by Nora Roberts
Bitch. Whore-bitch. He wheezed rustily as he shifted his mountainous flesh to reach for the glass of port beside the bed. Did she think she could threaten him? Did she think she could toy and tease and dangle exposure in front of his nose?
She wouldn’t dare go public with what she knew. But if she did … His hand trembled as he slurped the wine. His eyes, nearly buried under the folds of sagging skin around them, glinted with venom. If she did, how many others might find the courage to walk through the door she’d opened? He couldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t.
He might be arrested, have to stand trial, even face prison.
It wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it happen. He drank, he smoked, he plotted. Beside him, the young prostitute murmured in his sleep.
In Long Beach, Delrickio soaked in his whirlpool, letting the hot, jasmine-scented water beat over his tanned, disciplined body. He’d made love to his wife when he’d returned home. Sweetly, tenderly. His lovely Teresa now slept the sleep of the cherished.
God, he did cherish the woman, and hated the fact that while he’d steeped himself in her, he’d fantasied about Eve. Of all the sins he’d committed, this was the only one he repented. Even with what Eve was doing, what she was threatening to do, she couldn’t kill the hunger in him. And that was his penance.
Fighting to keep his muscles from tensing again, he watched the steam rise to smoke up the slanted windows and block the stars. She had been like that to him, like steam smoking up his senses, blocking his sanity. Didn’t she realize he would have kept her safe, happy, showered her with all the things a woman desired? Instead, she had spurned him, cut him out of her life with a finality and viciousness that had resembled death. And all because of business.
He forced his hand to relax and waited until the splinter of rage had been worked out of his heart. A man who thought with his heart made mistakes. As he had. It was his own fault that Eve had found out about some of the more unconventional parts of Delrickio Enterprises. Infatuation had made him careless. Still, he had believed, or made himself believe, that she could be trusted.
Then she had tossed Damien Priest in his face. She had looked at him, her eyes filled with disgust.
The former tennis player was a loose end that could easily be snipped at any time. But that would not make things right. It was Eve who could unravel his carefully woven cloak of respectability.
He would have to settle things, and he regretted it. But even before love came honor.
Gloria DuBarry cuddled beside her sleeping husband and let the tears stream down her face. She felt sick—too much liquor always upset her system. It was Eve’s fault she’d overindulged and had come so perilously close to humiliating herself.
It was all Eve’s fault. Hers and that nosy witch from back east.
They were going to see to it that she lost everything—her reputation, her marriage, maybe even her career. And all because of one mistake. One small mistake.
Sniffling, she stroked a hand over her husband’s bare shoulder. It was solid, sturdy, like a quarter century of marriage. She loved Marcus so much. He took such good care of her. How often had he said she was his angel, his spotless, untarnished angel?
How could he understand, how could anyone understand, that the woman who made her career playing freckle-faced virgins had indulged in a torrid, illicit affair with a married man? That she had had an illegal abortion to rid herself of the result of that affair?
Oh, God, how could she ever have imagined herself in love with Michael Torrent? What was worse, much worse, was that while she’d been meeting him in dingy motels, he had been playing her father onscreen. Her father.
Having to come face-to-face with him tonight when he was old, half-crippled … frail. It disgusted her to think that she had once held him inside her. Terrified her. She hated him She hated Eve. She wished they were both dead. Wallowing is self-pity, she wept into her pillow.
Michael Torrent was used to bad nights. His body was so riddled with arthritis that he was rarely free of pain. Age an illness had hulled him out, leaving just enough flesh and nerve in the shell for misery. Tonight it was his mind, not his body, keeping him from the luxury of sleep.
He could curse the age that had ruined his body, sapped him of energy, robbed him of the comfort of sex. He could weep knowing he’d once been a king, and was now less than a man. All the memories of what he had been jabbed at him like hot needles that gave no peace to tired flesh. But that, all of that, was nothing.
