by Nora Roberts
“It’s nice for Brandon to have a friend his own age.” Stiffly, she went back to stirring the sauce.
“Everyone needs a friend,” Paul murmured. “I know that look.” Though her back was to him, she heard the smile in his voice as he came into the room. “You’re waiting for an apology for my … ungentlemanly behavior the other night.” Casually, he brushed fingertips down the length of her neck, exposed as her hair was swept up in an untidy bun. “I can’t accommodate you there, Jules.”
She shrugged off his hand in a move she knew was bad tempered. “I’m not looking for an apology.” Her brows were drawn together as she glanced over her shoulder. “What are you looking for, Paul?”
“Conversation, companionship.” He leaned closer to the pot and sniffed. “Maybe a hot meal.”
When he turned his head, his face was inches from hers. There were twin lights of humor and challenge in his eyes. Damn him, that quick spear of heat jabbed right into her midsection.
“And,” he added, “whatever else I can get.”
She jerked her head around. The spoon clanged against the pot. “I’d think all of those things would be available to you elsewhere.”
“Sure. But I like it here.” In a move too smooth to be threatening, he put his hands on the stove, effectively caging her. “It’s good for my ego to see just how nervous I make you.”
“Not nervous,” she said, having no compunction about the lie. “Annoyed.”
“Either way. It’s a reaction.” He smiled, amused by the knowledge that she would go on stirring the sauce from now until Armageddon rather than turn and chance being caught in his arms. Unless he made her mad enough. “The problem with you, Jules, is you’re too uptight to take a kiss at face value.”
Her teeth set. “I am not uptight.”
“Sure you are.” He sniffed at her hair, deciding it was every bit as enticing as the bubbling herbs. “I did my research, remember? I couldn’t find one man you’ve been linked to seriously in the past decade.”
“My personal life is just that. However many men I chose to include in that life is none of your damn business.”
“Exactly. But it’s so fascinating that the number is zero. My dear Julia, don’t you know there’s nothing more tempting to a man than a woman who holds her passion on a choke chain? We tell ourselves we’ll be the one to make her lose her grip.” Adroitly, he touched his mouth to hers in a brief, arrogant kiss that infuriated rather than stirred. “I can’t resist.”
“Try harder,” she suggested, and nudged him aside.
“I thought about that.” There was a bowl of plump green grapes on the counter. He plucked one and popped it into his mouth. It wasn’t the taste he wanted, but it would do. For now. “Trouble is, I like giving into impulse. You have such pretty feet.”
With a cookie sheet in one hand she turned to stare at him. “What?”
“Whenever I stop by unexpectedly, you’re barefoot.” He leered at her feet. “I had no idea that naked toes could be arousing.”
She didn’t mean to laugh—certainly didn’t want to. But it bubbled out. “If it’ll help things, I’ll start wearing thick socks and heavy shoes.”
“Too late now.” She began to grease the sheet in deft, housewifely moves he found incredibly seductive. “I’d only fantasize about what’s underneath. Are you going to tell me what you’re making?”
“Pizza.”
“I thought that came frozen or in a cardboard box.”
“Not around here.”
“If I promise not to nibble on your very attractive toes, will you ask me to lunch?”
She considered, weighing the pros and cons as she preheated the oven, then sprinkled flour on a wooden board. “I’ll ask you to lunch if you agree to answer a few questions honestly.”
He sniffed the sauce again, then gave in to temptation and sampled a bit from the wooden spoon. “Done. Do we get pepperoni?”
“All that and more.”
“I don’t suppose you’d have a beer.”
She began to knead the dough, and he lost track of the question. Though her fingers were deft as a grandmother’s, they didn’t make him think of sturdy old women, but of clever young ones who knew where to touch, and how. She said something, but it passed through his brain without comprehension. It had started as a joke, but now he couldn’t quite understand how watching her perform some ancient female ritual could make his mouth dry.
“Did you change your mind?”
