Genuine Lies

yes, a scoundrel. The kind every woman needs in her life at leastonce. “I have to confess, Miss Benedict. When I learned you’d accepted the part of Marilou, I was torn between ecstasy and terror. I still am.”
    “It’s always gratifying to keep a man on the point between ecstasy and terror. Tell me, Mr. Jackson …” She picked up another cigarette and tapped it gently against the dressing table. “Are you good enough to convince the audience that a virile, ambitious man could be completely seduced by a woman nearly twice his age?”
    His eyes never left hers as he took a book of matches, striking one, letting the flame flare, then leaning close to touch it to the end of the cigarette. “That, Miss Benedict, will be”—over the small, hot fire, the look held—“effortless.”
    She felt the quick tug, the frisson of animal excitement. “And are you a method actor, darling?”
    “Absolutely.” He blew the match out.
    Her body might have been tired, but her mind was very much alert when Eve returned home. The tingle, the one she felt whenever anticipating an affair, kept the blood moving. Peter Jackson, she was sure, would make an interesting and inventive lover.
    Starting up the stairs, she called, “Nina dear, ask the cook to fix me some red meat. I feel like a carnivore.”
    “Would you like it brought up?”
    “I’ll let you know.” Eve lifted a brow when she saw Travers on the landing.
    “It’s Mr. Flannigan,” Travers told her. “He’s waiting in the back parlor. He’s been drinking.”
    Eve hesitated only a moment, then continued up. “Have the cook serve up two portions of red meat, Nina. We’ll take it in the parlor. And light a fire, dear, will you?”
    “Of course.”
    “Tell Victor I’ll be with him directly.”
    She took nearly an hour, selfishly, needing the time to gird herself for whatever trouble waited. There had always been trouble waiting with Victor.
    Victor Flannigan was still as married as he had been a lifetime before. He could not, or would not, leave his wife Over the years Eve had battled, raged, wept, and ultimately accepted that unmovable wall of matrimony as seen through the eyes of Victor’s church. She could not give him up, this man who had made her weep as no other man had.
    Christ knew she’d tried, Eve thought as she slipped on scarlet silk robe. Marrying again and again—taking lovers, didn’t matter. With her head back, her eyes closed, she spritzed perfume down the column of her neck, then slowly fastened the ornate gold frogs so that the scent would breathe its warm breath through the silk.
    She had been Victor Flannigan’s woman since the first day she’d met him. She would die Victor Flannigan’s woman. There were worse fates in life.
    She found him pacing in the parlor, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He filled the room as he filled his suit. With arrogance and style. She’d always felt it was only men who lacked the latter who made the former unpalatable.
    He could have come upstairs, confronted her in the bedroom with whatever was troubling him. But Victor had always respected her work without question, and her privacy when she’d requested it.
    “I should have known you’d fall off the wagon and land on my doorstep.” Her voice was mild, without censure.
    “I’ll pay tomorrow.” Even as he gulped another shot of fire, he wished he could set the glass aside. “Irish genes, Eve. All Irishmen love their mothers and a good glass of whiskey. My mother’s dead, God rest her. But there’ll always be whiskey.” He took out a cigarette because the act forced him to put the glass down for a moment.
    “I’m sorry I kept you.” She walked to the bar and opened the compact refrigerator. It took only a moment for her to decide to open a full bottle of champagne rather than a split. It looked like a long night. “I wanted to wash the day’s work off.”
    He watched as she competently opened the bottle so thatthe cork eased out with a muffled pop. “You look beautiful, Eve. Soft, sexy, sure.”
    “I am soft, sexy, and sure.” She smiled as she poured the first glass. “Aren’t those three reasons you love me?”
    With a jerk, he turned his back to stand before the fire Nina had kindled. Between the flames and the liquor, he imagined he could see his life pass before his eyes. In nearly every frame of the long, long film, there was Eve.
    “Christ, I do love you. More than any sane man should. If all I had to do was kill to have