Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  “He’s ten?” Nina asked. “You look much too young to have a ten-year-old.”

  Julia’s polite smile was her only comment. She turned to Eve as the last dessert dish was served. “I wanted to ask you what portions of the estate are off limits.”

  “The boy can have the run of the place. He swims?”

  “Yes. Very well.”

  “Then we won’t worry about the pool. Nina will let you know whenever I plan to entertain.”

  Knowing her duty, Julia forced herself to stay alert until after the meal was finished. Even the single glass of dinner wine had been a mistake, she realized. Desperate for bed, she excused herself, thanking her hostess. It didn’t please her at all that Paul insisted on walking her back.

  “I know the way.”

  “There’s not much of a moon tonight.” He took her elbow and steered her onto the terrace. “It’s easy to get turned around in the dark. Or you might fall asleep on your feet and tumble into the pool.”

  Julia shifted away from him automatically. “I swim very well myself.”

  “That may be, but chlorine’s hell on silk.” He pulled a slim cigar from his pocket, and, cupping his hands around a lighter, touched the flame to the end. He’d noticed several things about her that evening, one of which was that she hadn’t wanted her child to become dinner conversation. “You could have told Eve you were as exhausted as your son.”

  “I’m fine.” She tilted her head to study his profile as they walked. “You don’t care for my profession, do you, Mr. Winthrop?”

  “No. But then, this biography is Eve’s business, not mine.”

  “Whether you care for it or not, I’m expecting an interview.”

  “And do you get what you expect, always?”

  “No, but I get what I’m after. Always.” She stopped at the door to the guest house. “Thank you for seeing me back.”

  Very cool, he thought. Very controlled, very slick. He might have accepted her at face value if he hadn’t noticed her right thumbnail was chewed down to the quick. In a deliberate test he moved a little closer. While she didn’t jerk away, she did shoot up an invisible wall. It would be interesting, he decided, to see if she did the same with all men, or just with him. At the moment, he had only one priority.

  “Eve Benedict is the most important person in my life.” His voice was low, dangerous. “Be careful, Ms. Summers. Be very careful. You wouldn’t want to have me as an enemy.”

  Her palms had gone damp, and that infuriated her. She coated her temper with ice. “It appears I already have. And what I will be, Mr. Winthrop, is thorough. Very thorough. Good night.”

  By ten o’clock on Monday, Julia was ready. She’d spent the weekend with her son, taking advantage of the mild weather by delivering on her promised trip to Disneyland and throwing in the bonus of the Universal tour. He’d acclimated quickly—more quickly than she—to the time change.

  She knew they’d both suffered from nerves when they’d walked into his new school that morning. They’d had their interview with the principal before Brandon, looking very small and brave, had gone off to his first class. Julia had filled out dozens of forms, shaken the principal’s hand, and had remained composed during the drive home.

  Then she’d indulged herself in a long crying jag. Now, with her face carefully rinsed and made up, her tape recorder and notebook in her briefcase, she rang the bell on the front door of the main house. Moments later, Travers opened the door and sniffed as if in disapproval. “Miss Benedict is up in her office. She’s expecting you.” So saying, she turned and led the way upstairs.

  The office was in the center leg of the “E,” with a wide half-moon window making up the front wall. The other three were lined with shelves that held the awards of Eve’s long career. The statuettes and plaques were interspersed with photographs and playbills and memorabilia from her movies.

  Julia recognized the white lace fan that had been a prop in an antebellum film, the sexy red high heeled shoes Eve had worn when she’d played an equally scarlet saloon singer, the rag doll she had clung to when she’d starred as a mother searching for a lost child.

  She also noted that the office wasn’t as tidy as the rest of the house. It was as richly furnished with a combination of antiques and vivid colors. The wallpaper was silk, the carpet deep and soft. But beside the huge rosewood desk where Eve sat were piles of scripts. A coffee machine, its pot already half empty, stood on a Queen Anne table. Stacks of Variety littered the floor, and the ashtray beside the phone Eve was barking into overflowed.

