Genuine Lies

down. Miles short of hope. When the ball changed hands, the game was virtually over.
    Drake stood, weeping as the crowd cheered. Big men took off helmets to show grimy faces of triumph or sorrow.
    More than one life was changed when the clock ran out.

Julia hobbled into the circular reception area of Drake Morrison’s office at ten o’clock sharp for her appointment. She struggled to keep from wincing as she crossed to the center reception counter and announced herself to the slick-looking brunette who seemed to be in charge.
    “Mr. Morrison’s expecting you,” she said in a silky contralto that was bound to make male clients salivate over the phone. If that didn’t do the trick, the forty-inch bust that was holding a cubic zirconia captive in its admirable cleavage should finish the job. “If you’d just have a seat for a few moments.”
    There was nothing Julia wanted more. With a long and quiet sigh, she settled onto one of the sofas and pretended to be absorbed in
Premiere
magazine. She felt as though she had been beaten slowly, methodically, with a foam-coated baseball bat.
    A one-hour session with Fritz and she was ready to beg for mercy—hopefully from a fully prone position.
    He was kind-eyed, encouraging, flattering, and, she was sure, the real Conan.
    Julia remembered to turn a page of the magazine while the receptionist answered the phone in her best Lauren Bacall. From profile, her amazing bust made Dolly Parton look prepubescent. Curious, Julia sneaked a peek, and noted that neither male in the reception area was salivating.
    Settling back gingerly, she let her mind drift.
    Despite the aches, it had been an interesting morning. Apparently women became more expansive when they shared torture. Eve had been friendly and amusing—particularly when Julia had forgotten dignity long enough to pant out a stream of oaths during the last of the dreaded crunchies.
    And it was hard, if not impossible, to retain a professional distance when two exhausted women were naked and sharing the showers.
    They hadn’t discussed people during this session, but things. The gardens Julia discovered Eve was so fond of. The music she preferred, her favorite cities. It hadn’t occurred to Julia until later that it had been less of an interview and more of a chat. And that Eve had learned more about Julia than Julia about Eve.
    The more discomfort she had suffered, the more comfortable Julia had been with talking about herself. It had been easy to describe her home in Connecticut, how good she felt the move from New York had been for Brandon. How much she hated flying and loved Italian food. How terrified she’d been at her first book-signing with people crowded around.
    And what was it Eve had said when she’d confessed to being frightened by public appearances?
    “Give them your brains, girl, never your guts.”
    Remembering, Julia smiled. She liked that.
    Cautiously, she shifted. When her thigh muscles shrieked in chorus, she didn’t quite hold back the whimper. The men across from her flicked a glance over the tops of their magazines, dismissed her, then went back to reading. To take her mind off her multiple aches, she speculated about them.
    A couple of actors hoping for representation by one of the big guns? No, she decided. Actors would never go looking for a publicity manager together. Not even if they were lovers.
    It wasn’t fair to label them gay because they weren’t drooling over Dolly Bacall. Maybe they were loyal and faithful family men who never looked at women other than their wives.
    And maybe she was sitting across from two dead guys.
    An IRS team waiting to audit Drake’s books, she decided. Much closer to the mark. The men had the cool, unsympathetic, and ruthless looks she expected from IRS agents—or Mafia hit men. Did they have calculators or .32s tucked beneath those trim black jackets?
    That had her grinning for a moment, until one of them looked over and caught her studying them. Julia had reason to hope her own books were in good order.
    A glance at her watch showed her she’d already been waiting ten minutes. The double white doors with Drake’s name prominently displayed were firmly closed. Staring at them, she wondered what was keeping him.
    Inside his overdecorated ecru and emerald office, as spiffy and obsessively trendy as the reception area, Drake kept his trembling hands linked on the glossy surface of his desk. He looked as though his body had shrunk to the size of a