Nora Roberts is the number one New York Times bestseller of more than 200 novels. With over 450 million copies of her books in print, she is indisputably one of the most celebrated and popular writers in the world. She has achieved numerous top five bestsellers in the UK, including number one for Savour the Moment and The Witness, and is a Sunday Times hardback bestseller writing as both Nora Roberts and J. D. Robb.

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By Nora Roberts

Homeport

The Reef

River’s End

Carolina Moon

The Villa

Midnight Bayou

Three Fates

Birthright

Northern Lights

Blue Smoke

Montana Sky

Angels Fall

High Noon

Divine Evil

Tribute

Sanctuary

Black Hills

The Search

Chasing Fire

The Witness

Whiskey Beach

The Collector

Trilogies and Quartets

The Born In Trilogy:

Born in Fire

Born in Ice

Born in Shame

The Bride Quartet:

Vision in White

Bed of Roses

Savour the Moment

Happy Ever After

The Key Trilogy:

Key of Light

Key of Knowledge

Key of Valour

The Irish Trilogy:

Jewels of the Sun

Tears of the Moon

Heart of the Sea

Three Sisters Island Trilogy:

Dance upon the Air

Heaven and Earth

Face the Fire

The Inn at Boonsboro Trilogy:

The Next Always

The Last Boyfriend

Shadow Spell

The Sign of Seven Trilogy:

Blood Brothers

The Hollow

The Pagan Stone

Chesapeake Bay Quartet:

Sea Swept

Rising Tides

Inner Harbour

Chesapeake Blue

In the Garden Trilogy:

Blue Dahlia

Black Rose

Red Lily

The Circle Trilogy:

Morrigan’s Cross

Dance of the Gods

Valley of Silence

The Dream Trilogy:

Daring to Dream

Holding the Dream

Finding the Dream

The Cousins O’Dwyer Trilogy:

Dark Witch

The Perfect Hope

Blood Magick

eBooks by Nora Roberts

Cordina’s Royal Family

Affaire Royale

Command Performance

The Playboy Prince

Cordina’s Crown Jewel

The Donovan Legacy

Captivated

Entranced

Charmed

Enchanted

The O’Hurleys

The Last Honest Woman

Dance to the Piper

Skin Deep

Without a Trace

Night Tales

Night Shift

Night Shadow

Nightshade

Night Smoke

Night Shield

The MacGregors

The Winning Hand

The Perfect Neighbor

All the Possibilities

One Man’s Art

Tempting Fate

Playing the Odds

The MacGregor Brides

The MacGregor Grooms

Rebellion/In from the Cold

For Now, Forever

The Calhouns

Suzanna’s Surrender

Megan’s Mate

Courting Catherine

A Man for Amanda

For the Love of Lilah

Irish Legacy

Irish Rose

Irish Rebel

Irish Thoroughbred

Best Laid Plans

Loving Jack

Lawless

Summer Love

Boundary Lines

Dual Image

First Impressions

The Law Is a Lady

Local Hero

This Magic Moment

The Name of the Game

Partners

Temptation

The Welcoming

Opposites Attract

Time Was

Times Change

Gabriel’s Angel

Holiday Wishes

The Heart’s Victory

The Right Path

Rules of the Game

Search for Love

Blithe Images

From This Day

Song of the West

Island of Flowers

Her Mother’s Keeper

Untamed

Sullivan’s Woman

Less of a Stranger

Reflections

Dance of Dreams

Storm Warning

Once More with Feeling

Endings and Beginnings

Tonight and Always

A Matter of Choice

Nora Roberts also writes the In Death series using the pseudonym J. D. Robb

Naked in Death

Glory in Death

Immortal in Death

Rapture in Death

Ceremony in Death

Vengeance in Death

Holiday in Death

Conspiracy in Death

Loyalty in Death

Witness in Death

Judgement in Death

Betrayal in Death

Seduction in Death

Reunion in Death

Purity in Death

Portrait in Death

Imitation in Death

Divided in Death

Visions in Death

Survivor in Death

Origin in Death

Memory in Death

Born in Death

Innocent in Death

Creation in Death

Strangers in Death

Salvation in Death

Promises in Death

Kindred in Death

Fantasy in Death

Indulgence in Death

Treachery in Death

New York to Dallas

Celebrity in Death

Delusion in Death

Calculated in Death

Thankless in Death

Concealed in Death

Festive in Death

PIATKUS

First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Piatkus

First published in the United States by Bantam in 1991

Copyright © 1991 by Nora Roberts

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-349-40800-2

Piatkus

An imprint of

Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK Company

www.hachette.co.uk

www.piatkus.co.uk

To Pat and Mary Kay:

Thanks for the laughs, and the lunches

Somehow, using a combination of pride and terror, she managed to keep her head up and to choke back the nausea. It wasn’t a nightmare. It wasn’t a dark fantasy she would shake off at dawn. Yet, dreamlike, everything was happening in slow motion. She was fighting to push her way through a thick curtain of water beyond which she could see the faces of the people all around her. Their eyes were hungry; their mouths opened and closed as if they would swallow her whole. Their voices ebbed and flowed like the pounding of waves on rock. Stronger, more insistent, was her heart’s jerky beat, a fierce tango inside her frozen body.

Keep moving, keep moving, her brain commanded her trembling legs as firm hands pushed her through the crowd and out onto the courthouse steps. The glare of sunlight made her eyes tear, so she fumbled for her sunglasses. They would think she was crying. She couldn’t allow them that dip into her emotions. Silence was her only shield.

She stumbled and felt a moment of panic. She could not fall. If she fell, the reporters, the curious, would leap on her, snarling and snapping and tearing like wild dogs over a rabbit. She had to stand upright, to stand behind her silence for a few yards. Eve had taught her that much.

Give them your brains, girl, never your guts.

Eve. She wanted to scream. To throw her hands up over her face and scream and scream until all the rage, the fear, the grief, emptied out of her.

Shouted questions assaulted her. Microphones stabbed at her face like deadly little darts as the news crews busily tapped the finale of the arraignment for murder of Julia Summers.

“Bitch!” shouted someone whose voice was harsh with hate and tears. “Coldhearted bitch.”

She wanted to stop and scream back: How do you know what I am? How do you know what I feel?

But the door of the limo was open. She climbed in to be cocooned by cool air, shielded by tinted glass. The crowd surged forward, pressing against the barricades along the curb. Angry faces encircled her; vultures over a still-bleeding corpse. As the car glided away, she looked straight ahead, her hands fisted in her lap and her eyes mercifully dry.

She said nothing as her companion fixed her a drink. Two fingers of brandy. When she had taken the first sip, he spoke calmly, almost casually, in the voice she had come to love.

“Well, Julia, did you kill her?”

