by Nora Roberts
Julia grinned. It was comfortably easy to shrug off the vague weight of concern. “Almost famous. Or maybe famous by association after last night.”
All big blue eyes and fresh-scrubbed face, CeeCee sighed. “Was it really great?”
Two women in a sunny kitchen, and neither of them were talking about a star-studded benefit. But of a man.
Julia thought of dancing with Paul, of waking up, unbearably stirred, with his mouth hot on hers. And yes, feeling that demand snap from him into her with a beat much more primal than any recorded music. “It was … different.”
“Isn’t Mr. Winthrop just totally gorgeous? Every time I talk to him, my mouth gets dry and my palms get wet.” She closed her eyes as she rinsed the cloth clean. “Too wild.”
“He’s the kind of man it’s difficult not to notice,” Julia said, her voice wry with her own understatement.
“You’re telling me. Women go crazy for him. I don’t think he’s ever brought the same one here twice. Stud city, you know?”
“Hmm.” Julia had her own opinion of a man who would flit so arbitrarily from woman to woman. “He seems devoted to Miss Benedict.”
“Sure. I guess he’d do about anything for her—except settle down and give her the grandchildren she wants.” CeeCee tossed back her wispy bangs. “It’s funny to think of Miss B. as a grandma.”
Funny wasn’t the word that came to Julia’s mind. It was more like incredible. “How long have you worked for her?” “Technically just a couple years, but I’ve been underfoot as long as I can remember. Aunt Dottie used to let me come over on weekends, and during the summer.”
“Aunt Dottie?”
“Travers.”
“Travers?” Julia nearly choked on her coffee, trying to equate the stern-mouthed, suspicious-eyed housekeeper with the expansive CeeCee. “She’s your aunt?”
“Yeah, my dad’s big sister. Travers is like a stage name. She did some acting back in the fifties, I think. But never really hit. She’s worked for Miss B. forever. Kind of weird when you figure they were married to the same man.”
This time Julia had the sense to lower the coffee cup before attempting to drink. “Excuse me?”
“Anthony Kincade,” CeeCee explained. “You know, the director? Aunt Dottie was married to him first.” A glance at the clock had her straightening from her slouch against the counter. “Wow, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a ten o’clock class.” She bolted toward the living room to gather up books and bags. “I’ll be here tomorrow to change the linens. Is it okay if I bring my little brother? He really wants to meet Brandon.”
Julia nodded, still trying to catch up. “Sure. We’d be glad to have him over.”
CeeCee shot a grin over her shoulder as she raced for the door. “Tell me that after he’s been around for a couple of hours.”
Even as the door slammed, Julia was sharpening her thoughts into calculations. Anthony Kincade. That bitter mountain of flesh had been husband to both the glamorous Eve and the monosyllabic housekeeper. Curiosity sent her bolting through the living room, into her temporary office and to her reference books. For a few minutes she mumbled and swore to herself, trying to locate what never seemed to be in the last place she’d left it.
She would get organized, she would, she swore to whatever saint watched over distracted writers. Right after she satisfied her curiosity, she’d spend an hour—okay, fifteen minutes—putting everything in order. The vow apparently worked. With a crow of triumph she pounced. She found the listing quickly in Who’s Who.
Kincade, Anthony, she read. Born Hackensack, N.J., November 12, 1920 … Julia skipped over his accomplishments, his successes and failures. Married Margaret Brewster, 1942, two children, Anthony Jr. and Louise, divorced 1947. Married Dorothy Travers, 1950, one child, Thomas, deceased. Divorced 1953. Married Eve Benedict, 1954. Divorced 1959.
There were two more marriages, but they didn’t interest Julia; it was too fascinating to speculate about the peculiar triangle. Dorothy Travers—and the name set off a faint bell in Julia’s head—had been married to Kincade for three years, and had bore him a son. Within a year of the divorce, Kincade had married Eve. Now Travers worked as Eve’s housekeeper.
