Genuine Lies (28 page)

“We have more than business between us, Julia.” He took the glass out of her hand, set it aside next to his. “Let me show you.”

Before he could, she put both hands on his chest. “It’s getting late, Paul.”

“I know.” He took one of her hands by the wrist, bringing her fingers to his mouth to nibble. “I love watching you get stirred up, Julia.” He stroked his tongue down her palm, then back. “There’s such a battle going on in your eyes over what you like, and what you think’s best for you.”

“I know what’s best for me.”

When she curled her hand into a fist, he contented himself
with scraping his teeth over her knuckles. He smiled. “And do you know what you like?”

This, she thought. She liked this very much. “I’m not a child who overindulgences in what feels good. I know the consequences.”

“There are some indulgences that are worth the consequences.” He took his hands to her face and held it still. The taut thread of impatience she felt in his made him only more seducing. “Do you think I pursue every woman I’m attracted to so single-mindedly?”

“I have no idea.”

“Then let me tell you.” He dragged her head back with a roughness that surprised and excited. “You do something to me, Julia. I haven’t been able to get a fix on it, and I haven’t been able to change it. So I’ve decided not to try, just to take things as they come.”

His mouth was a breath from hers. She could feel herself being drawn in, helplessly, to a place she was afraid to go. “It takes two people.”

“That’s right.” His tongue flicked out to trace the shape of her lips. And she began to tremble. “We both know if I pushed this right now, we’d make love the rest of the night.” She would have shaken her head, but his mouth closed over hers. He was right, absolutely and completely right. And so was the taste of his lips.

“I want you, Julia, and fair means or foul, I will have you. I prefer it to be fair.”

Her breath was coming too fast, the need leaping too high. “And what I prefer doesn’t count.”

“If that were true, we’d already be lovers. I feel something for you, some dangerous thing, some volatile thing. God knows what’s going to happen when I let it loose.”

“Are you interested in how I feel?”

“That’s something I’ve given a great deal of thought to, maybe too much thought to, over the past few weeks.”

She needed distance, quickly, and was grateful he didn’t prevent her from rising. “I’ve also given this situation a lot of thought, and realize I should be honest from the start. I like my
life as it is, Paul. I’ve worked very hard to establish the right kind of routine, environment, for my son. I won’t risk that, not for anyone or anything.”

“I can’t see how a relationship with me would endanger Brandon.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t. That’s something I’d have to be sure of. I’ve balanced my life very carefully, very deliberately. Casual sex isn’t on my list.”

He was up quickly, dragging her into his arms. By the time he jerked her back, she was weak and staggering. “Does that strike you as casual, Julia?” he asked, giving her a quick shake. “Is that something you can add to a scale or jot down on a list?”

Furious, he released her to snatch up his wine. This was not the way he’d intended to begin, or end, the evening with her. Control had always been so simple before. He was afraid it would never be simple again—not around Julia.

“I won’t be forced to feel, or be bullied into an affair.”

“You’re absolutely right. This time, at least, I’ll apologize.” Calmer, he smiled. “That’s thrown you off, hasn’t it? Which may be the best way to handle you, Jules. The unexpected disarms you.” He traced a finger down her cheek, which was now very pale. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I scared you to death, not my usual way with women. You’re different,” he murmured. “Maybe that’s what I’m trying to cope with.” Taking her hand, he kissed her fingers gently. “At least I’ll go home confident that tonight you’ll think of me.”

“Since I’ll be working for another hour, I’m afraid I won’t.”

“Oh, you’ll think of me,” he told her as he strolled to the door. “And you’ll miss me.”

She nearly smiled when he closed the door behind him. The hell of it was, he was right.

It was good to be back in harness again. For Eve, there was nothing quite like filming to jolt the mind and body to full alert. Even preproduction work was its own kind of arousal, a long and incredible foreplay to the climax of performing for the camera.

This kind of lovemaking involved hundreds of people, and it pleased her when she recognized some of the faces. The grips, the gaffers, the property men, the sound crew, even those assistants to the assistants. She didn’t think of them so much as family, but as participants in an orgy of work that, if done well, could result in intense satisfaction.

She had always been cooperative and patient with the technicians she’d worked with—unless they were slow, incompetent, or lazy. Her ease and lack of arrogance had earned her the affection of crews for half a century.

As a matter of professional pride, Eve would tolerate hours of makeup and hairdressing without complaint. She detested the whiners. She was never late for a wardrobe fitting or rehearsal. When necessary—and it had often been necessary— she would stand in the blazing sun or shiver in the rain while a shot was being reset.

There were some directors who considered her difficult to work with, for she was not a complacent puppet who danced at the pull of a string. She questioned, argued, insulted, and challenged. By her own count, she had been right as often as wrong. But there was no director, no honest one, who would label her unprofessional. When action was called, Eve Benedict hit her marks. She was usually the first off book, with her lines fully memorized—and when the lights were on and the cameras rolling, she slipped into character as effortlessly as a woman might step into a bubble bath.

Now, after nearly a week of last-minute meetings, script changes, photo sessions, and fittings, she was ready for some meat. She sat, smoking and silent, while her wig was arranged. Today they would rehearse, full costume, the ball scene where Eve’s character, Marilou, met Peter Jackson’s Robert.

