by Nora Roberts
“We’re both big girls, Paul. If it helps ease your mind, I can tell you that what Eve has told me so far is sensitive, certainly personal, perhaps uncomfortable for certain people. I really don’t think any of it could be considered threatening.”
“She isn’t finished yet. And she—” Even as his eyes narrowed, his fingers tightened on the stem of the glass.
“What is it?”
“Another of Eve’s Michaels.” His voice had cooled, but it was nothing compared to the ice in his eyes. She wondered the air around them didn’t crackle. “Delrickio.”
“Michael Delrickio?” Julia tried to pick out the man Paul was staring at. “Should I know him?”
“No. And if you’re lucky, you’ll live the rest of your life without knowing him.”
“Why?” As she asked, she recognized the man she had seen come out of Drake’s office. “Is he that distinguished-looking man with silver hair and a mustache?”
“Looks can be deceiving.” Paul passed her his half-full glass of wine. “Excuse me.”
Ignoring the people who called his name or reached out to lay a hand on his arm, Paul made a direct line for Delrickio. It might have been the expression in his eyes or the barely suppressed fury in his stride that had several backing off—and the burly Joseph moving closer. Paul sent one long, challenging glance toward Delrickio’s muscle, then trained his eyes on the don. With only the barest flicker of his eye, Delrickio had Joseph standing aside.
“Well, Paul. It’s been a long time.”
“Time’s relative. How did you slither through the gate, Delrickio?”
Delrickio sighed and chose one of the delicate lobster puffs from his plate. “You still have trouble with respect. Eve should have let me discipline you all those years ago.”
“Fifteen years ago I was a boy, and you were a slimy smear on the boot heel of humanity. The difference now is I’m no longer a boy.”
Rage was something Delrickio had long since learned to control. It snapped at him now, dug in its teeth, and was whipped back in a matter of seconds. “Your manners dishonor the woman who opened her house to us tonight.” With care and deliberation, he chose another hors d’oeuvre. “Even enemies must respect neutral territory.”
“This has never been neutral territory. If Eve invited you here, she made an error in judgment. The fact that you’re here tells me you have no conception of the word honor.”
The raw anger flared again. “I’m here to enjoy the hospitality of a beautiful woman.” He smiled, but his eyes burned. “As I have done often in the past.”
Paul made a quick move forward. Joseph moved simultaneously. By slipping his hand inside his jacket, he turned the barrel of the .32 automatic he carried into the flesh beneath Paul’s armpit.
“Oh!” Julia stumbled and spilled a full glass of champagne over Joseph’s shiny Gucci loafers. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. How awful. Really, I don’t know how I could be so clumsy.” Fluttering and smiling, she whipped Joseph’s handkerchief from his pocket, then squatted at his feet. “I’ll dry them off for you before it spots.”
The commotion she was causing had a ripple of laughter moving through the nearby huddle of people. Smiling artlessly at Joseph, she lifted her hand, giving him little choice but to help her to her feet—and position her between himself and Paul.
“I seemed to have soaked your handkerchief.”
He muttered something and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Haven’t we met before?” she asked him.
“A tired line, Julia.” Eve glided up beside her. “It almost ruins the effect of you kneeling at the man’s feet. Hello, Michael.”
“Eve.” He took her hand, lifting it slowly to his lips. The old need churned in him, darkened his eyes. If Paul hadn’t told Julia they had been lovers, she would have known it then, by the snapping in the air. “More beautiful than ever.”
“You’re looking … prosperous. I see you’re making old acquaintances—and new. You remember Paul, of course. And this is my charming, if clumsy, biographer, Julia Summers.”
“Miss Summers.” He brushed his lips and mustache over her knuckles. “I’m delighted to meet you, at last.”
Before she could reply, Paul had an arm around her waist and was pulling her to his side. “Why the hell is he here, Eve?”
“Now, Paul, don’t be rude. Mr. Delrickio’s a guest. I wondered, Michael, have you had a chance to speak with Damien yet? I’m sure the two of you have a lot of old times to talk over.”
