Genuine Lies

spots she hid from a hungry world? “I don’t want you hurt, Eve. What you’re doing will make a lot of people—a lot of spiteful people—unhappy.”
    He saw the glitter in her eyes as she smiled. “You were the only one who ever called me a tough old broad and got away with it. Have you forgotten?”
    “No.” His voice roughened. “But you’re
my
tough old broad, Eve.”
    “Trust me.”
    “You, yes. But this writer is a different story.”
    “You’d like her.” She leaned against him, shutting her eyes. “She’s got class and integrity shouting from her pores. She’s the right choice, Vic. Strong enough to finish what she starts, proud enough to do a good job of it. I believe I will like seeing my life through her eyes.”
    He ran his hand up and down her back and felt the embers start to glow. With her, desire had never aged or paled. “I know better than to try to talk you out of anything once you’ve made up your mind. Christ knows I gave it my best shot before you married Rory Winthrop.”
    Her laugh was soft, seductive, as were the fingers she trailed over the back of his neck. “And you’re still jealous that I tried to tell myself I could love him the way I love you.”
    He felt the pang, but it was only part jealousy. “I had no right to hold you back, Eve. Then or now.”
    “You never held me back.” She gripped what she’d always wanted and could never completely have. “That’s why no one’s ever mattered but you.”
    His mouth took hers as it had thousands of times, with a lightness and a passion and a quiet despair. “God, I love you, Eve.” He laughed when he felt himself harden like iron. “Even ten years ago I’d have had you on your back here and now. These days I need a bed.”
    “Then come to mine.” Hand in hand they hurried off together.
    Julia stayed in the shadows for a long time. It wasn’t embarrassment she felt, nor was it the tingle of learning a secret. There were tears on her cheeks, the kind that fell when she listened to a particularly beautiful piece of music, or watched a perfect sunset.
    That had been love. Enduring, fulfilling, generous. And she realized what she felt beyond the beauty was envy. There was no one to walk in a moonlit garden with her. No one to make her voice take on that musky edge. No one.
    Alone, she walked back to the house to spend a restless night in an empty bed.

The corner booth at Denny’s was a far cry from a power breakfast spot, but at least Drake was sure he wouldn’t run into anyone he knew. Anyone who mattered. Over his second cup of coffee he ordered a short stack with ham and eggs on the side. He always ate when he was nervous. Delrickio was late.
    Drake laced his cup of coffee with three packs of sugar and checked his Rolex for the third time in five minutes. He tried not to sweat.
    If he had dared to risk leaving the table, he would have run into the men’s room to check his hair. He passed a careful hand over it to be sure every strand was in place. His fingers walked over the knot of his tie, finding the silk firmly in place. He brushed fussily at the sleeves of the Uomo jacket. His hammered-gold cuff links winked against the crisp ivory linen of his monogrammed shirt.
    Image was everything. For the meeting with Delrickio he needed to appear cool, confident, collected. Inside, he was a little boy with jelly knees being led out to the woodshed.
    As tough as those beatings had been, they were nothingcompared to what would happen to him if he didn’t pull off this meeting. At least when his mother had been finished with him, he’d still been alive.
    His mother’s credo had been spare the rod, spoil the child, and she had wielded that rod while religious fervor glazed her eyes.
    Delrickio’s credo ran more along the lines of business is business, and he would slice off small vital parts of Drake’s body with the same casual skill as a man paring his nails.
    Drake was checking his watch for the fourth time when Delrickio arrived. “You drink too much coffee.” He smiled as he took his seat. “It’s bad for your health.”
    Michael Delrickio was nearing sixty and took his cholesterol count as seriously as he took the business he had inherited from his father. As a result, he was both rich and robust. His olive skin was pampered by weekly facials and contrasted dramatically with steel-gray hair and a lush mustache. His hands were smooth, with the long, tapering fingers of a violinist. The only jewelry he