by Nora Roberts
He pulled out a cigar, making it obvious that he intended to settle in. His hands, she noted, were wide at the palms, long of finger. More suited to lifting the silver spoon he’d been born with, she thought, then crafting complex, often grisly murders for the pages of books.
“I realize I’m not sitting in an office with my nose to a grindstone,” Julia told him. “But I am working.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He smiled pleasantly. She’d have to do better than hint to shake him off. “Care to share your impressions of your initial interview?”
“No.”
Undaunted, he lighted the cigar, then hooked an arm over the back of the wrought iron chair. “For someone who wants my cooperation, you’re very unfriendly.”
“For someone who disapproves of my work, you’re very pushy.”
“Not your work.” With his legs stretched out, his feet comfortably crossed at the ankles, he took a slow drag, expelled it. The scent of smoke stung the air, intrusively masculine. It crept around the perfume of flowers like a man’s arm around a reluctant woman. “I disapprove only of your current project. I have a vested interest.”
It was his eyes, she realized, that gave him his greatest appeal—and, therefore, her greatest problem. Not the color of them, though some women were bound to sigh over that deep, vital blue. It was the look in them, the incredible focus of them that made Julia feel she was not being looked at, but into.
A hunter’s look, she decided, and she wasn’t about to be any man’s prey.
“If you’re concerned that I’ll write something uncomplimentary about you, don’t worry. Your part in Eve’s biography probably won’t take up more than part of one chapter.”
Writer to writer, it would have been an excellent insult if his ego had been on the line. He laughed, liking her better for it. “Tell me something, Jules, is it just me, or all men?”
The use of her nickname threw her almost as much as the question. Like a kiss instead of a handshake. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you do.” His smile was friendlier, but his eyes still challenged her. “I haven’t managed to pull out all the sharp little darts from the first time I met you.”
She fiddled with her pen and wished he would just go away. He was entirely too relaxed now, and that made her all the more tense. Men with his degree of self-confidence always left her groping for her own. “As I recall, it was you who launched the first attack.”
“Maybe.” He rocked back in his chair, watching her. No, he didn’t have her measure yet, but he would.
She frowned as he rose to drop the cigar stub in a bucket of sand at the edge of the terrace. His was a dangerous body, she noted, all lean muscle and grace. A fencer’s body. Since he was the kind who wouldn’t be caged, a smart woman had to deal with him with her imagination behind locked doors. Julia considered herself a smart woman.
“We’ll have to negotiate a truce of some kind. For Eve’s sake.”
“I don’t see why. Since you’ll be busy, and so will I, I doubt we’ll run into each other often enough to need white flags.”
“You’re wrong.” He came back to the table but didn’t sit. Instead, he stood beside her, his thumbs hooked in his pockets. “I’ll have to keep an eye on you, on Eve’s behalf. And, I think, on my own behalf.”
Her pen clattered on the glass top. She left it there and laced her nervous fingers together. “If that’s some kind of oblique come-on—”
“I like you better this way,” he interrupted. “Barefoot and flustered. The woman I met the other night was intriguing, and intimidating.”
She was feeling little tugs and pulls she’d been certain she was immune to. It was possible, she reminded herself, to feel a sexual attraction for a man you didn’t like. It was just as possible to resist it. “I’m the same, with or without shoes.”
“Not at all.” He sat down again, bracing his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his folded hands as he studied her. “Don’t you think it would be deadly boring to wake up every morning of your life as exactly the same person?”
It was the kind of question she enjoyed, one she would have liked to respond to and explore. But with him she was certain any exploration would end on swampy ground. She turned her notepad over, flipping pages until she came to a blank one.
“Since you’re here and in the mood to chat, maybe you’d give me that interview.”
“No. We’ll have to wait for that, see how things go.” He knew he was being obstinate, and he enjoyed it.
“What things?”
He smiled. “All manner of things, Julia.”
There was the sound of a slamming door and a youthful shout. “My son.” Julia hurriedly gathered her notes and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to—”
But Brandon was already racing through the back door onto the terrace. He wore an orange neon cap backward, baggy jeans, a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, and scuffed high-tops. His grin all but split his grubby face.
“I shot two baskets in gym,” he announced.
“My hero.”
She was reaching for him, and Paul watched her change yet again. There was no cool elegance, no frazzled vulnerability, but pure warmth. It was in her eyes, in her smile as she slid an arm around her son’s shoulders. She drew him to her side. The subtle body language said quite clearly: He’s mine.
“Brandon, this is Mr. Winthrop.”
“Lo.” Brandon grinned again, showing two gaps in his teeth.
“What position did you play?”
Brandon’s eyes lit up at the question. “Point guard. I’m not very tall, but I’m fast.”
“I’ve got a hoop at home. You’ll have to come over and show me your moves sometime.”
“Yeah?” Brandon all but danced in place while he looked up to his mother for approval. “Can I?”
