Genuine Lies

like a jackhammer. He’d had other women,younger women, but never one so skilled. “You’re incredible.”
    She slid out of bed to pluck a robe from the chair.
    “And you’re good. Very good. With luck you might get to incredible by the time you’re my age.”
    “Honey, if I spent much time fucking like that, I’d be dead long before I got to be your age.” He stretched like a long, lean tomcat. “And it would have been a short and happy life.”
    She laughed, pleased with him, and moved to the dresser to run a brush through her hair. He didn’t, as so many younger men felt obligated to, dismiss her age. He didn’t flavor sex with all those lies and flattery. She’d come to understand that what Peter Jackson said, he meant.
    “Why don’t you tell me how you feel about your short and happy life so far?”
    “I’m doing what I want to do.” He folded his arms under his head. “I guess I wanted to be an actor since I was about sixteen—got hooked on high school plays. Took drama in college and broke my mother’s heart. She wanted me to be a doctor.”
    Her eyes met his in the mirror, then roamed lazily down his body. “Well, you’ve got the hands for it.”
    He grinned. “Yeah, but I really hate blood. And my golf game sucks.”
    Entertained, she set the brush aside and began to pat cream under her eyes. It soothed her, the sound of the rain, the sound of his voice. “So, shouldering aside the medical profession, you came to Hollywood.”
    “At twenty-two. I starved a little, snagged a few commercials.” Because he could feel his strength coming back, he propped onto his elbows. “Hey, did you ever see me sell Blueberry Crunch Granola?”
    Her eyes met his laughing ones in the mirror. “I’m afraid I missed it.”
    He took one of her cigarettes from the nightstand. “A stellar performance. It had grit, it had style, it had passion. And that was just the cereal.”
    She walked to the bed to share the cigarette with him. “I’ll make sure the cook stocks it immediately.”
    “To tell you the truth, it tastes like something you dig off the floor in the forest. Speaking of food, why don’t I fix us breakfast?”
    “You?”
    “Sure.” He took the cigarette from between her fingers, put it between his lips. “Before I got my break in soaps, I moonlighted as a short-order cook. Swing shift.”
    “So you’re offering to cook me bacon and eggs?”
    “Maybe—if that keeps you interested.”
    Carefully, she took another drag. He was falling a little in love with her, she realized. It was sweet, and flattering, and if circumstances had been different, she might have let him. As it was, she needed to keep it simple. “I think I’ve shown I’m interested.”
    “But.”
    Her lips lightly brushed his. “But,” she repeated. And that was all.
    It was more difficult than he expected to accept those unspoken limitations. Difficult and surprising. “I guess a few days in Georgia’s not such a bad deal.”
    Grateful, she kissed him again. “It’s a great deal. For both of us. How about that breakfast?”
    “Tell you what …” He bent forward to kiss her shoulder, enjoying not only the scent, the texture of her skin, but the sturdiness. “Why don’t we take a shower, then you can watch me cook. After that I’ve got a great idea on how we can pass some time this afternoon.”
    “Do you really?”
    “Yeah.” He fondled her lightly, smiled. “We can go to the movies.”
    “To the movies?”
    “Sure, you’ve heard of movies. That’s where people sit down and watch other people pretend they’re other people. What do say, Eve? We’ll catch a matinee, eat some popcorn.”
    She considered a moment, then realized it sounded like fun. “You’re on.”
    •   •   •
    Julia took off her shoes and let her feet sink into the carpet in her room at the Savoy. It was a small, elegant suite, tastefully appointed. The bellman had been so scrupulously polite when he’d delivered her bags, he’d looked almost apologetic as he’d waited for his tip.
    Julia wandered to the window to watch the river and let some of the travel weariness drain away. Nerves would take longer. The flight from L.A. to New York hadn’t been so bad—as far as torture went. But from Kennedy to Heathrow— all those hours over the Atlantic—that had been a sheer and quiet hell.
    But she’d gotten through it. And now she was in Britain. And she had the pleasure of reminding herself that Julia Summers was