Due to a scheduling conflict, the prior blocking and choreography had been done with Jackson’s stand-in. Eve knew the actor was in the studio now. Several of the females on set had been murmuring about him.

When he walked in, she understood why. The dynamic sexuality she’d seen onscreen was as much a part of the real man as the color of his eyes. The tux showed off his broad-shouldered build to perfection. Since he’d be required to go shirtless through much of the film, Eve imagined that beneath silk and studs he had the chest for it. His rich blond hair was unstyled and added a touch of little-boy appeal. His eyes, heavy lidded and tawny, added straight sex.

Eve knew his bio listed him at thirty-two. It could be true, she thought, getting her first good look at him.

“Miss Benedict.” He stopped beside her, smooth voice, silky manners, sexuality purring in neutral. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. An honor to have the chance to work with you.”

She extended a hand, and wasn’t disappointed when he lifted it gallantly to his lips. A scoundrel, she thought, and smiled. Maybe those weeks in Georgia wouldn’t be so trying after all. “You’ve done some interesting work, Mr. Jackson.”

“Thank you.” When he grinned, Eve thought—oh, yes, a scoundrel. The kind every woman needs in her life at least
once. “I have to confess, Miss Benedict. When I learned you’d accepted the part of Marilou, I was torn between ecstasy and terror. I still am.”

“It’s always gratifying to keep a man on the point between ecstasy and terror. Tell me, Mr. Jackson …” She picked up another cigarette and tapped it gently against the dressing table. “Are you good enough to convince the audience that a virile, ambitious man could be completely seduced by a woman nearly twice his age?”

His eyes never left hers as he took a book of matches, striking one, letting the flame flare, then leaning close to touch it to the end of the cigarette. “That, Miss Benedict, will be”—over the small, hot fire, the look held—“effortless.”

She felt the quick tug, the frisson of animal excitement. “And are you a method actor, darling?”

“Absolutely.” He blew the match out.

Her body might have been tired, but her mind was very much alert when Eve returned home. The tingle, the one she felt whenever anticipating an affair, kept the blood moving. Peter Jackson, she was sure, would make an interesting and inventive lover.

Starting up the stairs, she called, “Nina dear, ask the cook to fix me some red meat. I feel like a carnivore.”

“Would you like it brought up?”

“I’ll let you know.” Eve lifted a brow when she saw Travers on the landing.

“It’s Mr. Flannigan,” Travers told her. “He’s waiting in the back parlor. He’s been drinking.”

Eve hesitated only a moment, then continued up. “Have the cook serve up two portions of red meat, Nina. We’ll take it in the parlor. And light a fire, dear, will you?”

“Of course.”

“Tell Victor I’ll be with him directly.”

She took nearly an hour, selfishly, needing the time to gird herself for whatever trouble waited. There had always been trouble waiting with Victor.

Victor Flannigan was still as married as he had been a lifetime before. He could not, or would not, leave his wife Over the years Eve had battled, raged, wept, and ultimately accepted that unmovable wall of matrimony as seen through the eyes of Victor’s church. She could not give him up, this man who had made her weep as no other man had.

Christ knew she’d tried, Eve thought as she slipped on scarlet silk robe. Marrying again and again—taking lovers, didn’t matter. With her head back, her eyes closed, she spritzed perfume down the column of her neck, then slowly fastened the ornate gold frogs so that the scent would breathe its warm breath through the silk.

She had been Victor Flannigan’s woman since the first day she’d met him. She would die Victor Flannigan’s woman. There were worse fates in life.

She found him pacing in the parlor, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He filled the room as he filled his suit. With arrogance and style. She’d always felt it was only men who lacked the latter who made the former unpalatable.

He could have come upstairs, confronted her in the bedroom with whatever was troubling him. But Victor had always respected her work without question, and her privacy when she’d requested it.

“I should have known you’d fall off the wagon and land on my doorstep.” Her voice was mild, without censure.

“I’ll pay tomorrow.” Even as he gulped another shot of fire, he wished he could set the glass aside. “Irish genes, Eve. All Irishmen love their mothers and a good glass of whiskey. My mother’s dead, God rest her. But there’ll always be whiskey.” He took out a cigarette because the act forced him to put the glass down for a moment.

“I’m sorry I kept you.” She walked to the bar and opened the compact refrigerator. It took only a moment for her to decide to open a full bottle of champagne rather than a split. It looked like a long night. “I wanted to wash the day’s work off.”

He watched as she competently opened the bottle so that
the cork eased out with a muffled pop. “You look beautiful, Eve. Soft, sexy, sure.”

“I am soft, sexy, and sure.” She smiled as she poured the first glass. “Aren’t those three reasons you love me?”

With a jerk, he turned his back to stand before the fire Nina had kindled. Between the flames and the liquor, he imagined he could see his life pass before his eyes. In nearly every frame of the long, long film, there was Eve.

“Christ, I do love you. More than any sane man should. If all I had to do was kill to have you, it would be easy.”

It wasn’t his drinking that disturbed her, but the desperate tone in his voice she knew had nothing to do with Irish genes or Irish whiskey. “What it is, Victor? What’s happened?”

“Muriel’s been hospitalized again.” The thought of his wife sent him back for the glass of whiskey, and the bottle.

“I’m sorry.” Eve laid a hand over his, not to stop him but to offer as she always had—always would—all the comfort she could. “I know what hell it is for you, but you can’t continually blame yourself.”