Genuine Lies by Nora Roberts

his cheek against her hair. “You’re already too young for me. Don’t make it worse.” God, she was like holding sex—pure, vibrant sex. “It’s too warm in here.”
    “I like the heat.” She tossed back her head and smiled at him. It was a new look she was trying out, a half smile, lips just parted, eyes slanted lazily under partially lowered lids. From the way his fingers tightened on hers, she figured it worked. “But we could take a drive if you want to cool off.”
    He drove fast, and a little recklessly, and made her laugh. Occasionally he unscrewed the top on a silver flask of bourbon which he nipped from, and she refused. Bit by bit she let himpry information from her—pieces she wanted him to know. She hadn’t yet been able to find an agent, but had talked herself onto a studio lot and was an extra in
The Hard Way
with Ida Lupino and Dennis Morgan. Most of the money she made as a waitress paid for acting classes. It was an investment: She wanted to be a professional, and she intended to be a star.
    She asked about his work—not about the glossier stars he worked with, but the work itself. He’d had just enough to drink to feel both flattered and protective. By the time he dropped her off at her boardinghouse, he was completely infatuated.
    “Honey, you’re a babe in the woods. There are plenty of wolves out there who’d love to take a bite.”
    Eyes sleepy, she laid her head back against the seat. “Nobody takes a bite of me … unless I want him to.” When he leaned down to kiss her, she waited until his mouth brushed hers, then eased away and opened the car door. “Thanks for the ride.” After passing a hand through her hair, she walked to the front door of the old gray building. Turning, she shot him a parting smile over her shoulder. “See you around, Charlie.”
    The flowers came the next day, a dozen red roses that had the other women in the boardinghouse tittering. As Eve placed them in a borrowed vase, she didn’t think of them as flowers, but as her first triumph.
    He took her to parties. Eve bartered food coupons, bought material, and sewed dresses. The clothes were another investment. She made certain the gowns were just the slightest bit too small for her. She didn’t mind using her body to get what she wanted. After all, it was hers to use.
    The huge houses, the armies of servants, the glamorous women in furs and silks, didn’t awe her. She couldn’t afford to be awed. Evenings at glamour spots didn’t intimidate. She discovered that she could learn a lot in the powder room at Ciro’s—what part was being cast, who was sleeping with whom, which actress was on suspension and why. She watched, she listened, she remembered.
    The first time she saw her picture in the paper, snappedafter she and Charlie had dined at Romanoff’s, she spent an hour critiquing her hair, her facial expression, her posture.
    She asked Charlie for nothing, and kept him at arm’s length, though it was becoming difficult to do both. She knew if she even hinted that she wanted him to get her a screen test, he would. Just as she knew he wanted to take her to bed. She wanted the test, and she wanted him as a lover—but she realized the value of timing.
    On Christmas Eve, Charlie threw a party of his own. At his request she came early to his big brick mansion in Beverly Hills. The red satin material had cost Eve a week’s food allowance, but she thought the dress worth it. It skimmed down her body, cut low at the bust, snug at the hips. She had dared to alter the pattern by slicing a slit up the side—and dared even more by adding a rhinestone pin at the top of the slit, to draw the eye.
    “You look delicious.” Charlie ran his hands over her bare arms as they stood in the foyer. “Don’t you have a wrap?”
    Her finances hadn’t allowed for one that would have suited the dress. “I’m hot-blooded,” she said, and offered him a small package topped with a bright red bow. “Merry