She was a legend. A product of time and talent and her own unrelenting ambition. Eve Benedict. Men thirty years her junior desired her. Women envied her. Studio heads courted her, knowing that in this day when movies were made by accountants, her name was solid gold. In a career that had spanned nearly fifty years, Eve Benedict had known the highs, and the lows, and used both to forge herself into what she wanted to be.

She did as she chose, personally and professionally. If a role interested her, she went after it with the same verve and ferocity she’d used to get her first part. If she desired a man, she snared him, discarding him only when she was done, and—she liked to brag—never with malice. All of her former lovers, and they were legion, remained friends. Or had the good sense to pretend to be.

At sixty-seven, Eve had maintained her magnificent body through discipline and the surgeon’s art. Over a half century she had honed herself into a sharp blade. She had used both disappointment and triumph to temper that blade into a weapon that was feared and respected in the kingdom of Hollywood.

She had been a goddess. Now she was a queen with a keen mind and keen tongue. Few knew her heart. None knew her secrets.

“It’s shit.” Eve tossed the script onto the tiled floor of the solarium, gave it a solid kick, then paced. She moved as she always had, with a thin coat of dignity over a blaze of sensuality. “Everything I’ve read in the last two months has been shit.”

Her agent, a round, soft-looking woman with a will of iron, shrugged and sipped her afternoon cocktail. “I told you it was trash, Eve, but you wanted to read it.”

“You said trash.” Eve took a cigarette from a Lalique dish and dug into the pockets of her slacks for a book of matches. “There’s always something redeeming in trash. I’ve done plenty of trash and made it shine. This”—she kicked the script again with relish—“is shit.”

Margaret Castle took another sip of vodka-laced grapefruit juice. “Right again. The miniseries—”

A snap of the head, a quick glance with eyes sharp as a scalpel. “You know how I detest that word.”

Maggie reached for a piece of marzipan and popped it into her mouth. “Whatever you chose to call it, the part of Marilou is perfect for you. There hasn’t been a tougher, more fascinating Southern belle since Scarlett.”

Eve knew it, and had already decided to take the offer. But she didn’t like to give in too quickly. It wasn’t just a matter of pride, but a matter of image. “Three weeks location-shooting in Georgia,” she muttered. “Fucking alligators and mosquitoes.”

“Honey, your sexual partners are your business.” And earned a quick snort of laughter. “They’ve cast Peter Jackson as Robert.”

Eve’s bright green eyes narrowed. “When did you hear that?”

“Over breakfast.” Maggie smiled and settled deeper into the pastel cushions on the white wicker settee. “I thought you might be interested.”

Calculating, still moving, Eve blew out a long stream of smoke. “He looks like this week’s hunk, but he does excellent work. It might almost make running around in a swamp worthwhile.”

Now that she had a nibble, Maggie reeled in her catch. “They’re considering Justine Hunter for Marilou.”

“That bimbo?” Eve began to puff and pace more rapidly. “She’d ruin the picture. She hasn’t the talent or the brains to be Marilou. Did you see her in Midnight? The only thing that wasn’t flat about her performance was her bustline. Jesus.”

The reaction was exactly what Maggie had expected. “She did very well in Right of Way.”

“That’s because she was playing herself, an empty-headed slut. My God, Maggie, she’s a disaster.”

“The TV audience knows her name, and …” Maggie chose another piece of marzipan, examined it, smiled. “She’s the right age for the part. Marilou is supposed to be in her mid-forties.”

Eve whirled around. She stood in a patch of sunlight, the cigarette jutting from her fingers like a weapon. Magnificent, Maggie thought as she waited for the explosion. Eve Benedict was magnificent, with her sharp-featured face, those full red lips, the sleekly cropped ebony hair. Her body was a man’s fantasy—long and limber, full-breasted. It was clad in a jewel-toned silk, her trademark.

Then she smiled, the famous lightning-quick smile that left the recipient breathless. Tossing back her head, she gave a long, appreciative laugh. “Dead center, Maggie. Goddammit, you know me too well.”

Maggie crossed her plump legs. “After twenty-five years, I should.”

Eve moved to the bar to pour herself a tall glass of juice from oranges fresh from her own trees. She added a generous splash of champagne. “Start working on the deal.”

“I already have. This project is going to make you a rich woman.”

“I am a rich woman.” With a shrug, Eve crushed out her cigarette. “We both are.”

“So, we’ll be richer.” She toasted Eve with her glass, drank, then rattled ice cubes. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you really asked me out here today?”

Leaning back against the bar, Eve sipped. Diamonds glinted at her ears; her feet were bare. “You do know me too well. I’ve got another project in mind. One I’ve been thinking about for some time. I’ll need your help with it.”

Maggie arched one thin blond brow. “My help, not my opinion?”

“Your opinion’s always welcome, Maggie. It’s one of the few that is.” She sat in a high-back wicker chair cushioned in scarlet. From there she could see her gardens, the meticulously tended blooms, the carefully trimmed hedges. Bright water fumed up in a marble fountain and glinted in its basin. Beyond was the pool, the guest house—an exact reproduction of a Tudor home from one of her most successful films. Behind a stand of palms were the tennis courts she used at least twice a week, a putting green she had lost interest in, a shooting range she had installed after the Manson murders twenty years before. There was an orange grove, a ten-car garage, a man-made lagoon, and a twenty-foot stone fence to close it all in.

She’d worked for every square inch of her estate in Beverly Hills. Just as she’d worked to turn a smoky-voiced sex symbol into a respected actress. There had been sacrifices, but she rarely thought of them. There had been pain. That was something she never forgot. She had clawed her way up a ladder slippery with sweat and blood—and had been at the top for a long time. But she was there alone.

“Tell me about the project,” Maggie was saying. “I’ll give you my opinion, and then my help.”

“What project?”

Both women looked toward the doorway at the sound of the man’s voice. It carried the faintest of British accents, like polish over fine wood, though the man had not lived in England for more than a decade in his thirty-five years. Paul Winthrop’s home was southern California.

“You’re late.” But Eve was smiling easily and holding out both hands for him.

“Am I?” He kissed her hands first, then her cheek, finding them both as soft as rose petals. “Hello, gorgeous.” He lifted her glass, sipped, and grinned. “Best damn oranges in the country. Hi, Maggie.”

“Paul. Christ, you look more like your father every day. I could get you a screen test in a heartbeat.”

He sipped again before handing the glass back to Eve. “I’m going to take you up on that one day—when hell freezes over.”

He crossed to the bar, a tall, leanly built male with a hint of muscle beneath his loose shirt. His hair was the color of aged mahogany and was windswept from driving fast with the top of his convertible down. His face, which had been almost too pretty as a boy, had weathered—much to his relief. Eve studied it now, the long, straight nose, the hollowed cheeks, the deep blue eyes with their faint lines that were a woman’s curse and a man’s character. His mouth was quirked in a grin and was strong and beautifully shaped. It was a mouth she had fallen in love with twenty-five years before. His father’s mouth.