“We’ll see.” She tugged on his cap. “Homework?”
“Just some vocabulary and some dumb long division.” Both of which he felt duty bound to put off until the last possible minute. “Can I have a drink?”
“I’ll get it.”
“This is for you.” Brandon dug an envelope out of his pocket, then turned back to Paul. “Do you ever get to go and watch the Lakers and stuff?”
“Now and again.”
Julia left them to their talk of points scored and games lost. She filled a glass with ice the way Brandon liked it, then added juice. Though it annoyed her, she filled a second for Paul and added a plate of cookies. The rudeness she would have preferred to serve wouldn’t set the right example for her son.
After setting the items on a tray, she glanced at the envelope she’d tossed on the counter. Her name was printed on it in big block letters. Frowning, she picked it up again. She’d assumed it was a report from Brandon’s teacher. After tearing it open, she read the short message and felt the blood drain from her cheeks.
CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT.
It was stupid. She read the words again, telling herself they were stupid, but the single sheet of paper shook in her hand. Who would send her such a message, and why? Was it some kind of warning, or threat? She stuffed the paper into her pocket. There was no reason such a silly, shopworn phrase should frighten her.
Giving herself a moment to settle, she lifted the tray and went back outside, where Paul was sitting again, regaling Brandon with some play by play of a Lakers game.
“We saw the Knicks once,” Brandon told him. “Mom doesn’t get it though. She’s pretty good with baseball,” he added by way of an apology.
Paul glanced up, and his smile faded the moment he saw Julia’s face. “Problem?”
“No. Two cookies, sport,” she said when Brandon lunged for the plate.
“Mr. Winthrop’s been to lots of games,” he told her as he stuffed the first cookie in his mouth. “He’s met Larry Bird and everything.”
“That’s nice.”
“She doesn’t know who that is,” Brandon said in a half whisper. He grinned, man to man, t
hen washed down the cookie with juice. “She’s more into girl stuff.”
Out of the mouths of babes, Paul thought, he might get some answers. “Such as?”
“Well.” Brandon chose another cookie as he thought it over. “You know, old movies where people look at each other all the time. And flowers. She’s nuts for flowers.”
Julia smiled weakly. “Should I leave you gentlemen to your port and cigars?”
“It’s okay to like flowers if you’re a girl,” Brandon told her.
“My own little chauvinist.” She waited until he’d gulped the last of his juice. “Homework.” “But couldn’t I—” “Nope.”
“I hate stupid vocabulary.”
“And I hate math.” She flicked a finger down his nose. “Work on that first, then I’ll help you with the vocab.”
“Okay.” He knew if he talked her into letting it wait until after dinner, he’d lose out on TV. A guy couldn’t win. “See you,” he said to Paul.
“Sure.” Paul waited until the screen door slammed. “Nice kid.”
“Yes, he is. I’m sorry, but I have to go in and supervise.” “It’ll keep a minute.” He rose. “What happened, Julia?” “I don’t know what you mean.” He put a hand under her chin to hold her still. His fingers were warm, firm, the tips roughened from work or some kind of male play. She had to fight back the urge to bolt. “With some people, everything they feel comes right out the eyes. Yours are scared. What is it?”
She didn’t like it at all that she wanted to tell him, wanted to share. For more than a decade she had handled her own problems. “Long division,” she said carelessly. “Scares the hell out of me.”
It surprised him just how keen his disappointment was, but he let his hand drop away. “All right. I don’t suppose you’ve got any reason to trust me at this point. Give me a call, we’ll set up that interview.”
“I will.”
When he walked back toward the main house, she lowered herself into a chair. She didn’t need help—his or anyone’s—because nothing was wrong. With steady fingers she took the crumpled paper out of her pocket, smoothed it, and read it again.
On a long breath she stood and began to load the tray. Depending on people was always a mistake—one she wouldn’t make. But she wished Paul Winthrop had found some other place to spend a lazy hour that afternoon.
While Brandon splashed in the tub upstairs, Julia poured herself a single, indulgent glass of wine from the bottle of Pouilly Fumé Eve had sent over. Since her hostess wanted her to be comfortable, Julia decided to oblige. But even as she drank the pale golden wine from a crystal glass, she worried about the paper in her pocket.
Had Paul left it for her? She stirred the idea around in her mind, then dismissed it. It was much too indirect a move for a man like Paul Winthrop. In any case, she hadn’t a clue how many people had cruised through those big iron gates that day, any one of whom could have dropped the envelope on the stoop.
And she didn’t know enough about the people who made their home inside those same iron gates.
Peering through the kitchen window, she could see the lights in the apartment atop the garage. Lyle, the broad-shouldered, slick-hipped chauffeur. Julia had sized him up immediately as a man who thought of himself as the stud of the West. Had he and Eve—No. Eve might indulge herself with men, but never with someone like Lyle.