“No.”
Eve’s eyes glittered, as cold as the stars at her throat. She laughed. “You might be interested, Julia, that I met my fourth husband through Michael. Damien and Michael were—would you say you were business associates, darling?”
There was no one who had touched his life who could bait him as successfully as Eve Benedict. “We had—common interests.”
“What a clever way of putting it. Well, Damien retired a champion, and all got what they wanted. Oh, except for Hank Freemont. Such a tragedy. Do you follow tennis, Julia?”
There was something here, something old and unpleasant beneath the scent of flowers and perfume. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Well, this was about fifteen years ago. How time flies.” She took a delicate sip of champagne. “Freemont was Damien’s chief competitor—even his nemesis. They went into the U.S. Open as first and second seeds. The betting was high as to who would come out on top. But to make it short, Freemont overdosed. A cocaine and heroine injection—a speedball, I believe they call it. It was tragic. But then Michael romped his way to the championship. Those with money on him did very nicely.” Slowly, carmine-tipped nails gleaming, she ran a finger around the rim of her champagne flute. “You’re a gambler, aren’t you, Michael?”
“All men are.”
“And some are more successful than others. Please don’t let me keep you from mingling, or enjoying the buffet, the music, old friends. I hope we have a chance to speak again before the evening ends.”
“I’m sure we will.” He turned and saw Nina standing a few feet away. Their eyes met, held. Hers dropped first before she turned and rushed inside the house.
“Eve,” Julia began, but she only shook her head.
“Christ, I need a cigarette.” Then she turned her smile up a hundred candlepower. “Johnny darling, how delightful of you to come.” She was moving off to be embraced and kissed.
Julia gave up on that source and turned to Paul. “What was that all about?”
He reached down to take her hands. “You’re shaking.”
“I feel as though I just witnessed a bloodless coup. I—” She bit her tongue as Paul took two fresh glasses from a passing waiter.
“Three slow sips,” he ordered.
Because she needed to calm down, she obeyed. “Paul, did that man have a gun at your heart?”
Though he smiled at her, the amusement in his eyes was offset by something more dangerous, more deadly. “Were you saving me with a glass of champagne, Jules?”
“It worked,” she said sharply, then sipped again. “I want you to tell me why you spoke to that man that way, who he is, and why he brought an armed body guard to a party.”
“Have I had a chance to tell you how beautiful you look tonight?”
“Answers.”
Instead, he set his glass down on a wrought iron table and cupped her face in his hands. Before she could evade—or even decide if she wished to—he was kissing her with a great deal more passion than was wise in public. And beneath it she tasted a bitter, smoldering anger.
“Stay away from Delrickio,” he said quietly, then kissed her again. “And if you want to enjoy the rest of the evening, stay away from me.”
He left her there to turn inside the house in search of something stronger than champagne.
“Well, it’s been quite a show so far.”
Jolted, Julia let out a long sigh as Victor patted her shoulder. “I just wish someone had given me a script.”
“Eve often prefers ad-lib.” He glanced around, shaking the ice in his glass of club soda. “Christ knows she likes to stir the pot. She’s managed to bring out nearly all the players tonight.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who Michael Delrickio is.”
“A businessman.” Victor smiled down at her. “Would you like to walk in the garden?”
She would simply have to find out on her own. “Yes, I would.”
They left the terrace and crossed the lawn through the shadows and twinkling lights. The orchestra was playing “Moonglow” as they moved into the perfumed air. Julia remembered that weeks before she had seen Victor and Eve stroll through this same garden, under the same moon.
“I hope your wife is recovering.” She saw from his expression that she’d made the move too quickly. “I’m sorry, Eve mentioned that she was ill.”
“You’re being diplomatic, Julia. I’m sure she told you more than that.” He gulped club soda and fought against the siren call of whiskey. “Muriel is out of immediate danger. The recovery, I’m afraid, will be a long and difficult one.”