“How is the old bastard?” she asked with affection.

“Enjoying his fifth wife, and the tables at Monte Carlo.”

“He’ll never learn. Women and gambling were always Rory’s weaknesses.”

Because he planned to work that evening, Paul sipped his juice straight. He’d interrupted his day for Eve, as he would have done for no one else. “Fortunately, he’s always had uncanny luck with both.”

Eve drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. She’d been married to Rory Winthrop for a brief and tumultuous two years a quarter of a century before, and wasn’t certain she agreed with his son’s verdict. “How old is this one, thirty?”

“According to her press releases.” Amused, Paul tilted his head as Eve snatched up another cigarette. “Come now, gorgeous, don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

If anyone else had suggested it, she would have raked them clean to the bone. Now Eve merely shrugged.

“I hate to see him make a fool of himself. Besides, every time he takes the plunge, they run a list of his exes.” A cloud of smoke veiled her face for a moment, then was whipped up into the current from the ceiling fan. “I detest seeing my name linked with his poorer choices.”

“Ah, but yours shines the brightest.” Paul lifted his glass in salute. “As it should.”

“Always the right words at the right time.” Pleased, Eve settled back. But her fingers moved restlessly on the arm of the chair. “The mark of the successful novelist. Which is one of the reasons I asked you here today.”

“One of?”

“The other being that I don’t see enough of you, Paul, when you’re in the middle of one of your books.” Again she held out a hand for his. “I might have been your stepmama for only a short time, but you’re still my only son.”

Touched, he brought her hand to his lips. “And you’re still the only woman I love.”

“Because you’re too damn choosy.” But Eve squeezed his fingers before she released them. “I didn’t ask both of you here for sentiment. I need your professional advice.” She took a slow drag on her cigarette, knowing the value of the dramatic timing. “I’ve decided to write my memoirs.”

“Oh, Christ,” was Maggie’s first reaction, but Paul merely lifted a brow.

“Why?”

Only the sharpest of ears would have heard the hesitation. Eve always had her lines cold. “Having a lifetime achievement award thrust on me started me thinking.”

“That was an honor, Eve,” Maggie put in. “Not a kick in the pants.”

“It was both,” Eve said. “It was fitting to have my body of work honored, but my life—and my work—are far from finished. It did cause me to reflect on the fact that my fifty years in this business have been far from dull. I don’t think even someone with Paul’s imagination could dream up a more interesting story—with such varied characters.” Her lips curved slowly, with malice as well as humor. “There will be some who won’t be pleased to see their names and their little secrets in print.”

“And there’s nothing you like better than to stir the pot,” Paul murmured.

“Nothing,” Eve agreed. “And why not? The sauce sticks to the bottom and burns if it isn’t stirred now and again. I intend to be frank, brutally so. I won’t waste my time on a celebrity biography that reads like a press release or a fan letter. I need a writer who won’t soften my words or exploit them. Someone who will put my story together as it is, not as some might want it to be.” She caught the expression on Paul’s face and laughed. “Don’t worry, darling, I’m not asking you to take the job.”

“I gather you have someone in mind.” He took her glass to freshen her drink. “Is that why you sent the Robert Chambers bio over to me last week?”

Eve accepted the glass and smiled. “What did you think of it?”

He shrugged. “It was well done for its kind.”

“Don’t be a snob, darling.” Amused, she gestured with her cigarette. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the book received excellent reviews and stayed on the New York Times list for twenty weeks.”

“Twenty-two,” he corrected her, and made her grin.

“It was an interesting work, if one was into Robert’s bravado, and machismo, but what I found most fascinating was that the author managed to ferret out a number of truths among the carefully crafted lies.”

“Julia Summers,” Maggie put in, debating hard and long over another piece of candy. “I saw her on Today when she was doing the promotion rounds last spring. Very cool, very attractive. There was a rumor that she and Robert were lovers.”

“If they were, she maintained her objectivity.” Eve made a circle in the air with her cigarette before crushing it out. “Her personal life isn’t the issue.”

“But yours will be,” Paul reminded her. After setting his glass aside, he moved closer to her. “Eve, I don’t like the idea of your opening yourself up. Whatever they say about sticks and stones, words leave scars, especially when they’re tossed by a clever writer.”

“You’re absolutely right—that’s why I intend for most of the words to be mine.” She waved away his protest, impatiently, so that he saw her mind was already made up. “Paul, without getting on your literary hobby horse, what do you think of Julia Summers professionally?”

“She does what she does well enough. Maybe too well.” The idea made him uneasy. “You don’t need to expose yourself to public curiosity this way, Eve. You certainly don’t need the money, or the publicity.”

“My dear boy, I’m not doing this for the money or the publicity. I’m doing it as I do most things, for the satisfaction.” Eve glanced toward her agent. She knew Maggie well enough to see that the wheels were already turning. “Call her agent,” Eve said briefly. “Make the pitch. I’ll give you a list of my requirements.” She rose then to press a kiss to Paul’s cheek. “Don’t scowl. You have to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

She walked with perfect poise to the bar to add more champagne to her glass, hoping she hadn’t started a ball rolling that would ultimately flatten her.

Julia wasn’t certain if she’d just been given the world’s most fascinating Christmas present or an enormous lump of coal. She stood at the big bay window of her Connecticut home and watched the wind hurl the snow in a blinding white dance. Across the room, the logs snapped and sizzled in the wide stone fireplace. A bright red stocking hung on either end of the mantel. Idly, she spun a silver star and sent it twirling on its bough of the blue spruce.

The tree was square in the center of the window, precisely where Brandon had wanted it. They had chosen the six-foot spruce together, had hauled it, puffing and blowing, into the living room, then had spent an entire evening decorating. Brandon had known where he’d wanted every ornament. When she would have tossed the tinsel at the branches in hunks, he had insisted on draping individual strands.

He’d already chosen the spot where they would plant it on New Year’s Day, starting a new tradition in their new home in a new year.

At ten, Brandon was a fiend for tradition. Perhaps, she thought, because he had never known a traditional home. Thinking of her son, Julia looked down at the presents stacked under the tree. There, too, was order. Brandon had a ten-year-old’s need to shake and sniff and rattle the brightly wrapped boxes. He had the curiosity, and the wit, to cull out hints on what was hidden inside. But when he replaced a box, it went neatly into its space.

In a few hours he would begin to beg his mother to let him open one—just one—present tonight, on Christmas Eve. That, too, was tradition. She would refuse. He would cajole. She would pretend reluctance. He would persuade. And this year, she thought, at last, they would celebrate their Christmas in a real home. Not in an apartment in downtown Manhattan, but a house, a home, with a yard made for snowmen, a big kitchen designed for baking cookies. She’d so badly needed to be able to give him all this. She hoped it helped to make up for not being able to give him a father.