  “They can take their certificate of honor and shove it.” She gestured Julia inside with a smoldering cigarette, then took a deep drag. “I don’t give a fuck if it is good press, Drake, I’m not flying out to Timbuktu to sit through a chicken dinner with a bunch of bloody Republicans. It may be the nation’s capital, but it’s Timbuktu to me. I didn’t vote for the sucker, I’m not going to have dinner with him.” She gave a snort and tapped the cigarette partially out on the corpses of others. “You handle it. That’s what you’re paid to do.” Hanging up, she waved Julia toward a seat. “Politics. It’s for idiots and bad actors.”

  Julia placed her briefcase beside her chair. “Shall I quote you?”

  Eve merely smiled. “I take it you’re ready to get to work. I thought we should have our first session in a businesslike atmosphere.”

  “Wherever you’re comfortable.” Julia glanced at the mound of scripts. “Rejections?”

  “Half of them want me to play somebody’s grandmother, the other half want me to take my clothes off.” She hefted a foot clad in a red sneaker and gave the pile a shove. It toppled over, an avalanche of dreams. “A good writer’s worth a king’s ransom.”

  “And a good actor?”

  Eve laughed. “Knows how to turn straw into gold—like any magician.” She lifted a brow when Julia took her tape recorder and set it on the coffee table. “What’s on and off the record is up to me.”

  “Naturally.” She’d simply make sure to get everything she wanted on the record. “I don’t break trusts, Miss Benedict.”

  “Everyone does, eventually.” She waved a long, narrow hand studded with a single, glowing ruby. “Before I begin breaking mine, I want to know more about you—and not just the crap in your press kit. Your parents?”

  More impatient than annoyed, Julia folded her hands in her lap. “They’re both dead.”

  “Siblings?”

  “I was an only child.”

  “You never married.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  Though there was a little twist of pain, Julia’s voice remained level and calm. “I never chose to.”

  “As I’ve been in and out of the institution four times, I can’t recommend it, but it seems to me that raising a child alone would be difficult.”

  “It has its problems, and its rewards.”

  “Such as?”

  The question threw her so that she had to school herself not to squirm. “Such as having only your own feelings to rely on when making decisions.”

  “And is that problem or reward?”

  A faint smile curved Julia’s lips. “Both.” She took her pad and a pencil out of her briefcase. “Since you can give me only two hours today, I’d like to get started. Naturally I know the background information that’s been made public. You were born in Omaha, the second of three children. Your father was a salesman.”

  All right, Eve decided, they would begin. What she had to learn she would learn as they went along. “A traveling salesman,” Eve put in as Julia pressed the record button. “I’ve always suspected I had several half siblings scattered through the central plains. In fact, I’ve been approached many times by people claiming relationships, and hoping for handouts.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “It was my father’s problem, not mine. An accident of birth doesn’t equal a free ride.” Steepling her fingers, she sat back. “I made my success. On my own.
If I were still Betty Berenski from Omaha, do you think any of those people would have bothered with me? But Eve Benedict’s a different matter. I left Betty and the cornfields behind when I was eighteen. I don’t believe in looking back.”

  That was a philosophy Julia both understood and respected. She began to feel thrumming excitement—the birth of the intimacy that made her work of this kind so successful.

  “Tell me about your family. What it was like for Betty growing up?”

  With her head back, she laughed. “Oh, my older sister will be appalled to see in print that I called our father a philanderer. But truth is truth. He hit the road to sell his pots and pans—always sold enough to keep the wolf from the door. He would come back with little trinkets for his girls. Chocolates or handkerchiefs or ribbons. There were always presents from Daddy. He was a big, handsome man with black hair and a mustache and red cheeks. We doted on him. We also did without him five days out of seven.”

  She plucked up a cigarette and lighted it. “We would do his laundry on Saturdays. His shirts reeked of perfume. On Saturdays my mother always lost her sense of smell. Never once did I hear her question or accuse or complain. She was not a coward, she was … quiescent, accepting her lot in life, and her husband’s infidelity. I think she knew that she was the only woman he loved. When she died, quite suddenly—I was sixteen—my father was a lost soul. He grieved for her until he died five years later.” She paused, leaning forward again. “What do you write there?”

