Genuine Lies

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 ofsmoke. “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