Turning from the window, she began to wander around the room. A small, delicate-looking woman in an oversize flannel shirt and baggy jeans, she always dressed comfortably in private to rest from being the scrupulously groomed, coolly professional public woman. Julia Summers prided herself on the image she presented to publishers, television audiences, the celebrities she interviewed. She was pleased by her skill in interviews, finding out what she needed to know about others while they learned very little about her.

Her press kit informed anyone who wanted to know that she had grown up in Philadelphia, an only child of two successful lawyers. It granted the information that she had attended Brown University, and that she was a single parent. It listed her professional accomplishments, her awards. But it didn’t speak of the hell she had lived through in the three years before her parents had divorced, or the fact that she had brought her son into the world alone at age eighteen. There was no mention of the grief she had felt when she had lost her mother, then her father within two years of each other in her mid-twenties.

Though she had never made a secret of it, it was far from common knowledge that she had been adopted when she was six weeks old, and that nearly eighteen years to the day after had given birth to a baby boy whose father was listed on the birth certificate as unknown.

Julia didn’t consider the omissions lies—though, of course, she had known the name of Brandon’s father. The simple fact was, she was too smooth an interviewer to be trapped into revealing anything she didn’t wish to reveal.

And, amused by being able so often to crack façades, she enjoyed being the public Ms. Summers who wore her dark blond hair in a sleek French twist, who chose trim, elegant suits in jewel tones, who could appear on Donahue or Carson or Oprah to tout a new book without showing a trace of the hot, sick nerves that lived inside the public package.

When she came home, she wanted only to be Julia. Brandon’s mother. A woman who liked cooking her son’s dinner, dusting furniture, planning a garden. Making a home was her most vital work and writing made it possible.

Now, as she waited for her son to come bursting in the door to tell her all about sledding with the neighbors, she thought of the offer her agent had just called her about. It had come out of the blue.

Eve Benedict.

Still pacing restlessly, Julia picked up and replaced knickknacks, plumped pillows on the sofa, rearranged magazines. The living room was a lived-in mess that was more her doing than Brandon’s. As she fiddled with the position of a vase of dried flowers or the angle of a china dish, she stepped over kicked-off shoes, ignored a basket of laundry yet to be folded. And considered.

Eve Benedict. The name ran through her head like magic. This was not merely a celebrity, but a woman who had earned the right to be called star. Her talent and her temperament were as well known and as well respected as her face. A face, Julia thought, that had graced movie screens for almost fifty years, in over a hundred films. Two Oscars, a Tony, four husbands—those were only a few of the awards that lined her trophy case. She had known the Hollywood of Bogart and Gable; she had survived, even triumphed, in the days when the studio system gave way to the accountants.

After nearly fifty years in the spotlight, this would be Benedict’s first authorized biography. Certainly it was the first time the star had contacted an author and offered her complete cooperation. With strings, Julia reminded herself, and sunk onto the couch. It was those strings that had forced her to tell her agent to stall.

She heard the kitchen door slam and smiled. No, there was really only one reason she hesitated to grab that golden ring. And he’d just come home.

“Mom!”

“Coming.” She started down the hall, wondering if she should mention the offer right away, or wait until after the holidays. It never occurred to her to make the decision herself, then tell Brandon. She stepped into the kitchen, then stood grinning. A step over the doorsill was a mound of snow with dark, excited eyes. “Did you walk or roll home?”

“It was great.” Brandon was struggling manfully with his plaid muffler that was knotted and wet around his neck. “We had the toboggan and Will’s older brother gave it a really big push. Lisa Cohen screamed and screamed the whole way. When we fell off she cried. And her snot froze.”

“Sounds lovely.” Julia crouched to work out the mangled knot.

“I went—pow!—right into a snowbank.” Icy snow flew as he slammed his gloved hands together. “It was great.”

She couldn’t insult him by asking if he was hurt. Obviously he was just dandy. But she didn’t care for the picture of him flying off a toboggan and into a snowbank. Knowing she would have enjoyed the sensation herself kept her from making the maternal noises that tickled her throat. Julia managed to undo the knot, then went to put on a kettle for hot chocolate while Brandon struggled out of his parka.

When she looked back, he had hung up the dripping parka—he was much quicker about such things than she—and was reaching for a cookie from the wicker basket set out on the kitchen counter. His hair was wet, and was dark, deer-hide blond like hers. Again, like his mother, he was small in stature, something she knew bothered him a great deal. He had a lean little face that had shed its baby fat early. A stubborn chin—again his mother’s son. But his eyes, unlike her cool gray, were a rich brandy brown. His only apparent legacy from his father.

“Two,” she said automatically. “Dinner’s in a couple of hours.”

Brandon bit the head off a reindeer and wondered how soon he could talk her into letting him open a present. He could smell the spaghetti sauce that was bubbling on the stove. The rich, tangy scent pleased him, almost as much as it pleased him to lick the colored sugar from his lips. They always had spaghetti on Christmas Eve. Because it was his favorite.

This year they would have Christmas in their new house, but he knew exactly what would happen, and when. They would have dinner—in the dining room because tonight was special—then they would do the dishes. His mother would put music on, and they would play games in front of the fire. Later they would take turns filling the stockings.

He knew there wasn’t a real Santa Claus, and it didn’t bother him very much. It was fun to pretend to be Santa. By the time the stockings were filled, he would have talked his mother into letting him open a present. He knew just the one he wanted tonight. The one that was wrapped in silver and green paper, and rattled. He desperately hoped it was an Erector set.

He began to dream of the morning when he would wake his mother before the sun came out. How they would come downstairs, turn on the tree lights, put on the music, and open presents.

“It’s an awful long time till morning,” he began when she set the mug of chocolate on the counter. “Maybe we could open all our presents tonight. Lots of people do, then you don’t have to get up so early.”

“Oh, I don’t mind getting up early.” Julia leaned her elbows on the counter and smiled at him. It was a sharp, challenging smile. The game, they both knew, was on. “But if you’d rather, you can sleep late, and we’ll open presents at noon.”

“It’s better when it’s dark. It’s getting dark now.”

“So it is.” Reaching over, she brushed the hair away from his eyes. “I love you, Brandon.”

He shifted in his seat. It wasn’t the way the game was played. “Okay.”

She had to laugh. Skirting the counter, she took the stool beside his, wrapped her stocking feet around the rungs. “There’s something I need to talk to you about. I got a call from Ann a little while ago.”

Brandon knew Ann was his mother’s agent, and that the talk would be about work. “Are you going on tour again?”

“No. Not right now. It’s about a new book. There’s a woman in California, a very big star, who wants me to write her authorized biography.”

Brandon shrugged. His mother had already written two books about movie stars. Old people. Not neat ones like Arnold Schwarzenegger or Harrison Ford. “Okay.”