How could two women who had shared the same man share the same house?
It was a question she intended to ask. But first she was going to show the anonymous notes she’d received to Eve, hope for a reaction, and perhaps an explanation. Julia pushed the reference book aside, her bargain with the long-suffering saint already forgotten.
Fifteen minutes later Travers opened the door of the main house. Studying the woman’s set, dissatisfied face and paunchy build, Julia wondered how she could have attracted the same man as the stunning, statuesque Eve.
“In the gym,” Travers muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“In the gym,” she repeated, and led the way in her reluctant style. She turned into the east wing and headed down a corridor with many intricate wall niches, each filled with an Erte statue. To the right was a wide arched window that opened onto the central courtyard, where Julia saw the gardener, Wayfarers and headphones in place, delicately clipping the topiary.
At the end of the hall were thick double doors painted a bold teal. Travers didn’t knock, but swung one open. Immediately the hallway was filled with bright, bouncy music and Eve’s steady curses.
Julia would never have called the room by the lowly name gym. Despite the weight equipment, the slant boards, the mirrored wall and ballet barre, it was elegant. An exercise palace, perhaps, Julia mused, studying the high ceiling painted with streamlined art deco figures. Light broke through a trio of stained glass skylights in refracting, rainbow colors. Not a palace, Julia corrected herself. A temple erected to worship the smug-faced god of sweat.
The floor was a glossily polished parquet, and a gleaming smoked-glass wet bar, complete with refrigerator and microwave, took up another wall. Music cartwheeled out of a high-tech stereo system flanked by potted begonias and towering ficus trees.
Standing beside Eve as she lay on a weight bench doing leg curls was Mr. Muscle. Temporarily mesmerized, Julia let out a long breath as she looked at him. He had to be nearly seven feet—a Nordic god whose bronze body bulged out of an incredibly brief unitard. The single white band stretched low on his gleaming chest, snaked down his hips, rode high and tight over a very muscular set of buns.
His golden blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, his ice-blue eyes smiling approval as Eve’s curses turned the air a deeper, much hotter blue.
“Fuck this, Fritz.”
“Five more, my beautiful flower,” he said in precise, musical English that had images of cool lakes and mountain streams dancing in Julia’s mind.
“You’re killing me.”
“I make you strong.” As she huffed her way through the last of the curls, he laid a huge hand on her thigh and squeezed. “You have the muscle tone of a thirty-year-old.” Then he gave her bottom an intimate little rub.
Dripping sweat, Eve collapsed. “If I ever walk again, I’m going to kick you right in your enormous crotch.”
He laughed, patted her again, then grinned over at Julia. “Hello.”
Barely, she managed to swallow. Eve’s last comment had lured Julia’s gaze down so that she’d seen for herself the adjective hadn’t been an exaggeration. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to interrupt.”
Eve managed to open her eyes. If she’d had the energy, she would have chuckled. Most women got that slack-jawed, dazed look after their first load of Fritz. She was glad Julia wasn’t immune. “Thank God. Travers, pour me something very cold—and put some arsenic in it for my friend here.”
Fritz laughed again, a deep, cheerful sound that bounded easily over Eve’s creative curses. “You drink a little, then we work on your arms. You don’t want the skin hanging down like turkey’s.”
“I can come back,” Julia began as Eve turned over. “No, stay. He’s almost through torturing me. Aren’t you, Fritz?
”
“Almost done.” He took the drink Travers offered and downed it in one gulp before she had shuffled out the door. While Eve mopped her face with a towel, he studied Julia. The look in his eyes made her uneasy. Brandon’s took on the same light when he was offered a nice, pliant lump of modeling clay. “You have good legs. You work out?”
“Well, no.” A dastardly admonition in southern California, she realized. People had been hanged for less. She was wondering if she should apologize, when he crossed to her and began to feel her arms. “Hey, look—”
“Skinny arms.” Her mouth fell open when he ran his hands over her stomach. “Good abs. We can fix you up.”
