one hasn’t known.” She observed that Julia had stopped taking notes and was listening, just listening. “When I met Paul, he was an intelligent and very self-sufficient child. I couldn’t step in and play the doting mama—even if I’d known how. But I could pay attention, and enjoy. The truth is, I often think I married Rory because I was head over heels for his son.”
She settled back, enjoying this particular memory. “Of course, I’d known Rory for some time. We traveled in the same circles. There was an attraction, a spark, but the timing had always been off. Whenever I was free, he was involved, and vice versa. Then we made a film together.”
“Fancy Face.”
“Yes, a romantic comedy. A damn good one. It was one of my best experiences. A sharp, witty script, a creative director, an elegant wardrobe, and a costar who knew how to make those sexual sparks fly. Two weeks into filming, and we were making them fly offscreen.”
• • •
A little drunk, a lot reckless, Eve strolled into Rory’s Malibu beach house. Shooting had run late, and afterward they had hidden themselves away in a dingy diner, swiging beer and gobbling greasy food. Rory had popped coin after coin in the jukebox so that their laughter and all that sexual teasing had been accompanied by the Beach Boys.
Flower power was making its early noises in California. Most of the other diners were teenagers and college students with hair flowing down the backs of their tie-dyed T-shirts.
A young girl, groggy on pot, slipped love beads around Rory’s neck when he dropped two dollars in change into the juke.
They were established stars, but went unrecognized. The kids who patronized the diner didn’t spend their money on movies starring Eve Benedict and Rory Winthrop. They spent it on concerts and drugs and incense. Woodstock was only three years and a continent away.
Eve and Rory weren’t overly concerned with Vietnam or sitar music.
They had left the diner to roar into Malibu with the top down on his Mercedes, buzzed on beer and anticipation. Eve had timed this night carefully. There was no shoot the next day, so she wouldn’t have to worry about puffy eyes. She might have wanted a night of sex, but she was first and last a film star.
She’d made the decision with her eyes open to take Rory as a lover. There were holes in her life, holes she knew would never be filled again. But she could cover them over, at least briefly.
With her hair wildly touseled by the wind, her shoes left behind on the floor of his car, Eve took a quick turn around the living room. High glossy wood ceilings, walls of sheer glass, the sound of the surf. Here, she thought, lowering herself to the rug in front of the huge stone fireplace. Here and now.
She smiled up at him. In the light of the candles he’d hurriedly lit, he looked incredible. Bronze skin, mahoganyhair, sapphire eyes. She’d already tasted his mouth, while technicians had crowded around them. She wanted it—and him—without a script or director.
She wanted wild, dangerous sex, to help her forget for a few hours what she would live with for the rest of her life.
He knelt beside her. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted you?”
There was nothing, she knew, more powerful than a woman about to yield to a man. “No.”
He gathered her hair in his hand. “How long have we known each other?”
“Five, six years.”
“That’s how long.” He lowered his head to nip at her lip. “The trouble is I’ve been spending too much time in London, when I could have been here, making love to you.”
It was part of his charm, making a woman believe he thought only of her. In fact, whatever woman he was with at the moment, the fantasy was quite real.
She slid her hands over his face, fascinated with the lines and dips and planes that formed into such staggering male beauty. Physically, Rory Winthrop was perfect. And for tonight, at least, he was hers.
“Then have me now.” She
She settled back, enjoying this particular memory. “Of course, I’d known Rory for some time. We traveled in the same circles. There was an attraction, a spark, but the timing had always been off. Whenever I was free, he was involved, and vice versa. Then we made a film together.”
“Fancy Face.”
“Yes, a romantic comedy. A damn good one. It was one of my best experiences. A sharp, witty script, a creative director, an elegant wardrobe, and a costar who knew how to make those sexual sparks fly. Two weeks into filming, and we were making them fly offscreen.”
• • •
A little drunk, a lot reckless, Eve strolled into Rory’s Malibu beach house. Shooting had run late, and afterward they had hidden themselves away in a dingy diner, swiging beer and gobbling greasy food. Rory had popped coin after coin in the jukebox so that their laughter and all that sexual teasing had been accompanied by the Beach Boys.
Flower power was making its early noises in California. Most of the other diners were teenagers and college students with hair flowing down the backs of their tie-dyed T-shirts.
A young girl, groggy on pot, slipped love beads around Rory’s neck when he dropped two dollars in change into the juke.
They were established stars, but went unrecognized. The kids who patronized the diner didn’t spend their money on movies starring Eve Benedict and Rory Winthrop. They spent it on concerts and drugs and incense. Woodstock was only three years and a continent away.
Eve and Rory weren’t overly concerned with Vietnam or sitar music.
They had left the diner to roar into Malibu with the top down on his Mercedes, buzzed on beer and anticipation. Eve had timed this night carefully. There was no shoot the next day, so she wouldn’t have to worry about puffy eyes. She might have wanted a night of sex, but she was first and last a film star.
She’d made the decision with her eyes open to take Rory as a lover. There were holes in her life, holes she knew would never be filled again. But she could cover them over, at least briefly.
With her hair wildly touseled by the wind, her shoes left behind on the floor of his car, Eve took a quick turn around the living room. High glossy wood ceilings, walls of sheer glass, the sound of the surf. Here, she thought, lowering herself to the rug in front of the huge stone fireplace. Here and now.
She smiled up at him. In the light of the candles he’d hurriedly lit, he looked incredible. Bronze skin, mahoganyhair, sapphire eyes. She’d already tasted his mouth, while technicians had crowded around them. She wanted it—and him—without a script or director.
She wanted wild, dangerous sex, to help her forget for a few hours what she would live with for the rest of her life.
He knelt beside her. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted you?”
There was nothing, she knew, more powerful than a woman about to yield to a man. “No.”
He gathered her hair in his hand. “How long have we known each other?”
“Five, six years.”
“That’s how long.” He lowered his head to nip at her lip. “The trouble is I’ve been spending too much time in London, when I could have been here, making love to you.”
It was part of his charm, making a woman believe he thought only of her. In fact, whatever woman he was with at the moment, the fantasy was quite real.
She slid her hands over his face, fascinated with the lines and dips and planes that formed into such staggering male beauty. Physically, Rory Winthrop was perfect. And for tonight, at least, he was hers.
“Then have me now.” She
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