“But it’s a little complicated. The woman—Eve Benedict—is a big star. I have some of her movies on tape.”

The name meant nothing. He slurped chocolate. It left a frothy brown line above his lip. A young man’s first mustache. “Those dumb black and white ones?”

“Some of them are black and white, not all of them. The thing is, to write the book, we’d have to go to California.”

He looked up then, his eyes wary. “We have to move away?”

“No.” Eyes sober, she put her hands on his shoulders. She understood how much home meant to him. He’d been uprooted enough in his ten years, and she would never do it to him again. “No, we wouldn’t move, but we’d have to go there and stay for a few months.”

“Like a visit?”

“A long one. That’s why we have to think about it. You’d have to go to school there for a while, and I know you’re just getting used to being here. So it’s something we both have to think about.”

“Why can’t she come here?”

Julia smiled. “Because she’s the star and I’m not, kiddo. One of her stipulations is that I come to her and stay until the first draft is finished. I’m not sure how I feel about that.” She looked away, out the kitchen window. The snow had stopped, and night was falling. “California’s a long way from here.”

“But we’d come back?”

How like him to cut to the bottom line. “Yeah, we’d come back. This is home now. For keeps.”

“Could we go to Disneyland?”

Surprised and amused, she looked back at her son. “Sure.”

“Can I meet Arnold Schwarzenegger?”

With a laugh, Julia lowered her brow to him. “I don’t know. We could ask.”

“Okay.” Satisfied, Brandon finished off his hot chocolate.

It was okay, Julia told herself as the plane made its final approach into LAX. The house had been closed up, the arrangements had been made. Her agent and Eve Benedict’s had phoned and faxed each other continually over the last three weeks. Right now Brandon was bouncing in his seat, impatient for the plane to land.

There was nothing to worry about. But, of course, she knew that she made a science out of worrying. She was biting her nails again, and she was annoyed to have ruined her manicure—especially since she hated the whole process of manicures, the soaking and filing, the agony of indecision over the right shade of polish. Lucious Lilac or Fuchsia Delight. As usual, she’d settled on two coats of clear. Boring but noncommittal.

She caught herself gnawing what was left of her thumbnail and linked her fingers tightly in her lap. Christ, now she was thinking of nail polish like wine. A flirty but substantial shade.

Were they ever going to land?

She pushed up the sleeves of her jacket, then pulled them down again while Brandon stared wide-eyed through the window. At least she’d managed not to pass on her terror of flying.

She let out a long, quiet breath, and her fingers relaxed fractionally as the plane touched down. You lived through another one, Jules, she told herself before she let her head fall back against the seat. Now all she had to do was survive the initial interview with Eve the Great, make a temporary home in the star’s guest house, see that Brandon adjusted to his new school, and earn a living.

Not such a big deal, she thought, clipping open her compact to see if she had any color left in her cheeks. She touched up her lipstick, dusted her nose with powder. If there was one thing she was skilled at, it was disguising nerves. Eve Benedict would see nothing but confidence.

As the plane glided to a stop at the gate, Julia took a Tums out of her jacket pocket. “Here we go, kid,” she said to Brandon with a wink. “Ready or not.”

He hefted his gym bag, she her briefcase. Hands linked, they deplaned, and even before they stepped through the gate, a man in a dark uniform and cap approached. “Ms. Summers?”

Julia drew Brandon a fraction closer. “Yes?”

“I’m Lyle, Miss Benedict’s driver. I’ll take you directly to the estate. Your luggage will be delivered.”

He was no more than thirty, Julia judged as she nodded. And built like a linebacker. There was enough swagger in his hips to make the discreet uniform a joke. He led them through the terminal while Brandon dragged his heels and tried to see everything at once.

The car was waiting at the curb. Car, Julia thought, was a poor term for the mile-long, gleaming white stretch limo.

“Wow,” Brandon said under his breath. Mother and son rolled their eyes at each other and giggled as they settled in. The interior smelled of roses, leather, lingering perfume. “It has a TV and everything,” Brandon whispered. “Wait till I tell the guys.”

“Welcome to Hollywood,” Julia said and, ignoring the chilling champagne, poured them both a celebratory Pepsi. She toasted Brandon gravely, then grinned. “Here’s mud in your eye, sport.”

He chattered all the way, about the palm trees, the skateboarders, the proposed trip to Disneyland. It helped soothe her. She let him switch on the television, but nixed the idea of using the phone. By the time they cruised into Beverly Hills, he’d decided that being a chauffeur was a pretty good job.

“Some people would say that having one’s even better.”

“Nah, ’cause then you never get to drive.”

And it was as simple as that, she thought. Her work with celebrities had already shown her that fame exacted a heavy price. One of them, she decided while she slipped off a shoe and let her foot sink into the deep carpet, was having a chauffeur who was built like a bodyguard.

The next price became apparent as they drove along a high stone wall to an ornate, and very thick iron gate, where a guard, again in uniform, peered out of the window of a small stone hut. After a long buzz, the gate opened slowly, even majestically. And the locks clicked tight behind them. Locked in and locked out, Julia thought.

The grounds were exquisite, graced with lovely old trees and trimmed shrubs that would flower early in the mild climate. A peacock strutted on the lawn, and his hen sent up a scream like a woman. Julia chuckled when Brandon’s mouth fell open.

There was a pond dotted with lily pads. Over it arched a fanciful walking bridge. They had left behind, only hours before, the snow and frigid winds of the Northeast and come to paradise. Eve’s Eden. She had stepped out of a Currier and Ives print into a Dali painting.

Then the house rose into view, and she was as speechless as her son. Like the car, it was glistening white, three graceful stories in an “E” shape, with lovely shaded courtyards between the bars. The house was as feminine, timeless, elaborate as the woman who owned it. Curved windows and archways softened its lines without detracting from its aura of strength. Balconies, their iron work as delicate as white lace, draped the upper stories. In vivid contrast, trellised flowers in bold colors of scarlet, sapphire, purple, and saffron sliced arrogantly up the white, white walls.

When Lyle opened the door, Julia was struck by the silence. No sound from the world outside the high walls penetrated here. No car engines, belching buses, or squealing tires would have dared to intrude. There was only birdsong, and the seductive whisper of the breeze through fragrant leaves, the tinkle of water from a fountain in the courtyard. Above, the sky was a dreamy blue trimmed with a few powder-puff clouds.

Again she had the dislocated feeling of walking into a painting.

“Your luggage will be delivered to the guest house, Ms. Summers,” Lyle told her. He had examined her in the rearview mirror during the long drive, speculating about the best ways to interest her in a quick tussle in his room over the garage. “Miss Benedict asked that I bring you here, first.”

She didn’t encourage or discourage the gleam in his eye. “Thank you.” Julia looked at the curving apron of white marble steps, then tucked her son’s hand in hers.