He brought his eyes from her hands to her face. “What?”
“I said CeeCee stocked a lot of cold drinks in the fridge. I’m pretty sure there’s a beer.”
“Right.” After clearing his throat, he opened the refrigerator. “Do you want one?”
“Hmm. No. Something soft maybe.”
He took out a bottle of Coors and a bottle of Pepsi. “Hooking up any interviews?”
“Here and there. I talk regularly with Eve, of course. And I’ve spoken with Nina, bounced a few questions off Fritz.”
“Ah, Fritz.” Paul took a quick chug. “The Viking god of health. What’d you think?”
“I thought he was sweet, dedicated, and gorgeous.”
“Gorgeous?” Brows knit, he lowered the bottle again. “Christ, he’s built like a freight train. Do women really find all those hulking muscles appealing?”
She couldn’t resist. Turning back to him briefly, she smiled. “Honey, we love being taken by a strong man.”
He drank again, scowling a bit, and resisted the urge to test his biceps. “Who else?”
“Who else what?”
“Who else have you talked to?”
Pleased with his reaction, she went back to work. “I have a few appointments next week. Most of the people I’ve been able to contact are being very cooperative.” She smiled to herself as she spread the dough. “I think they’re banking on pumping me for information rather than vice versa.”
That was exactly what he was doing—rather, what he’d intended to do before she’d distracted him. “And how much will you tell them?”
“Nothing they don’t already know. I’m writing Eve Benedict’s biography, with her authorization.” It was easier now, Julia realized, since they were over the awkward hump of what had happened between them. With her hands busy and children upstairs, she felt her confidence return. “Maybe you could tell me a little about some of the people I’ll be seeing.”
“Such as?”
“Drake Morrison’s first on my list for Monday morning.” Paul took a another swig of beer. “Eve’s nephew—only nephew. Her older sister had the one child, two stillborn children after, then took up religion in a big way. Eve’s younger sister never married.”
The information dissatisfied. “Drake’s her only blood relative. That’s public stuff.”
He waited until she’d finished patting the dough into place and ladled on the sauce. “Ambitious, personable. Drawn to slick clothes, cars, and women. In that order, I’d say.”
Lifting a brow, she looked around. “You don’t like him very much.”
“I have nothing against him.” He took out one of his slim cigars while she rooted through the refrigerator. Relaxed again, he could slide into the simple appreciation of looking at long legs in brief shorts. “I’d say he does his job well enough, but then, Eve’s his major client and she’s not exactly a hard sell. He’s enamored of the finer things, and sometimes finds himself in awkward pinches because of his weakness for gambling.” He caught Julia’s look and shrugged. “It’s not what you’d call a secret, though he is discreet. He also favors the same bookie as my father does when he’s in the States.”
Julia decided to let that lie until she had more time and had done more research. “I’m hoping to get an interview with your father. Eve seems fond of him still.”
“It wasn’t a bitter divorce. My father often refers to their marriage as a short run in a bloody good play. Still, I don’t know how he’d feel about discussing the staging with
you.”
She diced green peppers. “I can be persuasive. Is he in London now?”
“Yes, doing King Lear.” He took one of the thin slices of pepperoni before she could arrange it on top of the pizza.
She nodded, hoping she wouldn’t have to make a transatlantic flight. “Anthony Kincade?”
“I wouldn’t get too close.” Paul blew out smoke. “He’s a snake that bites. And it’s a well-known secret that he prefers young women.” He toasted Julia with the bottle. “Watch your step.”
“It pays more to watch the other guy’s step.” She copped a piece of pepperoni herself. “How far do you think he’d go to keep portions of his private life from being revealed?”
“Why?”
She chose her phrasing carefully as she heaped on mozzarella. “He seemed very disturbed the other night. Even threatening.”
He waited a beat. “It’s hard to give an answer where you’re asked half the question.”
“You just answer the part you’re asked.” She slid the pizza in the oven, then hit the timer.