  “Observations,” Julia told her. “Opinions.”

  “And what do you observe?”

  “That you loved your father, and were disappointed in him.”

  “What if I told you that’s bullshit?”

  Julia tapped her pencil against the pad. Yes, there had to be understanding, she thought. And a balance of power. “Then we’d both be wasting our time.”

  After a moment’s silence Eve reached for the phone. “I want fresh coffee.”

  By the time Eve had instructed the kitchen, Julia had made the decision to steer away from more discussion of family. When she understood Eve better, she would come back to it.

  “You were eighteen when you first came to Hollywood,” she began. “Alone. Fresh off the farm, so to speak. I’m interested in your feelings, your impressions. What was it like for that young girl from Omaha stepping off the bus in Los Angeles?”

  “Exciting.”

  “You weren’t afraid?”

  “I was too young to be afraid. Too cocky to believe I could fail.” Eve stood and began to stalk the room. “We were at war, and our boys were being shipped off to Europe to fight and die. I had a cousin, a funny kid who joined the navy and went to the South Pacific. He came back in a box. His funeral was in June. In July I packed my bags. I’d suddenly learned that life could be very short, and very cruel. I wasn’t going to waste another second of it.”

  Travers brought in the coffee. “Set it down there,” Eve ordered with a gesture toward the low table in front of Julia. “Let the girl pour.”

  Eve took her coffee black, then leaned against the corner of her desk. Julia scribbled her observations: Eve’s strengths—revealed in her face, her voice, the lines of her body.

  “I was naive,” Eve said huskily, “but not stupid. I knew I had taken a step that would change my life. And I understood there would be sacrifices and hardships. Loneliness. You understand?”

  Julia remembered lying in a hospital bed at eighteen, a small, helpless baby in her arms. “Yes, I do.”

  “I had thirty-five dollars when I stepped off the bus, but I didn’t intend to go hungry. I had a portfolio stuffed with pictures and clippings.”

  “You’d done some modeling.”

  “Yes, and little theater. Back in those days the studio sent out scouts, more to get publicity than actually do talent searches. But I realized it would be a cold day in hell when a scout got around to discovering me in Omaha. So I decided to go to Hollywood. And that was that. I took a job at a diner, got myself a few spots as an extra at Warner Bros. The trick was to be seen—on the lot, on a set, at the commissary. I volunteered at the Hollywood Canteen. Not selflessly, not because of the GIs, but because I knew I would be rubbing elbows with stars. Causes or good deeds were the last things on my mind. I was concerned with myself, completely. You find that cold, Ms. Summers?”

  Julia couldn’t think why her opinion would matter, but she considered before she answered. “Yes. I also imagine it was practical.”

  “Yes.” Eve’s mouth firmed. “Ambition requires practicality. And it was a heady experience, watching Bette Davis pour coffee, Rita Hay worth serve sandwiches. And I was a part of it. It was there I met Charlie Gray.”

  The dance floor was packed with GIs and pretty girls. The scents of perfume, aftershave, smoke, and black coffee crowded the air. Harry James was playing, and the music was hot. Eve liked hearing the trumpet soar over the noise and laughter. After a full shift at the diner, and the hours spent dogging agents, her feet were killing her. It didn’t help that the shoes she’d bought secondhand were a half size too small.

  She made certain the fatigue didn’t show in her face. You could never be sure who might drop in, and notice. She was damn certain she’d have to be noticed only once to start the climb.

  Smoke hung at the ceiling, curling around the wagon-wheel lights. The music turned sentimental. Uniforms and party dresses drifted together, swayed.

  Wondering how soon she could take a break, Eve poured another cup of coffee for another star-struck GI and smiled.

  “You’ve been here every night this week.”

  Eve glanced over and studied the tall, lanky man. Rather than a uniform, he was wearing a gray flannel suit that didn’t disguise his thin shoulders. He had fair hair slicked back from a bony face. Big brown eyes drooped like a basset hound’s.