Inside, Eve stepped away from the window. She had wanted to see them first. Had needed to. Julia was more delicate-looking in person than she’d been led to expect from the photographs she’d seen. The young woman had excellent taste in clothes. The trim strawberry-colored suit and subtle jewelry she wore met with Eve’s approval. As did the posture.

And the boy … the boy had had a sweet face and an air of suppressed energy. He would do, she told herself, and closed her eyes. They would both do very well.

Opening her eyes again, she moved to her nightstand. In the drawer were the pills only she and her doctor knew she needed. There was also a crudely printed note on cheap paper.

LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE.

As a threat, Eve found it laughable. And encouraging. She hadn’t yet begun the book, and already people were sweating. The fact that it could have come from several sources only made the game more interesting. Her rules, she thought. The power was in her hands. It was long past time she used it.

She poured water from the Baccarat carafe—swallowed the medication, hated the weakness. After replacing the pills, she walked to a long silver-framed mirror. She had to stop wondering if she was making a mistake. She didn’t care to second-guess herself once a decision had been made. Not now. Not ever.

With careful, brutally honest eyes, she checked her own reflection. The emerald-toned silk jump suit was flattering. She had done her own makeup and hair only an hour before. Gold glinted at her ears, her throat, her fingers. Assured she looked every bit the star, she started downstairs. She would, as always, make an entrance.

A cool-eyed, beefy-armed housekeeper who called herself Travers, had shown Julia and Brandon into the salon. Tea, they were told, would be forthcoming. They were to make themselves at home.

Julia wondered that anyone could consider such a room in such a house home. Color tumbled into color, streaking and spilling over white walls, white carpet, white upholstery. Pillows and paintings, flowers and porcelain were all dramatic accents against a pristine background. The high ceiling was ornate with plasterwork. The windows were scalloped with teal silk.

But it was the painting, the larger-than-life-size portrait over the white marble fireplace that was the focal point. Despite the drama of the room, the painting dominated … and demanded.

Still clutching Brandon’s hand, Julia stared up at it. Eve Benedict, nearly forty years before, her beauty staggering, her power awesome. Crimson satin slid off her bare shoulders, draped over her lush body as she stood, laughing down at her audience, not so much with humor as with knowledge. Her hair flowed simply, dark as ebony. She wore no jewelry. Needed none.

“Who is that?” Brandon wanted to know. “Is she like a queen?”

“Yes.” Julia bent down to kiss the top of his head. “That’s Eve Benedict, and she’s very much like a queen.”

“Carlotta,” Eve said in her rich, whiskey voice as she entered. “From No Tomorrows.”

Julia turned and faced the woman. “MGM, 1951,” Julia acknowledged. “You played opposite Montgomery Clift. It was your first Oscar.”

“Very good.” Eve kept her eyes on Julia’s as she crossed the room and extended her hand. “Welcome to California, Ms. Summers.”

“Thank you.” Julia found her hand held in a firm grip while Eve studied her. Knowing the first moments of this relationship would be crucial, she returned the look measure for measure. She saw that both the power and the beauty had aged, and had grown.

With her own thoughts well concealed, Eve looked down at Brandon. “And you are Mr. Summers.”

He giggled at that and shot a glance at his mother. “I guess. It’s okay to call me Brandon, though.”

“Thank you.” She had an urge to touch his hair, and repressed it. “You may call me … Miss B. for lack of something better. Ah, Travers, always prompt.” She nodded as the housekeeper wheeled in the tea tray. “Please sit down, I won’t keep you long. I’m sure you’d like to settle in.” She took a high-backed white chair and waited until Julia and the boy sat on the couch. “We’ll dine at seven, but since I know the food on the plane was ghastly, I thought you’d like a little something.”

Brandon, who had been unenthusiastic about tea, noted that the little something included frosted cakes, tiny sandwiches, and a tall pitcher of lemonade. He grinned.

“It’s very kind of you,” Julia began.

“We’ll be spending quite a bit of time together, so you’ll find out that I’m rarely kind. Isn’t that so, Travers?”

Travers merely grunted and set delicate china plates on the coffee table before she stalked out again.

“I will, however, try to keep you comfortable, because it suits me to have you do a good job.”

“I’ll do a good job, comfortable or not. One,” she said to Brandon as he reached for a second cake. “But your hospitality is appreciated, Miss Benedict.”

“Can I have two if I eat two sandwiches?”

Julia glanced down at Brandon. Eve noted that her smile came easily and her eyes softened. “Eat the sandwiches first.” When she shifted her attention to Eve, her smile was formal again. “I hope you don’t feel obligated to entertain us while we’re here. We realize how demanding your schedule must be. As soon as it’s convenient, you and I can work out the times best suited to you for interviews.”

“Eager to get to work?”

“Of course.”

So, she’d been right in her judgment, Eve thought. This was a woman who had been trained—or had trained herself—to push straight ahead. Eve sipped the tea and considered. “All right then, my assistant will give you a schedule. Week to week.”

“I’ll need Monday morning to take Brandon into school. I’d also like to rent a car.”

“There’s no need for that.” She gave a dismissive wave. “There’s a half a dozen in the garage. One will suit. Lyle, my driver, will take the boy to school and back.”

“In the big white car?” Brandon asked with his mouth full, his eyes wide.

Eve laughed before sipping her tea. “I think not. But we’ll see that you have a ride in it now and again.” She noted he was eyeing the tray again. “I once lived with a young boy just about your age. He had a fondness for petits fours.”

“Are there any kids here now?”

“No.” The shadow came and went in her eyes. She rose then, a swift and casual dismissal. “I’m sure you’d both like to rest before dinner. If you go through the terrace doors and follow the path to the pool, the guest house is just to the right. Shall I have one of the servants show you?”

“No, we’ll find it.” Julia stood, placing a hand on Brandon’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

At the doorway Eve paused and turned. “Brandon, if I were you, I’d wrap a few of those cakes in a napkin and take them with me. Your stomach’s still on East Coast time.”

She was right. Brandon’s first coast-to-coast flight had his system jumbled. By five he was hungry enough that Julia fixed him a light supper from the small but well-stocked kitchen in the guest house. By six, cranky with fatigue and excitement, he nodded off in front of the television. Julia carried him into his bedroom, where one of Eve’s efficient servants had already unpacked his things.

It was a strange bed, in a strange room, despite the addition of his Erector set, his books, and the favorite toys that had traveled with them. Still, as always, he slept like a rock, not stirring when she stripped off his shoes and slacks. Once he was tucked in, Julia called the main house to give Travers her apologies and regrets for dinner that evening.

She was weary enough herself to consider slipping into the tempting whirlpool tub or directly into the king-size bed in the master suite. But her mind refused to shut off. The guest house was both luxurious and tasteful, a two-story structure with warm wood trim and cool pastel walls. The curving stairs and open balcony gave it a spacious, informal feel. She much preferred the gleaming oak floors and colorful throw rugs to the acres of white carpet in the main house.

