by Nora Roberts
Peeking into Brandon’s room, she took another look. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face smashed into his pillow. His latest building project was neatly arranged in the center of the room. All of his miniature cars were lined up in a well-orchestrated traffic jam on his desk. For Brandon, everything had a place. This room, where the famous and powerful must have slept, was now completely her little boy’s. It smelled of him—crayons and that oddly sweet, somewhat wild aroma of a child’s sweat.
Leaning against the doorjamb, she smiled at him. Julia knew that if she took him to the Ritz or plopped him into a cave, within a day Brandon would have cordoned off his own space and been content. Where, she wondered, did he get that confidence, that ability to make a place of his own?
Not from her, she thought. Not from the man who had conceived the child with her. It was at times like this that she wondered whose blood ran through her to be passed off to her son. She knew nothing about her biological parents, and had never wanted to know—except late at night when she was alone, looking at her son … and wondering.
She left his door open, an old habit she had never been able to break. Even as she walked to her own room, she knew she was too restless for bed or for work. After tugging on a pair of sweats, she wandered downstairs, then outside, into the night.
There was moonlight, long silver tapers of it. And quiet, the exquisite quiet she’d learned to prize after her years in Manhattan. She could hear the air breathing through the trees, the fluid ebb and flow that was the song of insects. Whatever the air quality in L.A., here each breath was like drinking flowers and moondust.
She walked past the table where she had sat that afternoon, verbally jostling with Paul Winthrop. It was odd, she thought now, that they had shared her most extensive personal conversation with a man in too long to remember. Yet she didn’t think they knew each other any better than they had before.
It was her job to find out more about him—as it pertained to Eve. She was already certain he was the little boy Eve had spoken of to Brandon. The young boy who had liked petits fours. It was difficult for Julia to picture Paul as a child hoping for a treat.
What kind of mother figure had Eve Benedict been? Julia pursed her lips as she considered. That was the angle she needed to explore. Had she been indulgent, careless, devoted, aloof? After all, she had never had a child of her own. How had she reacted to the smattering of stepchildren who had woven in and out of her life? And how did they remember her?
What about her nephew, Drake Morrison? There was a blood tie between them. It would be interesting to talk to him about his aunt, not his client.
It wasn’t until she heard the voices that Julia realized she’d wandered deep into the garden. She immediately recognized Eve’s whiskey tones and just as immediately noticed a faint difference in them. They were softer, gentler, with the richness that enters a woman’s voice when she’s speaking to a lover.
And the other voice was as distinctive as a fingerprint. That deep, gravelly rasp sounded as if the vocal cords had been scraped with sandpaper.
Victor Flannigan—the legendary leading man of the forties and fifties, the dashing and dangerous romantic lead in the sixties, and even into the seventies. Now, though his hair gone white and his face was deeply lined, he still brought sensuality and style to the screen. More, he was considered by many to be one of the finest actors in the world.
He had made a trio of films with Eve, brilliant, fiery films that had provoked a flood of rumors about the fire offscreen. But Victor Flannigan was married to a devout Catholic. Rumors about Eve and him still buzzed from time to time, but neither added the fuel of comment to the flames.
Julia heard the sound of their merged laughter, and knew she was listening to lovers.
Her first thought was to turn quickly and start back to the guest house. Journalist she might be, but she couldn’t intrude on so obviously private a moment. The voices were coming closer. Going on instinct, Julia backed off the path and into the shadows to let them pass.
“Have you ever known me to be ignorant about what I was doing?” Eve asked him. She had her arm through his, her head inclined toward his broad shoulder. From the shadows Julie realized she’d never seen Eve look more beautiful or more happy.
“Yes.” He stopped and took Eve’s face in his hands. He was only a few inches taller than she, but built like a bull, a solid wall of muscle and bulk. His white hair was a mane of silver in the moonlight. “I imagine I’m the only one who could say that and stay alive.”