“Thank you.” He had fingers like rods of iron, and she didn’t want to rile him. “But I really don’t have time.”
“You must make time for your body,” he said so seriously, she swallowed the nervous laugh. “You come on Monday, I start you off.”
“I really don’t think—”
“An excellent idea,” Eve put in. “I hate to be tortured alone.” She grimaced as Fritz set the weights on the Nautilus for her arm work. “Have a seat, Julia. You can talk to me and take my mind off my misery.”
“Monday, my ass,” Julia muttered.
“I beg your pardon?”
She smiled as Eve got in the next position for pain. “I said I wonder if the weather will last.”
Eve, who had heard her very well the first time, merely lifted a brow. “That’s what I thought you said.” Once she was settled, Eve took a cleansing breath and began to pull the weights toward the center of her body, and out. “You enjoyed yourself last night?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“So polite.” She shot a grin at Fritz. “She wouldn’t swear at you.”
Julia watched Eve’s muscles bunch and strain. Sweat was popping out again. “Oh yes I would.”
Eve laughed even as the effort slicked wet down her flesh. “You know the trouble with being beautiful, Julia? Everyone notices the least little flaw—they relish finding them. So you have to maintain.” Straining at the tense and flow of her own muscles, she sucked in air and puffed it out. “Like a religion. I’m determined to do the best I can for the body God and the surgeons have given me. And not give anyone the satisfaction of saying she was beautiful—once.” She broke off to swear for a moment while her arms throbbed. “Some people claim to be addicted to this. I can only think they’re very, very sick. How many more?” she asked Fritz.
“Twenty.”
“Bastard.” But she didn’t slacken pace. “What are your impressions from last night?”
“That a very high percentage of the people there cared as much about the charity as they did the publicity. That new Hollywood will never have quite the same class as old Hollywood. And that Anthony Kincade is an unpleasant and potentially dangerous man.”
“I wondered if you’d be easily dazzled. Apparently not. How many more, you son of a bitch?”
“Five.”
Eve swore her way through them, panting like a woman in the last throes of childbirth. The more vicious her oaths, the wider Fritz’s grin. “Wait here,” she ordered Julia, then groaned to her feet and disappeared through a door.
“She is a lovely woman,” Fritz commented. “Strong.”
“Yes.” But when she tried to imagine herself pumping iron as she cruised toward seventy, Julia shuddered. She’d damn well take her flab and like it. “You don’t think all this might be too much, considering her age?”
He lifted a brow as he glanced toward the door where Eve had gone. He knew if she had heard that, she would do a great deal more than swear. “For someone else, yes. Not for Eve. I am a personal trainer. This program is for her body, for her mind. For her spirit. All three are strong.” He moved toward one of the windows. Beside it was a massage table and a shelf cluttered with oils and lotions. “For you I design something different.”
That was a subject she wanted to veer away from. And quickly. “How long have you been her personal trainer?”
“Five years.” After choosing his oils, he used the remote to change the music. Now it was classical, soothing strings. “She has brought me many clients. But if I had only one, I would want Eve.”
He said her name almost reverently. “She inspires loyalty.”
“She is a great lady.” He passed a tiny bottle under his nose and reminded Julia of the bull, Ferdinand, smelling flowers. “You’re writing her book.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You be sure to say she is a great lady.”
Eve came back in, wrapped in a short white robe, her hair damp, her face pink and glowing. Without a word she walked over to the table, stripped as carelessly as a child, and stretched out on her stomach. Fritz draped a sheet modestly over her hips and went to work.
“After hell comes heaven.” Eve sighed. She propped her chin on her fists and her eyes glowed into Julia’s. “You may want to include that I put myself through this hideous business three times a week. And while I hate every minute of it, I know it’s kept my body looking good enough that Nina has to turn down an annual offer from Playboy, and my endurance up so that I can endure a ten- or twelve-hour shoot without collapsing. In fact, I’m stealing Fritz away when I go to Georgia on location. The man has the best hands on five continents.”