  She recognized him, and pumped her smile up a few degrees. He wasn’t a big name. Charlie Gray unfailingly played the buddy of the hero. But he was a name. And he had noticed.

  “We all do our part in the war effort, Mr. Gray.” She lifted a hand to brush a long wave of hair from her eyes. “Coffee?”

  “Sure.” He leaned against the snack bar while she poured. Watching her work, he pulled out a pack of Luckies and lighted one. “I just finished my shift bussing tables, so I thought I’d come by and talk to the prettiest girl in the room.”

  She didn’t blush. She could have if she’d chosen to, but she opted for the more sophisticated route. “Miss Hayworth’s in the kitchen.”

  “I like brunettes.”

  “Your first wife was a blond.”

  He grinned. “So was the second one. That’s why I like brunettes. What’s your name, honey?”

  She’d already chosen it, carefully, deliberately. “Eve,” she said. “Eve Benedict.”

  He figured he had her pegged. Young, stars in her eyes, waiting for that chance to be discovered. “And you want to be in pictures?”

  “No.” With her eyes on his she took the cigarette from his fingers, drew in, and expelled smoke, then handed it back. “I’m going to be in pictures.”

  The way she said it, the way she looked when she said it, had him revising his first impression. Intrigued, he lifted the cigarette to his lips and caught the faintest taste of her. “How long have you been in town?”

  “Five months, two weeks, and three days. How about you?”

  “Too damn long.” Attracted, as he always was, by a fast-talking, dangerous-looking woman, he glanced over her. She wore a very quiet blue suit made explosive by the body it covered so discreetly. His blood swam a little faster. When his gaze came back to hers and he saw the cool amusement in her expression, he knew he wanted her. “How about a dance?”

  “I’ll be pouring coffee for another hour.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  As he walked away, Eve worried that she had overplayed it. Underplayed it. She ran every word, every gesture, back through her mind, trying out dozens of others.
All the while she poured coffee, flirted with young, soap-scrubbed GIs. Nerves jittered behind each smoldering smile. When her shift ended, she strolled with apparent nonchalance from behind the snack bar.

  “That’s some walk you’ve got.” Charlie moved beside her, and Eve let out a quiet breath of relief.

  “It gets me from one place to the next.”

  They stepped onto the dance floor, and his arms slipped around her. They stayed around her for nearly an hour.

  “Where did you come from?” he murmured.

  “Nowhere. I was born five months, two weeks, and three days ago.”

  He laughed, rubbing his cheek against her hair. “You’re already too young for me. Don’t make it worse.” God, she was like holding sex—pure, vibrant sex. “It’s too warm in here.”

  “I like the heat.” She tossed back her head and smiled at him. It was a new look she was trying out, a half smile, lips just parted, eyes slanted lazily under partially lowered lids. From the way his fingers tightened on hers, she figured it worked. “But we could take a drive if you want to cool off.”

  He drove fast, and a little recklessly, and made her laugh. Occasionally he unscrewed the top on a silver flask of bourbon which he nipped from, and she refused. Bit by bit she let him pry information from her—pieces she wanted him to know. She hadn’t yet been able to find an agent, but had talked herself onto a studio lot and was an extra in The Hard Way with Ida Lupino and Dennis Morgan. Most of the money she made as a waitress paid for acting classes. It was an investment: She wanted to be a professional, and she intended to be a star.

  She asked about his work—not about the glossier stars he worked with, but the work itself. He’d had just enough to drink to feel both flattered and protective. By the time he dropped her off at her boardinghouse, he was completely infatuated.

  “Honey, you’re a babe in the woods. There are plenty of wolves out there who’d love to take a bite.”

  Eyes sleepy, she laid her head back against the seat. “Nobody takes a bite of me … unless I want him to.” When he leaned down to kiss her, she waited until his mouth brushed hers, then eased away and opened the car door. “Thanks for the ride.” After passing a hand through her hair, she walked to the front door of the old gray building. Turning, she shot him a parting smile over her shoulder. “See you around, Charlie.”