“Vic, darling Vic.” Eve stared into the face she had known and loved half of her life. Looking at him now, seeing the age, remembering the youth made tears back up in her throat. “Don’t worry about me. I have my reasons for the book. When it’s finished …” She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, needing badly to feel that strong pump of life from his pulse. “You and I will curl up by the fire and read it to each other.”
“Why bring it all back, Eve?”
“Because it’s time. It wasn’t all bad. In fact”—she laughed and pressed her cheek to his—“since I decided to do it, it’s made me think, remember, reevaluate. I’ve realized how much pleasure there is in just living.”
He captured her hands to bring them to his lips. “Nothing in my life has given me more than you. I’ll always wish—”
“No.” Shaking her head, she cut him off. Julia could see the glint of tears in Eve’s eyes. “Don’t wish. We’ve had what we’ve had. I wouldn’t change it.”
“Not even the drunken brawls?”
She laughed. “Not one. In fact, sometimes it pisses me off that you let Betty Ford dry you out. You were the sexiest drunk I’ve ever known.”
“Remember the time I stole Gene Kelly’s car?”
“It was Spencer Tracy’s, God love him.”
“Ah, well, we’re all Irishmen. You and I drove to Vegas and called him.”
“It was more to the point what he called us.” She pressed close, absorbing the scents that were part of him. Tobacco, peppermint, and the piney aftershave he’d used for decades. “Such good times, Victor.”
“That they were.” He pulled away from her, searching her face, finding it fascinating, as always. Was he the only one, he wondered, who knew her weaknesses, those soft spots she hid from a hungry world? “I don’t want you hurt, Eve. What you’re doing will make a lot of people—a lot of spiteful people—unhappy.”
He saw the glitter in her eyes as she smiled. “You were the only one who ever called me a tough old broad and got away with it. Have you forgotten?”
“No.” His voice roughened. “But you’re my tough old broad, Eve.”
“Trust me.”
“You, yes. But this writer is a different story.”
“You’d like her.” She leaned against him, shutting her eyes. “She’s got class and integrity shouting from her pores. She’s the right choice, Vic. Strong enough to finish what she starts, proud enough to do a good job of it. I believe I will like seeing my life through her eyes.”
He ran his hand up and down her back and felt the embers start to glow. With her, desire had never aged or paled. “I know better than to try to talk you out of anything once you’ve made up your mind. Christ knows I gave it my best shot before you married Rory Winthrop.”
Her laugh was soft, seductive, as were the fingers she trailed over the back of his neck. “And you’re still jealous that I tried to tell myself I could love him the way I love you.”
He felt the pang, but it was only part jealousy. “I had no right to hold you back, Eve. Then or now.”
“You never held me back.” She gripped what she’d always wanted and could never completely have. “That’s why no one’s ever mattered but you.”
His mouth took hers as it had thousands of times, with a lightness and a passion and a quiet despair. “God, I love you, Eve.” He laughed when he felt himself harden like iron. “Even ten years ago I’d have had you on your back here and now. These days I need a
bed.”
“Then come to mine.” Hand in hand they hurried off together.
Julia stayed in the shadows for a long time. It wasn’t embarrassment she felt, nor was it the tingle of learning a secret. There were tears on her cheeks, the kind that fell when she listened to a particularly beautiful piece of music, or watched a perfect sunset.
That had been love. Enduring, fulfilling, generous. And she realized what she felt beyond the beauty was envy. There was no one to walk in a moonlit garden with her. No one to make her voice take on that musky edge. No one.
Alone, she walked back to the house to spend a restless night in an empty bed.
The corner booth at Denny’s was a far cry from a power breakfast spot, but at least Drake was sure he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. Anyone who mattered. Over his second cup of coffee he ordered a short stack with ham and eggs on the side. He always ate when he was nervous. Delrickio was late.
Drake laced his cup of coffee with three packs of sugar and checked his Rolex for the third time in five minutes. He tried not to sweat.