Now Eve was threatening to take away the little he had left. His pride, and his image.
Perhaps he could no longer act, but he’d been able to sate that thirst with the legend. He was revered, admired, respected, thought of by fans and associates as a grand old man, the one-time king of the romantic era of Hollywood. Grant and Gable, Power and Flynn were dead. Michael Torrent, who had ended his acting career graciously playing wise old grandfathers, was alive. He was alive and they stood up and cheered for him whenever he granted an audience.
He hated the fact that Eve would tell the world that he had cheated his best and closest friend, Charlie Gray. For years Michael had used his clout to see that the studio hadn’t given Charlie more than a sidekick roll. He had gone out of his way to sneak behind Charlie’s back and cuckold him with each one of his wives. How could he make anyone understand that it had been a game to him, a petty, childish game brought on by youth and envy? Charlie had been smarter, more skilled, and just plain nicer than Michael could ever hope to be. He hadn’t meant to hurt Charlie, not really. After the suicide, guilt had eaten at him until he’d confessed it all to Eve.
He’d expected comfort, solicitude, understanding. She’d given him none of those things, but had settled into a cold rage. The confession had doomed their marriage. Now Eve would doom what was left of his life with a bitter humiliation.
Unless someone stopped her.
Sweat popped out on Drake’s skin like bullets. Eyes wild, he wandered around his house, not nearly drunk enough to sleep. He was still fifty thousand short of the mark, and time was running out.
He needed to calm down, he knew he needed to calm down, but seeing Delrickio had scared him to the point of having his bowels turn to water.
Delrickio had talked to him politely, affectionately, and all the while Joseph had stood watching Drake with dispassionate eyes. It was as if the beating had never taken place—as if the threat it was meant to impart didn’t exist.
That made it worse somehow, knowing whatever would be done to him would be done without passion, with the cold, clear head of business to be transacted.
How could he convince Delrickio that he had an inside track with Julia when everyone had seen her with Paul Winthrop?
There had to be a way to get to her, to the tapes, to Eve. He had to find it. Whatever risks he took couldn’t be worse than the risk of doing nothing.
Victor Flannigan thought of Eve. Then of his wife. He wondered how he could have gotten so tangled up with two such different women. Both had the power to destroy his life. One through weakness, one through strength.
He knew he was to blame. Even loving them, he had used them. Still, he had given them both the best he had—and by doing so had cheated all three of them.
There was no going back and fixing it, certainly no way to change what already was. All he could do was fight to keep it from unraveling.
And as he turned restlessly in the big, empty bed, he ached for Eve, and feared her. In much the same way he ached for and feared a single bottle of whiskey. Because he’d never been able to have enough of either. However many times he had pulled himself away from both addictions, he was always dragged back. Though he had learned to hate the drink even as he thirsted, he could only love the woman.
His church wouldn’t condemn him for draining a bottle, but they would for one night of love. And there had been hundreds of nights.
Even fear for his soul couldn’t make him regret a single one of them.
Why couldn�
��t Eve understand that whatever it did to him inside, he had to protect Muriel? After all these years, why was she insisting on exploding all the lies and secrets? Didn’t she know she would suffer as much as he?
Rising, he turned away from the bed and walked to the window to stare at the lightening sky. In a few hours he would go to his wife.
He had to find a way to protect Muriel, and to save Eve from herself.
In his suite at the Beverly Wilshire, Damien Priest waited for the sun to rise. He didn’t use liquor or drugs to dull his mind to sleep. He needed it awake, alert, so he could think.
How much was she planning to tell? How much would she dare make public? He wanted to believe that the party tonight had been orchestrated to make him panic. He hadn’t given her the satisfaction. He’d laughed, swapped stories, slapped backs. Christ, he’d even danced with her.
How silkily she’d asked him how his sporting goods chain was doing. How malicious her expression had been when she’d commented on how well Delrickio was looking.
