Genuine Lies Read Online Free PDF Page B

only accept the baby-sitter, he’d enjoy her. And, she reminded herself, she had a job to do. Part of thatjob—the hardest part for her—was to socialize. The sooner she began, the better.
    The light was softening, and she could smell roses, jasmine, and the damp green smell of leaves freshly watered. The pool was a curving half moon of pale blue fed by an arching fountain at one corner. She hoped pool privileges went along with the guest house, or Brandon would be hell to live with.
    She hesitated on the terrace, then decided it would be more correct to go around to the front. She passed yet another gurgling fountain, a hedge of gloriously perfumed Russian olives, then spotted two cars in the drive. One was a late model Porsche in flaming red, the other an old, beautifully reconditioned Studebaker in classic cream. Both meant money.
    The antacid pill had dissolved on her tongue by the time she rang the bell at the front door. Travers answered, gave a frigid nod, then led Julia to the salon.
    The cocktail hour was in progress. Debussy was playing softly, and the evening garden scent had been captured indoors by a huge bouquet of scarlet roses. The lighting was subtle, flattering. The stage set.
    From the doorway Julia quickly surveyed the people in the room. There was a busty redhead in a tiny, glittery black dress who looked miserably bored. Beside her was a tanned Adonis with sunstreaked blond hair—the Porsche.
    He was wearing a very correct, very expensive pearl-gray suit and lounged against the mantel as he sipped his drink and murmured to the redhead. A sleek woman in an ice-blue sheath with cropped fawn-colored hair served Eve a flute of champagne. The mistress of the house was stunning in royal blue lounging pajamas piped in chartreuse. And she was smiling at the man beside her.
    Julia recognized Paul Winthrop instantly. First, because of his resemblance to his father. And second, from the picture on the dust covers of his books. Like his father, he would always draw eyes and provoke fantasies. His looks weren’t as polished as those of the other man in the room, but they were far more dangerous.
    He seemed tougher-looking in person, she noted. Less scholarly and more approachable. He, at least, had taken the informal rule to heart and wore slacks and scuffed Nikes with his jacket. He was grinning as he lighted Eve’s cigarette. Then he turned, looked at Julia, and the grin vanished.
    “It seems your last guest has arrived.”
    “Ah, Ms. Summers.” Eve glided across the room, silks whispering. “I take it CeeCee has everything under control.”
    “Yes, she’s delightful.”
    “She’s exhausting, but that’s youth. What will you have to drink?”
    “Just some mineral water.” A sip of anything stronger, and she knew jet lag would settle her into a coma.
    “Nina, dear,” Eve called, “we have a teetotaler who needs a Perrier. Julia, let me introduce you around. My nephew, Drake Morrison.”
    “I’ve been eager to meet you.” He took Julia’s hand and smiled. His palm was smooth and warm, his eyes a compelling if slightly tamer version of Eve’s bright green eyes. “You’re the one who’ll dig all Eve’s secrets out. Even her family hasn’t succeeded in doing that.”
    “Because it’s none of my family’s business until I say so.” Eve expelled a slow stream of smoke. “And this is—what was your name again, dear? Carla?”
    “Darla.” The redhead corrected Eve with a pouty lisp. “Darla Rose.”
    “Charming.” Eve’s voice held an edgy amusement that put Julia on alert. A few degrees sharper, and it could have rent flesh. “Our Darla is an actress-model. Such a fascinating phrase. More catchy than that lowering term,
starlet
, we used to use. And this is Nina Soloman, my right and left arms.”
    “Pack mule and whipping boy,” the sleek blond said as she handed Julia a glass. There was good humor in the voice and quiet confidence in the bearing. On closer view, Julia noted