Genuine Lies

institution, Eve. And dammit, I believe in what I’ve come to stand for. Integrity, innocence, old-fashioned values and romance. Do you know what they’ll do to me if it comes out that I had an affair with a married man, had an abortion, all the while I was filming
The Blushing Bride?”
    Impatient, Eve pushed aside the chili. “Gloria, you’re fifty-five years old.”
    “Fifty.”
    “Christ.” Eve yanked out a cigarette. “You’re loved and respected—all but canonized. You have a wealthy husband who—lucky you—isn’t in the movie business. You have two lovely children who have gone on to live very tidy, very normal lives. Some people probably believe they were conceived immaculately,then found under a cabbage leaf. Does it really matter at this stage—when you are an institution—if it’s revealed that you actually had sex?”
    “In the bounds of marriage, no. My career—”
    “You and I both know that you haven’t had a decent part in over five years.” Gloria bristled, but Eve held up a hand for silence. “You did good work, and will do more yet, but the business hasn’t been the focus of your life for quite some time. Nothing I can say about the past is going to change what you have now, or will have.”
    “They’ll slap my face on all the tabloids.”
    “Probably,” Eve agreed. “It might just get you an interesting part. The point is, no one is going to condemn you for facing a difficult situation and making something of the rest of your life.”
    “You don’t understand—Marcus doesn’t know.”
    Eve’s brow shot up in surprise. “Why the hell doesn’t he?”
    The pixie faced flushed, the guileless eyes hardened. “Damn you, he married Gloria DuBarry. He married the image, and I’ve made certain that image has never been marred. Not even a whiff of scandal. You’ll ruin that for me. You’ll ruin everything.”
    “Then I’m sorry. Truly. But I don’t feel responsible for the lack of intimacy in your marriage. Believe me, when I tell the story, it will be told honestly.”
    “I’ll never forgive you.” Gloria plucked her napkin off her lap and tossed it on the table. “And I’ll do anything and everything to stop you.”
    She made her exit dry-eyed, petite and elegant in her white Chanel suit.
    Across the room a man lingered over his lunch. He’d already taken half a dozen pictures with his palm-size camera and was satisfied. With any luck, he would finish his day’s work and get home in time to watch the Super Bowl.
    Drake watched the game alone. For once in his adult life he didn’t want a woman within arm’s reach. He didn’t want anypouty blond sprawled on his sofa sulking because he paid more attention to the game than to her.
    He watched from the game room of his cedar and stone home in the Hollywood Hills. The big-screen TV where the teams had already kicked off and received dominated one wall. Surrounding Drake were the adult toys he used to compensate for those his mother had denied him during childhood. A trio of pachinko machines, a billiard table, a bronze-backed basketball hoop, state of the art in pinball, arcade, and sound systems. His library of videotapes topped five hundred, and there was a VCR in every room of the house. A guest would be hard put to find reading material other than racing forms or trade magazines, but Drake had other entertainment to offer.
    In the room beyond, sexual toys were stacked—from the sublime to the ridiculous. He’d been taught from an early age that sex was a sinful thing, and had long since decided in for a penny, in for a pound. In any case, a few visual aids increased his appetites.
    Though he had only a passing taste for drugs himself, he kept a stash of pills and powders to trot out if a party threatened to become dull. Drake Morrison considered himself a conscientious host.
    He’d refused more than a dozen Super Bowl parties for that Sunday. To him, it wasn’t a game flickering on the screen, something to be enjoyed and hooted over with friends. It was life and death. He had fifty big ones riding on the outcome, and couldn’t afford to lose.
    Before the first quarter had ended, he’d gulped down two Becks and a half bag of chips dripping with guacamole. With his team up by a field goal, he relaxed a little. His phone rang twice, but he let his machine do the talking, convinced it was bad luck to leave his perch even to urinate during the game, much less to answer the phone.
    Two minutes into the