Julia wondered who might have stayed in the guest house, enjoying its own tidy English garden and the warm, scented breezes. Olivier had been a friend of Eve’s. Had the great actor brewed tea in the charming country-style kitchen with its bright copper pots and little brick hearth? Had Katharine Hepburn fussed in the garden? Had Peck or Fonda napped on the long, cushy sofa?

Since childhood Julia had been fascinated with the people who made their living on screen or stage. Briefly in her teens she had dreamed of joining them. A crushing shyness had caused her to sweat her way through auditions in high school plays. Desperate desire and determination had won her roles, fed the dream … and then there had been Brandon. A mother at eighteen, Julia had changed her course. And she’d survived betrayal, fear, and despair. There were some, she felt, who were meant to grow up early and fast.

Different dreams, she mused as she slipped into a frayed terry-cloth robe. She wrote about actors now, but would never be one. Knowing her child slept safe and content in the next room left no room for regrets. And knowing her own strength and competence would help her give her son a long and happy childhood.

She was reaching up to take the pins from her hair when she heard a knock at the door. Julia glanced down at her faded robe, then shrugged. If this was home for the time being, she had to be able to relax in it.

Julia opened the door to a pretty young blond with lake-blue eyes and a bright smile. “Hi, I’m CeeCee. I work for Miss Benedict. I’m here to look after your son while you have dinner.”

Julia lifted a brow. “That’s very kind of you, but I phoned my regrets to the main house earlier.”

“Miss Benedict said that the little boy—Brandon, right?—was tired out. I’ll baby-sit while you have dinner at the main house.”

Julia opened her mouth to decline, but CeeCee was already breezing through the door. She was in jeans and a T-shirt, her California-blond hair sweeping her shoulders, her arms full of magazines.

“Isn’t this a great place?” she went on in her bubbly champagne voice. “I love cleaning it, and I’ll be doing it for you while you’re here. You just let me know if you want anything special.”

“Everything’s perfect.” Julia had to smile. The woman vibrated with energy and enthusiasm. “But I really don’t think I should leave Brandon on his first night with someone he doesn’t know.”

“You don’t have to worry. I have two little brothers, and I’ve been baby-sitting since I was twelve. Dustin, the youngest, was a late baby. He’s just ten—and a real mega monster.” She gave Julia another flashing smile—her even white teeth those of a toothpaste commercial. “He’ll be okay with me. Ms. Summers. If he wakes up and wants you, we’ll call the house. You’re only two minutes away.”

Julia hesitated. She knew Brandon would sleep through the night. And the perky blond was exactly the kind of sitter she herself would have chosen. She was being overcautious and overprotective—two things she struggled not to be.

“All right, CeeCee. I’ll change and be down in a couple of minutes.”

When Julia returned five minutes later, CeeCee was sitting on the couch leafing through a fashion magazine. The television was tuned to one of the bright Saturday-night sitcoms. She glanced up and studied Julia.

“That’s a great color on you, Ms. Summers. I want to be a designer, so I pay attention to, you know, tones and lines and material. Not everybody can wear a strong color like that tomato red.”

Julia smoothed the jacket she’d paired with black evening pants. She’d chosen it because it gave her confidence. “Thanks. Miss Benedict said informal.”

“It’s perfect. Armani?”

“You’ve got a good eye.”

CeeCee flipped back her long, straight hair. “Maybe one day you’ll wear a McKenna. That’s my last name. Except maybe I’ll just go by my first. You know, like Cher and Madonna.”

Julia found herself smiling, until she glanced back upstairs. “If Brandon wakes up—”

“We’ll get along fine,” CeeCee assured her. “And if he’s nervous, I’ll call right away.”

Julia nodded, even as she turned the black evening bag over and over in her hands. “I won’t be late.”

“Enjoy yourself. Miss Benedict gives great dinner parties.”

Julia lectured herself during the short walk from house to house. Brandon wasn’t a shy or a clinging child. If he did wake up, he would not only accept the baby-sitter, he’d enjoy her. And, she reminded herself, she had a job to do. Part of that job—the hardest part for her—was to socialize. The sooner she began, the better.

The light was softening, and she could smell roses, jasmine, and the damp green smell of leaves freshly watered. The pool was a curving half moon of pale blue fed by an arching fountain at one corner. She hoped pool privileges went along with the guest house, or Brandon would be hell to live with.

She hesitated on the terrace, then decided it would be more correct to go around to the front. She passed yet another gurgling fountain, a hedge of gloriously perfumed Russian olives, then spotted two cars in the drive. One was a late model Porsche in flaming red, the other an old, beautifully reconditioned Studebaker in classic cream. Both meant money.

The antacid pill had dissolved on her tongue by the time she rang the bell at the front door. Travers answered, gave a frigid nod, then led Julia to the salon.

The cocktail hour was in progress. Debussy was playing softly, and the evening garden scent had been captured indoors by a huge bouquet of scarlet roses. The lighting was subtle, flattering. The stage set.

From the doorway Julia quickly surveyed the people in the room. There was a busty redhead in a tiny, glittery black dress who looked miserably bored. Beside her was a tanned Adonis with sun-streaked blond hair—the Porsche.

He was wearing a very correct, very expensive pearl-gray suit and lounged against the mantel as he sipped his drink and murmured to the redhead. A sleek woman in an ice-blue sheath with cropped fawn-colored hair served Eve a flute of champagne. The mistress of the house was stunning in royal blue lounging pajamas piped in chartreuse. And she was smiling at the man beside her.

Julia recognized Paul Winthrop instantly. First, because of his resemblance to his father. And second, from the picture on the dust covers of his books. Like his father, he would always draw eyes and provoke fantasies. His looks weren’t as polished as those of the other man in the room, but they were far more dangerous.

He seemed tougher-looking in person, she noted. Less scholarly and more approachable. He, at least, had taken the informal rule to heart and wore slacks and scuffed Nikes with his jacket. He was grinning as he lighted Eve’s cigarette. Then he turned, looked at Julia, and the grin vanished.

“It seems your last guest has arrived.”

“Ah, Ms. Summers.” Eve glided across the room, silks whispering. “I take it CeeCee has everything under control.”

“Yes, she’s delightful.”

“She’s exhausting, but that’s youth. What will you have to drink?”

“Just some mineral water.” A sip of anything stronger, and she knew jet lag would settle her into a coma.

“Nina, dear,” Eve called, “we have a teetotaler who needs a Perrier. Julia, let me introduce you around. My nephew, Drake Morrison.”

“I’ve been eager to meet you.” He took Julia’s hand and smiled. His palm was smooth and warm, his eyes a compelling if slightly tamer version of Eve’s bright green eyes. “You’re the one who’ll dig all Eve’s secrets out. Even her family hasn’t succeeded in doing that.”

