And at that point in my life I still believed in marriage. Rory could make me laugh, he was—is—intelligent, gentle, and just wild enough to be interesting. I needed to believe it could work. It didn’t, but of my four marriages, it’s the only one I don’t regret.”
“There were other reasons?”
“You don’t miss much,” Eve murmured. “Yes.” She tapped out her cigarette with quick, jerky motions. “But that’s another story for another day.”
“All right. Then tell me what your reasons were for hiring Nina.”
Very rarely was Eve thrown off balance. Now, to give herself a moment, she blinked and smiled blankly. “I beg your pardon?”
“I spoke with Nina last night. She told me how you’d found her in the hospital after her attempted suicide, how you’d given her not only a job, but the will to live.”
Eve picked up her glass, studied the few remaining inches of champagne and juice. “I see. Nina didn’t mention to me that you’d interviewed her.”
“We talked when she brought the photos over last night.”
“Yes. I haven’t seen her yet this morning.” Changing her mind, Eve set the glass down again without drinking. “My reasons for hiring Nina were twofold, and more intricate than I care to get into at the moment. I will tell you that I detest waste.”
“I’d wondered,” Julia persisted, more interested in watching Eve’s face than in hearing her answer, “if you’d felt it was a way to pay an old debt? Charlie Gray had committed suicide, and you couldn’t do anything to prevent it. This time, with Nina, you could. And did.”
A sadness crept into Eve’s eyes, lingered. Julia watched the green darken, deepen. “You are very perceptive, Julia. Part of what I did was to pay Charlie back. But since I gained a very efficient employee and a devoted friend, one might say it cost me nothing.”
And it was the eyes, not the answer that had Julia reaching out to lay a hand over Eve’s before she realized she’d crossed the distance. “Whatever you gained, compassion and generosity are worth more. I’ve admired you as an actress all my life. In the past few days, I’ve started to admire you as a woman.”
As Eve stared down at their joined hands, tangles of emotion passed across her face. She fought a brief and gritty war to control them before she spoke. “You’ll have plenty of time to develop other opinions of me—as a woman—before we’re finished. Not all of them will be anything remotely resembling admiration. Meanwhile, I have business to see to.” She rose and waved her hand at the recorder. Reluctantly, Julia turned it off. “There’s a charity dinner dance tonight. I have a ticket for you.”
“Tonight?” Julia shaded her eyes against the sun as she looked up. “I really don’t think I can attend.”
“If you’re going to write this book, you can’t do it all from this house. I’m a public figure, Julia,” Eve reminded her. “I want you with me, in public. You’ll need to be ready by seven-thirty. CeeCee will sit with Brandon.”
Julia rose as well. She preferred handling the unexpected on her feet. “I’ll go of course. But you may as well know, I don’t mingle well.” Irony spiking her words, she added, “I never outgrew that habit of driving people crazy by asking too many questions.”
Eve chuckled and, satisfied, strolled toward the house. It was, she was certain, going to be an interesting evening.
If there was one thing Julia hated more than being given orders, it was having no choice but to obey them. It wasn’t that she couldn’t enjoy an evening out, particularly at a glitzy event. If it threatened to make her feel too hedonistic, she could justify it as research. It was being told on the morning of the event that she was expected to attend. Not asked, not invited. Commanded. And she’d been human enough to spend a large chunk of time that afternoon fretting over what to wear. Time, she thought now, that should have been spent working. Just as her annoyance with Eve had reached its peak, Nina had knocked on the door, carrying a trio of dresses. Dresses, Julia was told, that Eve had selected personally from her own wardrobe, on the off chance that Julia hadn’t packed anything appropriate for a formal party.
Dictatorial, perhaps, but still considerate. And it had been tempting, very tempting, to chose one of the shimmery, glittery gowns. At one point, Julia had spread them out over her bed, thousands of dollars worth of silk and spangles. She’d even weakened enough to try one on, a strapless slither of coral-colored silk. It was only marginally too big in the bust and hips so that she imagined it slicked down Eve’s body like rainwater.
In that moment when she stood studying herself in the star’s gown, her own skin somehow softer, creamier against the vivid material, she felt enchanted, touched by magic.
If her life had not taken that single turn, would she have made her home in Beverly Hills? Would she have had a closet full of exquisite clothes? Would her face, her name, have drawn gasps from millions of fans as her image flickered across a movie screen?
Maybe, maybe not, she’d thought, and had indulged herself in a few twists and turns in front of the mirror. But her life had taken that other direction, and had given her something much more important, much more lasting than fame.
In the end her practicality had won out. She’d decided it was better to refuse the gowns than to go through the evening pretending she was something she wasn’t.
She wore the only evening gown she had brought with her, a simple column of midnight blue with a snug bolero jacket studded with bugle beads. In the two years since she’d bought it, on sale at Saks, she had worn it only once. As she fastened on rhinestone drop earrings, she listened to her son’s giggles float up the stairs. He and CeeCee, already fast friends, were deeply involved in a game of Crazy Eights.
Julia took a last inventory of her purse, slipped into pretty and miserably uncomfortable evening shoes, then started down the stairs.
“Hey, Mom.” Brandon watched her come down. She looked so nice, so different. It always made him feel proud, and a little funny in the stomach, to realize how beautiful his mother was. “You look really good.”
“You look terrific,” CeeCee corrected the boy. She shifted from her stomach, where she and Brandon were sprawled on the rug, to her knees.
“That’s not one of Miss B.’s.”
“No.” Self-conscious, Julia smoothed her skirt. “I didn’t feel right. I’d hoped this would do.”
“It does,” CeeCee told her with a nod. “Classic elegance. And with your hair swept up like that, you add sex appeal. What more could you ask for?”
Invisibility, Julia thought, but only smiled. “I shouldn’t be late. I’m hoping to slip away right after dinner.”
“Why? This is a totally big event.” CeeCee sat back on her heels. “Everybody’s going to be there. And it’s for a good cause and all too. You know, the Actors’ Fund. You should just enjoy yourself. I’ll crash in the spare room if I get tired.”
“Can we make popcorn?” Brandon wanted to know.
“Okay. Make sure you—” At the knock, she glanced over to see Paul standing at the door.
“Put plenty of butter on it,” he finished, and winked at Brandon as he stepped inside.
CeeCee immediately fluffed her hair. “Hi, Mr. Win-.”
“Hi, CeeCee, how’s it going?”
“Fine, thanks.” Her twenty-year-old heart went into overdrive. He wore a tux with the casual grace that transmitted instantly into sex. CeeCee wondered if there was a woman alive who wouldn’t fantasize about loosening that tidy black tie.
“Eve said you’d be prompt,” Paul said to Julia. She looked flustered. He’d already decided that was the way he liked her best.