“I don’t know him well enough to have an opinion.” Watching her, Paul tapped out his cigar. “Has he threatened you, Julia?”
“No.”
Eyes narrowed, he stepped closer. “Has anyone?”
“Why should they?”
He only shook his head. “Why are you biting your nails?”
Guilty, she dropped her hand to her side. Before she could evade him, he took her by the shoulders. “What sort of things is Eve talking to you about? Who is she involving in this trek down memory lane? You won’t tell me,” he said softly. “And I doubt Eve will either.” But he’d find out, he thought. One way or another. “Will you come to me if there’s trouble?”
That was the last thing she wanted to be tempted to do. “I’m not anticipating any trouble I can’t deal with.”
“Let me put it another way.” His fingers moved down her arms, massaging gently. Then they tightened, pulling her against him as his mouth came to hers.
He held her there, deepening the kiss before her brain could register the order to snap away. Her hands fisted at her sides, barely resisting the urge to grab on, to cling. Even while she struggled to hold something back, her mouth surrendered to the assault and answered his.
There was heat and hunger, passion and promise. The backs of her eyes stung as her emotions scrambled out of hiding to revel in the chance for freedom. God, she wanted to be needed like this. How could she have forgotten?
More shaken than he cared to admit, he slid his lips from hers to nuzzle her throat. Incredibly soft. Enticingly firm. Added to the texture, the flavor, the scent, was that quick and faint tremor he found outrageously arousing.
He thought about her too often. Since that first taste he had craved more. She was the only woman he was afraid he would beg for.
“Julia.” He murmured her name as he brushed his lips over hers again. Softer now, persuasive. “I want you to come to me. I want you to let me touch you, to show you what it could be like.”
She knew what it could be like. She would give herself. Content with his conquest, he would walk away whistling and leave her shattered. Not again. Never again. But his body felt so tempting against her. If she could convince herself she could be as tough as he, as immune to hurts and disappointments, then perhaps she could take her pleasure and walk away whole.
“It’s too soon.” It didn’t seem to matter that her voice was unsteady. It was foolish to pretend he didn’t affect her. “Too fast.”
“Not nearly soon or fast enough,” he muttered, but stepped away. Damned if he’d beg—for anyone, for anything. “All right. We’ll slow down for the moment. Seducing a woman in the kitchen with a trio of kids upstairs isn’t my usual style.” He went back for his beer. “You … change things, Julia. I believe I’d be better off to think this through as carefully as you.” He took a sip, then slammed the bottle aside. “Like hell I would.”
Before he had taken a step toward her, stomping feet sounded on the stairs.
Gloria DuBarry was at an awkward age for an actress. Her official bio listed that awkwardness at fifty. Her birth certificate, under the name of Ernestine Blofield added five dangerous years to that mark.
Heredity had been kind enough that she had required only minor tucks and lifts to maintain her ingenue image. She still wore her honey-blond hair in the short, boyish style that had been copied by millions of women during her heyday. Her gamine face was offset by huge and guileless blue eyes.
The press adored her—she made sure of it. Always, she had graciously granted interviews. A press agent’s dream, she had been generous with pictures of her one and only wedding, had shared anecdotes and snapshots of her children.
She was known as a loyal friend, a crusader of the right charities, Actors and Others for Animals being her current project.
In the rebellious sixties, mainstream America had placed Gloria on a pedestal—a symbol of innocence, morality, and trust. They had kept her there, with Gloria’s help, for more than thirty years.
In their one and only film together, Eve had played the carnivious older woman who had seduced and betrayed the innocent and long-suffering Gloria’s weak-willed husband. The roles had capped the image for each. Good girl. Bad woman. Oddly enough, the actresses had become friends.
Cynics might say the relationship was aided by the fact that they had never been forced to compete for a role—or for a man. It would have been partially true.