But he’d only smiled. If she’d hoped to make him afraid, she’d been disappointed.
He sat, staring out the dark window. And was very afraid.
Eve settled into bed with a long, satisfied sigh. As far as she was concerned, the night had been a tremendous success. Over and above the pleasure of watching a select few jump through hoops, she’d enjoyed watching Julia and Paul together.
There was an odd and sweet sort of justice in that, she thought as she let her eyes drift closed. And it was all about justice, wasn’t it? That and a healthy dose of revenge.
She was sorry that Victor was still upset. He would have to accept that she was doing what she had to do. Perhaps he would before too much longer.
Feeling the huge, lonely bed around her, she wished with all her heart that he could have stayed with her tonight. Loving him would have capped off the evening, then they could have cuddled together and talked sleepily until sunrise.
There was still time for that. Eve closed her eyes tight and hung on to that one simple wish.
As she drifted off, she heard Nina come down the hall, move into her room to pace restlessly before shutting the door.
Poor girl, Eve thought. She worried too much.
By nine o’clock Monday morning, Julia had stretched, curled, crunched, pumped, sweated, and steamed. Her body had been twisted, kneaded, pummeled, and rubbed. She left the main house carting her gym bag that contained her sweaty leotard and towel.
She was covered in less than attractive sweats, and tugged down the shirt as she passed Lyle lazily waxing the car outside the garage.
She didn’t like the way he looked at her, or the fact that he always seemed to be doing something along the route the mornings of her workouts. As always, she greeted him with cool civility.
“Good morning, Lyle.”
“Miss.” He touched the brim of his cap in a move that seemed more suggestive than servile. “Hope you’re not working too hard.” He liked to imagine her in the gym, wearing something skimpy and spandex and sweating like a bitch in heat. “I sure wouldn’t say you needed all that exercise.”
“I enjoy it,” she lied, and kept walking, knowing he watched her. She shook off the itch between her shoulder blades and reminded herself to keep the shades drawn in her bedroom.
Paul was waiting on the terrace, his feet propped on a chair. One quick glance had him grinning. “You look like you could use a tall cold one.”
“Fritz,” she said, and dug into the pocket of the gym bag for her keys. “He’s working on my deltoids. My arms feel like two stretched-out rubber bands.” After opening the door and tossing bag and keys on the kitchen table, she headed for the fridge. “He’d have been a star in the Spanish Inquisition. Today, while I was suffering on the slant board, he made me confess I like Devil Dogs and Ho-Hos.”
“You could have lied.”
She snorted, pouring a glass of juice. “Nobody can look into those big, sincere blue eyes and lie. You’d go straight to hell. Want some?”
“No, thanks.”
By the time she’d drained the glass she felt nearly human. “I’ve got a little more than an hour before I have to change for my appointment.” Refreshed and ready for business, she set the empty glass on the counter. “What did you need to talk to me about?”
“A number of things.” Idly, he ran his hand down the length of her ponytail. “The tapes, for one.”
“You don’t have to worry about them.”
“Locking the house is a good precaution, Jules, but it isn’t enough.”
“I’ve done more. Come on.” She led the way through the house to the office. On the journey he noted that she had vases and pots of flowers everywhere. A good many of the milky-white blooms from the party had found a home. “Go ahead,” she invited him, pointing toward the desk drawer. “Take a look.”
Paul opened the drawer to find it empty. “Where?”
It grated a little that he hadn’t seemed surprised. “They’re in a safe place. The only time I have any of them out is when I’m working. So …” She shut the drawer. “If anyone tried to poke around again, he or she would come up empty.”
“If it’s as harmless as that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean someone might feel a bigger stake in all this.” Watching her, he sat on the edge of the desk. “Take Gloria DuBarry’s behavior the other night.”
Julia shrugged. “She was drunk.”