If he had dared to risk leaving the table, he would have run into the men’s room to check his hair. He passed a careful hand over it to be sure every strand was in place. His fingers walked over the knot of his tie, finding the silk firmly in place. He brushed fussily at the sleeves of the Uomo jacket. His hammered-gold cuff links winked against the crisp ivory linen of his monogrammed shirt.
Image was everything. For the meeting with Delrickio he needed to appear cool, confident, collected. Inside, he was a little boy with jelly knees being led out to the woodshed.
As tough as those beatings had been, they were nothing compared to what would happen to him if he didn’t pull off this meeting. At least when his mother had been finished with him, he’d still been alive.
His mother’s credo had been spare the rod, spoil the child, and she had wielded that rod while religious fervor glazed her eyes.
Delrickio’s credo ran more along the lines of business is business, and he would slice off small vital parts of Drake’s body with the same casual skill as a man paring his nails.
Drake was checking his watch for the fourth time when Delrickio arrived. “You drink too much coffee.” He smiled as he took his seat. “It’s bad for your health.”
Michael Delrickio was nearing sixty and took his cholesterol count as seriously as he took the business he had inherited from his father. As a result, he was both rich and robust. His olive skin was pampered by weekly facials and contrasted dramatically with steel-gray hair and a lush mustache. His hands were smooth, with the long, tapering fingers of a violinist. The only jewelry he wore was a gold wedding band. He had a thin, aesthetic face only marginally lined, and deep, rich brown eyes that could smile indulgently at his grandchildren, weep over a soaring aria, or show no expression at all when he was ordering a hit.
Business rarely tapped Delrickio’s emotions.
He was fond of Drake, in an avuncular fashion, though he considered Drake a fool. It was that fondness that had caused Delrickio to meet with him personally rather than send someone less fastidious to rearrange Drake’s pretty face.
Delrickio waved for a waitress. The restaurant was crowded, noisy with whiny children and the clatter of cutlery, but he got prompt service. Power covered him as neatly as his Italian suit.
“Grapefruit juice,” he said in his faintly Bostonian accent. “A bowl of melon balls, very cold, and whole wheat toast, dry. So,” he began when the waitress walked away. “You are well?”
“Yes.” Drake felt his armpits dampen. “And you?”
“Healthy as a horse.” Delrickio leaned back and patted his flat belly. “My Maria still makes the best linguini in the state, but I cut down on my portions, eat only a salad for lunch and go to the gym three times a week. My cholesterol’s a hundred seventy.”
“That’s wonderful, Mr. Delrickio.”
“This is your only body.”
Drake didn’t want his only body carved like a turkey. “Your family?”
“Wonderful.” Always the doting papa, he smiled. “Angelina gave me a new grandson last week. Now I have fourteen grandchildren.” It made him misty-eyed. “This is a man’s immortality. And you, Drake, you should be married to a nice girl, making babies. It would center your life.” He leaned forward, an earnest, concerned father about to impart sage advice. “It’s one thing to fuck beautiful women. A man must be a man, after all. But family, there’s nothing to replace it.”
Drake managed a smile as he lifted his cup. “I’m still looking.”
“When you stop thinking with your dick and think with your heart, you’ll find.” He let out a sigh as their meal was served, then lifted a brow at Drake’s and tallied the grams of fat. “Now …” Nearly wincing at the syrup Drake puddled over his pancakes, Delrickio dantily forked a melon ball. “You’re prepared to pay off your debt.”
The bite of ham stuck in Drake’s throat. As he fought to swallow it, he felt a thin line of sweat trickle down his side. “As you know, I’ve had a little downswing. Right now I’m experiencing a temporary cash-flow problem.” He soaked his pancakes with more syrup while Delrickio solemnly ate his fruit. “I am prepared to give you ten percent, as good faith.”
“Ten percent.” Mouth pursed, Delrickio spread a thimbleful of strawberry jam on his toast. “And the other ninety thousand?”
Ninety thousand. The two words rang like hammer blows inside Drake’s skull. “As soon as things break for me. All I need is one winner.”
Delrickio dabbed his lips with his napkin. “So you’ve said before.”