“It can’t be easy for you.”
“It could be easier, but Eve won’t let it.” With weary eyes he looked down at Julia. The way the moonlight slanted over her face struck some chord in him he couldn’t identify. Tonight the garden was meant for young men and women. And he was feeling old. “I know Eve has told you about us.”
“Yes, but she didn’t have to. I saw you here one night a few weeks ago.” When he stiffened, she laid a hand on his arm. “I wasn’t spying. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Or the right place at the right time,” he said grimly.
Julia nodded, and took the time while he lighted a cigarette to choose her words. “I know it was private, but I can’t be sorry. What I saw were two people deeply in love. It didn’t shock me or send me rushing to my typewriter to report it. It touched me.”
His fingers relaxed fractionally, but his eyes remained cold. “Eve has always been the best part of my life, and the worst. Can you understand why I need to keep what we’ve had private?”
“Yes, I can.” She let her hand fall away. “As I can understand why she needs to tell it. However much I might sympathize, my first obligation is to her.”
“Loyalty is admirable. Even when it’s misplaced. Let me tell you something about Eve. She’s a fascinating woman, one of incredible talent, of deep feelings, of unrelenting strengths. She is also a creature of impulse, one who makes huge life-altering mistakes because of a moment’s passion. She will come to regret this book, but by then it may be too late.” He tossed the cigarette onto the path and crushed it out. “Too late for all of us.”
Julia let him go. There was no comfort or reassurance she could offer. However much she might sympathize, her allegiance was to Eve. Suddenly weary, she sank down on a marble bench. It was quiet there. The band had switched to “My Funny Valentine,” with the female vocalist crooning. Eve was definitely in an old-fashioned mood. Taking advantage of the solitude and soothing music, Julia tried to reconstruct and evaluate what she had seen and heard thus far.
As her thoughts drifted, Julia became aware of other voices, farther off in the shrubbery. At first she was annoyed. She wanted only fifteen minutes of peace. Then, as she caught the tone, she was curious. Definitely a man and a woman, she thought. And definitely an argument. Eve perhaps? she wondered, and debated whether to stay or go.
She heard an oath, sharp and Italian, then a stream of harsh words in the same language, followed by a woman’s bitter weeping.
Pressing her fingers at her temples and circling them, Julia rose. Leaving was definitely the best course.
“I know who you are.”
She saw a woman in shimmering, virginal white stagger onto the path. Julia recognized Gloria DuBarry immediately. Though the weeping had stopped abruptly, the petite and very drunk actress had approached from the opposite direction.
“Miss DuBarry,” Julia said, and wondered what the hell she was supposed to do now.
“I know who you are,” Gloria repeated, and stumbled forward. “Eve’s little snitch. Let me tell you something, if you print one word about me, one single word, I’ll sue your ass right off.”
The virgin queen was drunk as a skunk, Julia noted, and bruising for a fight. “Maybe you should sit down.”
“Don’t touch me.” Gloria slapped Julia’s hand away, then gripped her arms, nails digging in. She leaned in, and Julia winced more from her breath than her manicure. It wasn’t champagne on Gloria’s breath, but high-grade scotch.
“You’re doing the touching, Miss DuBarry,” Julia pointed out.
“Do you know who I am? Do you know what I am? I’m a fucking institution.” Though she weaved as she threw out the words, her fingers were like wires. “Mess with me and you’re messing with motherhood, apple pie, and the goddamn American flag.”
Julia made one attempt to drag Gloria’s hands from her arms and found the small woman surprisingly strong. “If you don’t let go of me,” Julia said between her teeth, “I’m going to knock you down.”
“You listen to me.” Gloria gave Julia a shove that nearly sent her over the marble bench. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll forget whatever she’s told you. It’s all lies, all cruel, vicious lies.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You want money?” Gloria spat out. “Is that it? You want more money. How much? How much do you want?”
“I want you to leave me alone. If you want to talk to me, we’ll do it when you’re sober.”