He blushed like a boy at the compliment.
While Fritz used those hands to knead and relax Eve’s muscles, Julia centered the conversation on health, exercise, and daily routine. She waited, patient, while Eve slipped back into her robe and exchanged a very warm, very intimate kiss with her trainer. Julia thought of the scene she’d witnessed in the garden and wondered how a woman so obviously in love with one man could flirt so blatantly with another.
“Monday,” he said with a nod at Julia as he tugged on sweats. “I start your program.”
“She’ll be here,” Eve promised before Julia could politely decline. She was grinning as Fritz hefted his gym bag and strode out the door. “Consider it part of your research,” Eve advised. “Well, what did you think of him?”
“Was I drooling?”
“Only a little.” Eve flexed her limbered muscles, then slipped a pack of cigarettes from her robe pocket. “Christ, I’m dying for one of these. I don’t have the heart—or maybe it’s the nerve—to smoke around Fritz. Fix us another drink, will you? Heavy on the champagne in mine.”
While Julia rose to obey, Eve took a deep, hungry drag. “I can’t think of another man in the world I’d give these up for, even for a few hours.” She blew out another stream of smoke as Julia offered a glass. Her laugh was quick and rich, as if at a private joke. “The longer I know you, the easier you are to read, Julia. Right now you’re struggling not to be judgmental, wondering how I justify an affair with a man young enough to be my son.”
“It’s not my job to be judgmental.”
“No, it’s not, and you’re bound and determined to do your job. Just for the record, I wouldn’t attempt to justify it, but merely to enjoy it. As it happens, I’m not having an affair with that fabulous slice of beefcake, because he’s quite obstinately gay.” She laughed and sipped again. “Now you’re shocked and telling yourself not to be.”
Uncomfortable, Julia shifted and sipped her own drink.
“The purpose of this is for me to explore your feelings, not for you to explore mine.”
“It works both ways.” Eve slipped off the table to curl like a cat into a deeply cushioned rattan chair. Every movement was sinuously feminine, seductive. It occurred to Julia that young Betty Berenski had chosen her name well. She was all woman—as ageless and mysterious as the first. “Before this book is finished, you and I will know each other as well as two people are able to. More intimately than lovers, more completely than parent and child. As we come to trust each other, you’ll understand the purpose.”
To put things back on the level she preferred, Julia took out her recorder and pad. “What reason would I have not to trust you?”<
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Eve smiled through a veil of smoke. Secrets, ripe as plums for picking, glistened in her eyes. “What reason indeed? Go ahead, Julia, ask the questions that are buzzing around in that head of yours. I’m in the mood to answer them.”
“Anthony Kincade. Why don’t you tell me how you came to marry him, and how his second wife went from making B movies to working as your housekeeper?”
Rather than answering, Eve smoked and considered. “You’ve been questioning CeeCee.”
There was a trace of annoyance in the statement, enough to give Julia a tug of satisfaction. Maybe they would reach a level of trust and intimacy, but it would be on equal terms. “Talking to her, certainly. If there was something you didn’t want her to tell me, you neglected to mention it to her.” When Eve remained silent, Julia tapped her pencil on her pad. “She commented this morning that she’d often spent time here as a child, visiting her Aunt Dottie. Naturally, it came out who Aunt Dottie was.”
“And you took it from there.”
“It’s my job to follow up information,” Julia said mildly, not only registering the growing irritation, but relishing it. Petty perhaps, she reflected, but satisfying to know that she’d finally chipped under that glossy guard.
“You had only to ask me.”
“That’s precisely what I’m doing now.” Julia tilted her head, and the angle was as much a challenge as a pair of raised fists. “If you wanted to keep secrets, Eve, you chose the wrong biographer. I don’t work with blinders on.”