When Eve strolled into Chasen’s, Gloria was already seated, brooding over a glass of white wine. There weren’t many who knew Gloria well enough to see past the placid expression to the dissatisfaction beneath. Eve did. It was, she thought, going to be a long afternoon.
“Champagne, Miss Benedict?” The waiter asked after the women had exchanged quick cheek pecks.
“Naturally.” She was already reaching for a cigarette as she sat and gave the waiter a slow smile as he lighted it for her. It pleased her to know she was looking her best after her morning session. Her skin felt firm and taunt, her hair soft and sleek, her muscles limber. “How are you, Gloria?”
“Well enough.” Her wide mouth tightened a little before she lifted her glass. “Considering how Variety gutted my new movie.”
“The bottom line’s the box office line. You’ve been around too long to let the opinion of one snot-nosed critic worry you.”
“I’m not as tough as you.” Gloria said it with the hint of a superior smirk. “You’d just tell the critic to—you know.”
“Get fucked?” Eve said sweetly as the waiter placed her champagne on the table. Laughing, she patted his hand. “Sorry, darling, not you.”
“Eve, really.” But there was a chuckle in Gloria’s voice as she leaned closer.
The prim little girl caught giggling in church, Eve thought with some affection. What would it be like, she wondered, to actually believe your own press?
“How’s Marcus?” she asked. “We missed you both at the benefit the other night.”
“Oh, we were sorry to miss it. Marcus had the most vile headache. Poor dear. You can’t imagine how difficult it is, being in business these days.”
The subject of Marcus Grant, Gloria’s husband of twenty-five years, always bored Eve. She made some noncommittal noise and picked up her menu.
“And the restaurant business has to be the worst,” Gloria went on, always ready to suffer her husband’s woes—even when she didn’t understand them. “The health department’s always snooping around, and now people are crabbing about cholesterol and fat grams. They don’t take into account that Quick and Tasty’s practically fed middle-class America single-handedly.”
“The little red box on every corner,” Eve commented, describing Marcus’s fast-food chain. “Don’t worry, Gloria, health conscious or not, Americans will always go for the burger.”
“There is that.” She smiled at the waiter. “Just a salad, tossed with lemon juice and pepper.”
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br /> The irony of that would escape her, Eve thought, and ordered chili. “Now …” Eve picked up her glass again. “Tell me all the gossip.”
“Actually, you head the list.” Gloria tapped her short clear-coated nails against the wineglass. “Everyone’s talking about your book.”
“How satisfying. And what do they say?”
“There’s a lot of curiosity.” Stalling, Gloria switched from wine to water. “More than a little resentment.”
“And I was hoping for fear.”
“There’s that too. Fear of being included. Fear of being excluded.”
“Darling, you’ve made my day.”
“You can joke, Eve,” she began, then clammed up as the bread was served. She broke off a corner of her roll, then crumbled it in her plate. “People are worried.”
“Specifically?”
“Well, it’s no secret how Tony Kincade feels. Then I heard that Anna del Rio was muttering about libel suits.”
Eve smiled as she slathered butter on a roll. “Anna’s a delightful and innovative designer, God knows. But is she so stupid to believe the general public cares what she snorts in the back room?”
“Eve.” Flushed and embarrassed, Gloria gulped her wine. Her gaze darted nervously around the room as she checked to see if anyone could hear. “You can’t go around saying things like that. I certainly don’t approve of drugs—I’ve done three public service announcements—but Anna’s very powerful. And if she uses a bit now and then, recreationally—”
“Gloria, don’t be any more stupid than necessary. She’s a junkie with a five-thousand-dollar-a-day habit.”
“You can’t know—”
“I do know.” For once Eve was discreet enough to pause as the waiter returned to serve their food. At her nod, their glasses were refilled. “Exposing Anna might save her life,” Eve continued, “though I’d be lying if I claimed to have any altruistic motive. Who else?”
“Too many to count.” Gloria stared at her salad. As she did for any role, she had rehearsed this lunch for hours. “Eve, these people are your friends.”