“I’m never drunk.” Eyes ripe with venom, Gloria rapped the heel of her hand between Julia’s breasts. “I’m never fucking drunk and don’t you forget it. I don’t need some slutty snitch Eve hired to tell me I’m drunk.”
Temper snapped. Julia’s hand swooped out and snatched a fistful of chiffon at Gloria’s throat. “You touch me again, and—”
“Gloria.” Paul’s voice was quiet as he came down the path. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
“No.” She turned on tears as automatically as turning on a faucet. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel so weak and shaky.” She buried her face against his jacket. “Where’s Marcus? Marcus will take care of me.”
“Why don’t I take you into the house so you can lie down? I’ll bring him to you.”
“I have such a dreadful headache,” she sobbed as Paul led her away.
He shot Julia a glance over his shoulder. “Sit” was all he said.
Julia folded her arms over her chest, and sat. He was back in ten minutes, and dropped down beside her with a long sigh. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the queen of the Gs sloshed before. You want to tell me what that was all about?”
“I haven’t got a clue. But I intend to corner Eve at the first opportunity and find out.”
Curious, he traced a finger down the nape of her neck. “Just what was it you were going to do if Gloria touched you again?”
“Slug her on her pointy little chin.” He laughed, squeezing her against him. “God, what a woman. Now I only wish I’d been ten seconds later.”
“I don’t enjoy altercations.”
“No, I can see that. Eve, on the other hand, has set up multiple altercations in one star-studded evening. Shall I tell you what you’ve missed during your tour of the gardens?”
If he was trying to calm her down, the least she could do was give him a chance. “All right.”
“Kincade has been waddling around looking fat and threatening, and failing to get Eve alone for a private chat. Anna del Rio, the designer? She’s been telling catty stories about her hostess, hoping, I imagine, to offset whatever catty stories Eve intends to tell about her.” He drew out a cigar. In the flare of his lighter his face looked tensed in opposition to the mild amusement in his voice. “Drake has been hopping around as though he had hot coals in his Jockeys.”
“Maybe t
hat’s because I saw Delrickio and that other man in his office last week.”
“Did you?” Paul expelled smoke slowly. “Well, well. Back at the ranch—Torrent is looking pitiful—more so after he and Eve had a little tête-à-tête. Priest is doing a lot of posturing and hearty laughing. While he and Eve were dancing, he was sweating.”
“It sounds as though I should get back and see for myself.”
“Julia.” He stopped her from rising. “We need to talk about several things. I’ll come by tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow,” she said, knowing she was only procrastinating. “Brandon and I have plans.”
“Monday then, while he’s in school. That would be better.”
“I have an appointment at eleven-thirty with Anna at her studio.”
“Then I’ll be there at nine.” He rose, offering a hand to help her to her feet.
She walked with him toward the sound of music and laughter. “Paul, were you coming to my rescue with Gloria with handkerchiefs and sympathy?”
“It worked.”
“Then we’re even.”
He hesitated only a moment before linking his fingers with hers. “Just about.”
The party didn’t fizzle out until after three, though by then only a few diehards had remained, slopping up the last of the champagne and licking the beluga off their fingers. Perhaps they were the wise ones, greeting the oncoming day with bleary eyes, floating heads, and overfilled stomachs. Many of those who had left at a more conservative hour lost a night’s sleep without the extras.
With a brocade smoking jacket wrapped around the enormous bulk that flirted gleefully with heart failure, Anthony Kincade sat up in bed smoking one of the cigars his doctors warned would kill him that much sooner. The boy he’d chosen to use that night lay sprawled among the silk sheets and feather pillows, snoring off a tidy dose of meth and a bout of brutal sex. Across his smooth, slender back a row of angry pink welts had risen.
Kincade didn’t regret putting them there—the boy was paid well—but he did regret he’d had to settle for a substitute. All the time he’d whipped, all the time he’d driven himself, hard and cruelly into the boy, he’d dreamed of punishing Eve.