“Exactly—that itself is an anomaly. I’ve never seen Gloria so much as tipsy, much less sloppy drunk.” He picked up a paperweight, a faceted globe of crystal that exploded with lights as he turned it. He wondered if Julia would do that—turn from cool and quiet to hot and explosive at the proper touch. “She was warning you off. Why?”
“I don’t know. I don’t,” she insisted when he only continued to stare. “Her name hasn’t come up in my sessions with Eve, except in passing. And today we talked about other things.” Eve’s scheduled trip to Georgia, Peter Jackson’s buns, Brandon’s upcoming test in social studies, and Julia’s semiannual urge to whack off her hair. Eve had talked her out of it.
Blowing out a long breath, she dropped into the chair.
“Gloria, seemed to think I was going to write something that threatened her reputation. She even offered to pay me off—though I think she’d have preferred to kill me off.” When his eyes narrowed, she groaned. “For God’s sake, Paul, I was being sarcastic.” Then she laughed and leaned back, setting the chair rocking. “I can see you writing the scene now. Gloria DuBarry, dressed in the nun’s habit she wore in McReedy’s Little Devils, creeps up behind the intrepid biographer. I hope you put me in something scant and slinky after all these hours I’ve spent toning up the bod. She hefts a knife—no, too messy. Pulls a .22—no, too ordinary. Ah, she lunges forward and strangles her victim with her rosary beads.” Steepling her fingers, she grinned over them. “How’s that?”
“Not nearly as funny as you’d like it to be.” He set the crystal aside. “Julia, I want you to let me listen to the tapes.”
The chair snapped back. “You know I can’t do that.”
“I want to help you.”
There was such strained patience in his voice, she couldn’t resist reaching out to touch her hand to his. “I appreciate the offer, Paul, but I don’t think I need any help.”
He looked down to where her hand lay slender, delicate, on his. “If you did, would you tell me?”
Because she wanted to be sure to tell them both the truth, she waited a moment. “Yes.” Then she smiled, realizing it wasn’t so difficult, or so risky, to trust someone. “Yes, I would.”
“At least I have an answer.” He turned his hand over, gripping hers before she could pull away. “If you thought Eve needed help?”
This time there was no hesitation. “You’d be the first one I’d tell.”
Satisfied, he put that part of the problem aside as he would a plot device needing time to brew.
“Now I want to ask you something else.”
Figuring the hard part was over, she relaxed. “And I keep thinking I’m going to get the interview.”
“You’ll get your turn. Do you believe I care about you?”
She couldn’t say the question came out of left field, but that didn’t make it any easier to handle the ball. “Right now I do.”
The simple sentence told him much more than a yes or no. “Has everything in your life been so temporary?”
His hand was much too firm on hers, the palm rougher than was expected of a man who worked with words. While she could have resisted the hold, she couldn’t resist his eyes. If it was impossible to lie to Fritz, it was useless to lie to Paul. Those eyes would see right through to the truth.
“I suppose, except for Brandon, it has.”
“Is that the way you want it?” he asked, uneasy that it was so important he know.
“I haven’t really thought about it.” She rose, hoping to back away from an edge that seemed to be sneaking closer while she wasn’t looking. “I haven’t had to.”
“Now you do.” He cupped her face with his free hand. “And I believe it’s time I did something to make you start thinking about it.”
He kissed her, much as he had the last time, with too much passion, traces of anger, hints of frustration. He tugged her closer, continuing the rapid, reckless assault on her senses. To his pleasure he could feel, actually feel her skin warming as the blood raced close to the surface. Unbearably arousing was the faint taste of panic as her mouth opened for his.
He caged her hips between his thighs, his teeth nipping, nibbling at her lips, his tongue stroking between them! She heard her own groan of pleasure as he slipped his hands under her shirt to run them up and down her spine.
Her skin was going hot, then cold, shivering and sweating under his touch. But the fear was passing, too weak an emotion to compete with all the others he forced into her. Needs, so long ignored, rose up like a tidal wave to wash everything away. Everything but him.