“I realize that, but this time—”
Delrickio had only to lift a hand to cut off Drake’s hurried explanations. “I have an affection for you, Drake, so I’ll tell you gambling is a fool’s game. For me, it is part of my business, but it disturbs me to see you risk your … your health on point spreads.”
“I’m going to make it up on the Super Bowl.” Drake began to eat quickly, struggling to fill the hole fear left in his gut. “I need only a week.”
“And if you lose?”
“I won’t.” A desperate smile, sweat streaming down his back.
Delrickio went on eating. A bite of melon, a bite of toast, a sip of juice. At the table beside them, a woman settled a toddler into a high chair. Delrickio winked at the child, then returned to the routine—melon, toast, juice. Drake felt the eggs congeal in his stomach.
“Your aunt is well?”
“Eve?” Drake licked his lips. He knew, as few did, that Delrickio and his aunt had had a brief, torrid affair. Drake had never been sure if he could count that in his favor. “She’s fine.”
“I hear she’d decided to publish her memoirs.”
“Yes.” Though his stomach protested, Drake drank more coffee. “That is, she’s brought in a writer from the East to do her authorized bio.”
“A young woman.”
“Julia Summers. She seems competent.”
“And how much does your aunt plan to make public?”
Drake felt a little wave of relief at the turn in the conversation. He slathered butter on a piece of toast. “Who knows? With Eve it depends on the mood of the moment.”
“But you’ll find out.”
The tone had Drake pausing, his knife still in the air. “She doesn’t talk to me about that sort of thing.”
“You’ll find out,” Delrickio repeated. “And you’ll have your week. A favor for a favor.” Delrickio smiled. “That’s how it is between friends. And family.”
• • •
It made her feel young to dive into the pool. The evening with Victor had made her glow like a girl again. Eve had awakened later than usual, and with a blinding headache. But the medication, and now the cool, clear water, made the pain tolerable.
She swam laps slowly, methodically, taking pleasure in feeling her arms and legs move in precision. It was a small thing, the use of one’s body. But she’d learned to appreciate it.
It had been no small thing last night, she thought as she switched to a side stroke. Sex was always incredible with Victor. Passionate or gentle, slow or frantic. God knew they had made love in every possible way over the years.
Last night had been beautiful. Being held after passion had been spent, lying together dozing like two old war horses, waking again to feel him slide into her.
Of all the men, of all the lovers, there was no one like Victor. Because of all the men, of all the lovers, he was the only one who truly had captured her heart.
There had been a time, years and years before, when she had despaired over her feelings for him, when she had cursed and raged and beat her fists against fate for making it impossible for them to be together. That time was passed. Now she could be grateful for every hour they had.
Eve pulled herself out of the pool, shivered as the cool air hit her wet skin, then drew on a long red terry-cloth robe. As if she’d been watching for her cue, Travers hustled out with a breakfast tray and a bottle of moisturizer.
“Did Nina call her?” Eve asked.
Travers sucked air through her nose. The sound was like steam in a kettle. “On her way.”
“Good.” Eve picked up the bottle, shaking it idly as she watched her housekeeper. “You needn’t make your disapproval so obvious.”
“I think what I think.”
“And know what you know,” Eve added with a little smile. “Why blame her?”
Travers busied herself setting up the breakfast on the glossy white table. “Best to send her back and forget the whole thing. Asking for trouble. Nobody’ll thank you for it.”
With expert fingers Eve spread the moisturizer over her face. “I need her,” she said simply. “I can’t do this myself.”
Travers’s lips thinned. “You’ve done every damn thing you’ve wanted to do all your life. You’re wrong about this.”
Eve sat, then popped a raspberry into her mouth. “I hope not. That’ll be all.”
Travers stomped back toward the house. Still smiling, Eve slipped on sunglasses and waited for Julia. She didn’t wait long. From behind the dark lenses, she watched, then made judgments as practical shoes, slim royal blue slacks, a crisp striped blouse came into view. Slightly more relaxed but still cautious, Eve decided, based on body language as well as the clothing.