Genuine Lies

accompanied the invitation with a low laugh as she tugged his shirt over his head. In the candlelight her eyes glinted with hunger and promise.
    He sensed that she wanted not a dance but a race. Though he might have preferred a bit more romance and anticipation this first time, Rory was always willing to accommodate a woman. That, too, was part of his charm—and part of his weakness.
    He dragged at her clothes, delighted, destroyed by the way her nails scraped shallow furrows in his back. A woman’s body always excited him, whether slender or full, youthful or ripe. He feasted on Eve’s flesh, sinking into her lush curves, seduced by the scents, the textures, groaning as she tore at his slacks to find him hard and ready.
    It wasn’t fast enough. She could still think. She could still hear the drum of water against sand, her own heartbeat, herown ragged breaths. She wanted the vacuum of sex where there was nothing, nothing but sensation. Desperate, she rolled over him, her body as agile and dangerous as a whip. He had to make her forget. She didn’t want to remember the feel of other hands cruising over her, the tastes of someone else’s mouth, the scent of someone else’s skin.
    Escape would be her survival, and she had promised herself that Rory Winthrop would be that escape.
    The candlelight danced on her skin as she arched over him. Her hair streamed back, an ebony waterfall. As she took him into her, she let out a cry that was only a prayer. She rode him hard until at last, at last, she found release in forgetfulness.
    Spent, she slid bonelessly down to him. His heart jackhammered against hers, and she smiled, grateful. If she could give herself to him, find pleasure and passion with this man, she would heal and be whole again.
    “Are we still alive?” Rory murmured.
    “I think so.”
    “Good.” He found the energy to run his hands down her back and slowly knead her bottom. “That was a hell of a ride, Evie.”
    She smiled. No one had ever called her Evie, but she decided she liked the way it sounded in his proper, theater-trained voice. Lifting her head, she looked down at him. His eyes were closed and he wore a foolish grin of pure satisfaction. It made her laugh, and she kissed him, grateful again.
    “What to try for round two?”
    His eyes opened slowly. She could see both desire and affection mirrored there. Until that moment she hadn’t realized how much she had craved both. Care for me, just for me, she thought, and I’ll do my damnedest to care for you.
    “Tell you what. I’ve got a great big bed upstairs, and a great big hot tub out on the upper deck. Why don’t we make use of both?”
    They did, splashing in the steamy water, tearing up the satin sheets. Like greedy children they fed off each other until their bodies begged for sleep.
    It was a hunger of a different kind that awakened Eve just past noon. Beside her Rory was spread out on the enormous bed, facedown in the posture of the half dead. Still floating on the afterglow, she gave him a quick kiss on the shoulder and went off to shower.
    There was a choice of women’s robes in his closet—either ones he had bought for convenience or that had been left behind by other lovers. Eve chose one in blue silk because it suited her mood, and started downstairs with the idea of fixing them both a light breakfast they could eat in bed.
    Eve followed the murmur of a television to the kitchen. A housekeeper, she thought. Better yet. Now she could order breakfast, not cook it. Humming, she dug out the pack of cigarettes she’d slipped into the pocket of the robe.
    The last thing she expected to see standing at the kitchen counter was a young boy. From her side view in the doorway, she caught the profound resemblance to his father. The same dark, rich hair, the sweet mouth, the intense blue eyes. As the boy carefully, almost religiously spread peanut butter on a slice of bread, the television across the room switched from commercial to cartoon. Bugs Bunny popped out of his rabbit hole gnawing wryly on a carrot.
    Before Eve could decide whether to walk in or to slip quietly away again, the boy’s head lifted—like a young wolf scenting the air. As his gaze met hers, he stopped slathering the bread and studied.
    In her time Eve had been measured and considered by too many men to count, yet this young boy struck her speechless with his sharp, disconcertingly adult scrutiny. Later, she would laugh it off, but at that moment she felt he had