Genuine Lies

chest, and sat. He was back in ten minutes, and dropped down beside her with a long sigh. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the queen ofthe Gs sloshed before. You want to tell me what that was all about?”
    “I haven’t got a clue. But I intend to corner Eve at the first opportunity and find out.”
    Curious, he traced a finger down the nape of her neck. “Just what was it you were going to do if Gloria touched you again?”
    “Slug her on her pointy little chin.” He laughed, squeezing her against him. “God, what a woman. Now I only wish I’d been ten seconds later.” “I don’t enjoy altercations.”
    “No, I can see that. Eve, on the other hand, has set up multiple altercations in one star-studded evening. Shall I tell you what you’ve missed during your tour of the gardens?”
    If he was trying to calm her down, the least she could do was give him a chance. “All right.”
    “Kincade has been waddling around looking fat and threatening, and failing to get Eve alone for a private chat. Anna del Rio, the designer? She’s been telling catty stories about her hostess, hoping, I imagine, to offset whatever catty stories Eve intends to tell about her.” He drew out a cigar. In the flare of his lighter his face looked tensed in opposition to the mild amusement in his voice. “Drake has been hopping around as though he had hot coals in his Jockeys.”
    “Maybe that’s because I saw Delrickio and that other man in his office last week.”
    “Did you?” Paul expelled smoke slowly. “Well, well. Back at the ranch—Torrent is looking pitiful—more so after he and Eve had a little tête-à-tête. Priest is doing a lot of posturing and hearty laughing. While he and Eve were dancing, he was sweating.”
    “It sounds as though I should get back and see for myself.”
    “Julia.” He stopped her from rising. “We need to talk about several things. I’ll come by tomorrow.”
    “Not tomorrow,” she said, knowing she was only procrastinating. “Brandon and I have plans.”
    “Monday then, while he’s in school. That would be better.”
    “I have an appointment at eleven-thirty with Anna at her studio.”
    “Then I’ll be there at nine.” He rose, offering a hand to help her to her feet.
    She walked with him toward the sound of music and laughter. “Paul, were you coming to my rescue with Gloria with handkerchiefs and sympathy?”
    “It worked.”
    “Then we’re even.”
    He hesitated only a moment before linking his fingers with hers. “Just about.”

The party didn’t fizzle out until after three, though by then only a few diehards had remained, slopping up the last of the champagne and licking the beluga off their fingers. Perhaps they were the wise ones, greeting the oncoming day with bleary eyes, floating heads, and overfilled stomachs. Many of those who had left at a more conservative hour lost a night’s sleep without the extras.
    With a brocade smoking jacket wrapped around the enormous bulk that flirted gleefully with heart failure, Anthony Kincade sat up in bed smoking one of the cigars his doctors warned would kill him that much sooner. The boy he’d chosen to use that night lay sprawled among the silk sheets and feather pillows, snoring off a tidy dose of meth and a bout of brutal sex. Across his smooth, slender back a row of angry pink welts had risen.
    Kincade didn’t regret putting them there—the boy was paid well—but he did regret he’d had to settle for a substitute. All the time he’d whipped, all the time he’d driven himself, hard and cruelly into the boy, he’d dreamed of punishing Eve.
    Bitch. Whore-bitch. He wheezed rustily as he shifted hismountainous 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,