“Because it’s none of my family’s business until I say so.” Eve expelled a slow stream of smoke. “And this is—what was your name again, dear? Carla?”

“Darla.” The redhead corrected Eve with a pouty lisp. “Darla Rose.”

“Charming.” Eve’s voice held an edgy amusement that put Julia on alert. A few degrees sharper, and it could have rent flesh. “Our Darla is an actress-model. Such a fascinating phrase. More catchy than that lowering term, starlet, we used to use. And this is Nina Soloman, my right and left arms.”

“Pack mule and whipping boy,” the sleek blond said as she handed Julia a glass. There was good humor in the voice and quiet confidence in the bearing. On closer view, Julia noted that the woman was older than she’d first thought. Nearer fifty than forty but with a sleekness that age rolled off. “I’ll warn you, you’ll need more than mineral water if you work with Miss B. long.”

“If Ms. Summers has done her homework, she already knows I’m a professional bitch. And this is my own true love, Paul Winthrop.” Eve all but purred as she traced fingers down his arm. “A pity I married the father instead of waiting for the son.”

“Anytime you want to take a shot, gorgeous.” His voice was warm for Eve. His eyes were cool for Julia. He didn’t offer his hand. “Have you done your homework, Ms. Summers?”

“Yes. But I always take the time to form my own opinions.”

He lifted his drink and watched as Julia was immediately drawn into small talk. She was smaller than he’d pictured her, more finely built. Despite Darla’s flash and Nina’s elegance, she was the only woman in the room who could compete with Eve’s beauty. Still, he preferred the redhead’s blatant show of wares and wants to Julia’s cold composure. A man wouldn’t have to dig deeply to learn all there was to know about Darla Rose. The aloof Ms. Summers was another matter. But for Eve’s sake, Paul intended to find out all there was to learn about Julia.

Julia couldn’t relax. Even when they went into dinner and she accepted a single glass of wine, she couldn’t force the muscles of her neck and stomach to loosen. She told herself it was her own nerves that had her imagining hostility. There was no reason for anyone in the little group to resent her. Indeed, Drake was going out of his way to be charming. Darla had stopped moping and was packing away stuffed trout and wild rice. Eve was cruising on champagne, and Nina was chuckling over some comment Paul had made about a mutual acquaintance.

“Curt Dryfuss?” Eve put in, catching the end of the conversation. “He’d be a better director if he’d learn to keep his fly zipped. If he hadn’t had the leading lady bouncing on him so often during his last project, he might have gotten a decent performance out of her. Onscreen.”

“He could have been a eunuch and not gotten a decent performance out of her,” Paul corrected Eve. “Onscreen.”

“It’s all tits and ass these days.” Even skimmed a glance over Darla. Julia took time to hope that she was never on the wrong end of that coldly amused stare. “Tell me, Ms. Summers, what do you think of our current crop of actresses?”

“I’d say it’s the same in this as in any generation. The cream rises to the top. You did.”

“If I’d waited to rise, I’d still be making B movies with second-rate directors.” She gestured with her glass. “I clawed and chewed my way to the top, and I’ve spent most of my life in a bloody battle to stay there.”

“Then I suppose the question would be, is it worth it?”

Eve’s eyes narrowed and glittered. Her lips curved. “You’re goddamn right it is.”

Julia leaned closer. “If you had it to do over again, would you change anything?”

“No. Nothing.” She took a quick and deep drink. A headache was beginning to play behind her eyes, and the dull pain infuriated her. “To change one thing is to change everything.”

Paul put a hand on Eve’s arm, but his eyes were on Julia. Because he didn’t bother to disguise it, Julia now could see the source of the hostility she’d been feeling. “Why don’t we let the interview wait until working hours?”

“Don’t be so snotty, Paul,” Eve said mildly. With a laugh, she patted his hand. She turned to Julia. “He disapproves. I’m sure he thinks I’ll spill his secrets along with mine.”

“You don’t know mine.”

This time her laugh took on an edge. “My dear boy, there is no secret, no lie, no scandal I don’t know. At one time it was thought that Parsons and Hopper were the ones to worry about. But they didn’t know how to hold on to a secret until it had ripened.” She drank again, as if toasting some private triumph. “How many calls have you fielded in the last two weeks, Nina, from worried luminaries?”

Nina let out a sigh. “Dozens.”

“Exactly.” Pleased, Eve sat back. In the candlelight, her eyes glittered like the jewels at her ears and around her throat. “It’s tremendously satisfying to be the one throwing the shit at the fan. And you, Drake, as my press agent, what do you think about my project?”

“That you’re going to make a lot of enemies. And a lot of money.”

“I’ve spent fifty years doing both of those things already. How about you, Ms. Summers, what do you hope to get out of this?”

Julia set her glass aside. “A good book.” She caught Paul’s look of derision and stiffened. She would have preferred to empty her water goblet into his lap, but relied on dignity. “Of course, I’ve gotten used to people considering celebrity biographies a long step below literature.” Her gaze shifted to meet his. “Just as many people consider popular fiction a bastard form of writing.”

Eve threw back her head and laughed; Paul picked up his fork to toy with the remnants of his trout. His clear blue eyes had darkened, but his voice was mild as he asked, “What do you consider your work, Ms. Summers?”

“Entertainment,” she said without hesitation. “What do you consider yours?”

He ignored the question and leapt on her answer. “So you believe it’s entertaining to exploit the name and the life of a public figure?”

She no longer felt like biting her nails, but pushing up her sleeves. “I doubt Sandburg thought so when he wrote of Lincoln. And I certainly don’t believe an authorized biography is exploitative of its subject!”

“You’re not comparing your work to Sandburg’s?”

“Yours has been compared to Steinbeck’s.” She moved her shoulders carelessly, though her temper was heating fast. “You tell a story based on imagination—or lies. I tell one based on facts and memories. The result of both techniques is that the finished work is read and enjoyed.”

“I’ve certainly read and enjoyed works by both of you,” Nina said, stepping in as peacemaker. “I’ve always been in awe of writers. All I do is compose business correspondence. Of course, Drake has those punchy press releases.”

“Which are a mix of truth and lies,” he said. He turned to Julia with a smile. “I suppose you’ll be interviewing people other than Eve, for a rounded picture.”

“That’s the usual procedure.”

“I’m available. Anytime.”

“It looks like Darla’s ready for dessert,” Eve said dryly and rang for the last course. “The cook made raspberry trifle. You’ll take some back to Brandon.”

“Oh, yes, your little boy.” Satisfied the conversation had cooled, Nina poured more wine. “We were hoping to meet him tonight.”

“He was exhausted.” Julia snuck a peek at her watch. It succeeded only in reminding her that her body insisted it was past midnight. “I imagine he’ll be wide awake by four A.M. and wondering why the sun hasn’t come up.”

“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.”