Travers. The housekeeper skulked around, disapproval tightening her already-pinched mouth. There was no doubt she’d decided to dislike Julia on sight. And, since Julia doubted the woman objected to the scent of her perfume, it was obviously because of the job she’d come to do. Perhaps Travers had thought one cryptic, anonymous note would send her scurrying back to Connecticut. If so, Julia thought as she sipped her wine, the woman was doomed to disappointment.
Then there was Nina. Efficient and chic. Why would such a woman be content to subjugate her life to another? The background information Julia had collected on Nina was sparse. A fifteen-year veteran of Eve’s world, she was unmarried, childless. At dinner, she’d unobtrusively managed to keep the peace. Was she worried that the publication of Eve’s story would disrupt that peace irrevocably?
Even as Julia thought about her, she spotted Nina coming briskly along the path, carrying a large cardboard box.
Julia pushed the kitchen door open. “Special delivery?”
With a breathless laugh, Nina swung the box through the door. “I told you I was the pack mule.” She grunted a bit when she dropped the box onto the kitchen table. “Eve asked me to put this stuff together for you. Photos, clippings, studio stills. She thought it might be helpful.”
Instantly curious, Julia flipped open the top. “Oh, yes!” Delighted, she held up an old publicity shot of Eve—sultry, smoldering, wrapped around a spearingly handsome Michael Torrent. She began to root through the box.
To Nina’s credit she winced only slightly as Julia destroyed all of her careful filing.
“This is wonderful.” Julia lifted out an ordinary snapshot, a bit faded, a bit worn around the edges. Her woman’s heart gave a lurch of excitement. “Oh, Christ, it’s Gable.”
“Yes, taken here, by the pool at one of Eve’s parties. That was right before he filmed The Misfits. Right before he died.”
“Tell her it’ll not only help the book, but provide me with enormous entertainment. I feel like a kid in a chocolate factory.”
“Then I’ll leave you to indulge.”
“Wait.” Julia forced herself to turn away from the box of goodies before Nina opened the door. “Do you have a few minutes?”
As a matter of habit, Nina checked her watch. “Of course. Do you want to go over some of the pictures with me?”
“No, actually, I’d like an interview. I’ll make it short,” she added hastily when she saw an evasive expression flicker on Nina’s face. “I know how busy you are, and I hate to take any of your time during working hours.” Julia smiled, congratulating herself. It was an inspiration to turn the situation around so that she was the one being inconvenienced. “I’ll go get my recorder. Please, pour yourself a glass of wine.” She hurried out, knowing she’d given Nina no time to agree or refuse.
When she came back, Nina had poured a glass, topped off Julia’s, and taken a seat. She smiled, a handsome woman used to juggling her time to suit someone else. “Eve asked me to cooperate, but to tell you the truth, Julia, I can’t think of a thing that would be of interest.”
“Leave that to me.” Julia opened her notebook, switched on the recorder. She recognized a reluctant subject. It only meant she would have to dig with a gentler hand. Keeping the tone light, she asked, “Nina, you must realize how fascinated people would be just to hear Eve Benedict’s daily routine. What she has for breakfast, the kind of music she prefers, if she snacks in front of the television at night. But I can find out a lot of that for myself and don’t want to take up your time with trivialities.”
Nina’s polite smile remained in place. “As I said, Eve asked me to cooperate.”
“I appreciate it. What I’d like from you are your thoughts about her as a person. As someone who’s worked closely with her for fifteen years, you probably know her better than almost anyone.”
“I’d like to think that we share a friendship as well as a working relationship.”
“Is it difficult to live and work in the same house with someone who, by her own definition, is demanding?”
“I’ve never found it difficult.” Nina cocked her head as she sipped her wine. “Challenging, certainly. Over the years Eve’s provided me with many challenges.”
“What would you say is the most memorable?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Nina laughed. “About five years ago, while she was filming Heat Wave, she decided she wanted to throw a party. That doesn’t sound unusual. Eve loves a party. But she’d been so enchanted by the location work in Nassau that she insisted the party be set on an island—and she wanted it to come off in two weeks.” The memory had her dropping the p
olite smile for a genuine one. “Have you ever tried to rent an entire island in the Caribbean, Julia?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“It has its complications—particularly if you want it to have any sort of modern conveniences such as shelter, electricity, plumbing. I managed to find one, a charming little spot about thirty-five miles off the coast of St. Thomas. We flew in generators, in case of tropical storms. Then, of course, there was the logistics of getting the food there, the drink, the china, silver, entertainment. Tables, chairs. Ice.” She closed her eyes. “Incredible amounts of ice.”
“How did you manage it.”
Nina’s eyes fluttered open. “By air and by sea. And by the skin of my teeth. I spent three days on the place myself, with carpenters—Eve wanted a couple of cabanas thrown up—with