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Roberts, Nora Genuine Lies ISBN 13: 9780553108347

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9780553108347: Genuine Lies
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The unfailingly popular novelist offers a story of Hollywood romance, sensationalism, and suspense involving a legendary actress, her protective stepson, and her young female biographer, originally published in paperback. By the author of Sanctuary.

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L'autore:
Nora Roberts, one of today's most successful and best-loved authors, was the first writer to be inducted into the Romance Writers of America Hall of Fame.  There are thirty-five million copies of her books in print, including such New York Times bestsellers as Finding the Dream, Montana Sky, and Sweet Revenge.  Nora Roberts lives in Maryland.
Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:
Somehow, using a combination of pride and terror, she managed to keep her head up and to choke back the nausea.  It wasn't a nightmare.  It wasn't a dark fantasy she would shake off at dawn.  Yet, dreamlike, everything was happening in slow motion.  She was fighting to push her way through a thick curtain of water beyond which she could see the faces of the people all around her.  Their eyes were hungry; their mouths opened and closed as if they would swallow her whole.  Their voices ebbed and flowed like the pounding of waves on rock.  Stronger, more insistent, was her heart's jerky beat, a fierce tango inside her frozen body.

Keep moving, keep moving, her brain commanded her trembling legs as firm hands pushed her through the crowd and out onto the courthouse steps.  The glare of sunlight made her eyes tear, so she fumbled for her sunglasses.  They would think she was crying.  She couldn't allow them that dip into her emotions.  Silence was her only shield.

She stumbled and felt a moment of panic.  She could not fall.  If she fell, the reporters, the curious, would leap on her, snarling and snapping and tearing like wild dogs over a rabbit.  She had to stand upright, to stand behind her silence for a few yards.  Eve had taught her that much.

Give them your brains, girl, never your guts.

Eve.  She wanted to scream.  To throw her hands up over her face and scream and scream until all the rage, the fear, the grief, emptied out of her.

Shouted questions assaulted her.  Microphones stabbed at her face like deadly little darts as the news crews busily tapped the finale of the arraignment for murder of Julia Summers.

"Bitch!" shouted someone whose voice was harsh with hate and tears.  "Coldhearted bitch."

She wanted to stop and scream back: How do you know what I am?  How do you know what I feel?

But the door of the limo was open.  She climbed in to be cocooned by cool air, shielded by tinted glass.  The crowd surged forward, pressing against the barricades along the curb.  Angry faces encircled her; vultures over a still-bleeding corpse.  As the car glided away, she looked straight ahead, her hands fisted in her lap and her eyes mercifully dry.

She said nothing as her companion fixed her a drink.  Two fingers of brandy.  When she had taken the first sip, he spoke calmly, almost casually, in the voice she had come to love.

"Well, Julia, did you kill her?"

* * *

She was a legend.  A product of time and talent and her own unrelenting ambition.  Eve Benedict.  Men thirty years her junior desired her.  Women envied her.  Studio heads courted her, knowing that in this day when movies were made by accountants, her name was solid gold.  In a career that had spanned nearly fifty years, Eve Benedict had known the highs, and the lows, and used both to forge herself into what she wanted to be.

She did as she chose, personally and professionally.  If a role interested her, she went after it with the same verve and ferocity she'd used to get her first part.  If she desired a man, she snared him, discarding him only when she was done, and--she liked to brag--never with malice.  All of her former lovers, and they were legion, remained friends.  Or had the good sense to pretend to be.

At sixty-seven, Eve had maintained her magnificent body through discipline and the surgeon's art.  Over a half century she had honed herself into a sharp blade.  She had used both disappointment and triumph to temper that blade into a weapon that was feared and respected in the kingdom of Hollywood.

She had been a goddess.  Now she was a queen with a keen mind and keen tongue.  Few knew her heart.  None knew her secrets.

"It's shit." Eve tossed the script onto the tiled floor of the solarium, gave it a solid kick, then paced.  She moved as she always had, with a thin coat of dignity over a blaze of sensuality.  "Everything I've read in the last two months has been shit."

Her agent, a round, soft-looking woman with a will of iron, shrugged and sipped her afternoon cocktail.  "I told you it was trash, Eve, but you wanted to read it."

"You said trash." Eve took a cigarette from a Lalique dish and dug into the pockets of her slacks for a book of matches.  "There's always something redeeming in trash.  I've done plenty of trash and made it shine.  This"--she kicked the script again with relish--"is shit."

Margaret Castle took another sip of vodka-laced grapefruit juice.  "Right again.  The miniseries--"

A snap of the head, a quick glance with eyes sharp as a scalpel.  "You know how I detest that word."

Maggie reached for a piece of marzipan and popped it into her mouth.  "Whatever you choose to call it, the part of Marilou is perfect for you.  There hasn't been a tougher, more fascinating Southern belle since Scarlett."

Eve knew it, and had already decided to take the offer.  But she didn't like to give in too quickly.  It wasn't just a matter of pride, but a matter of image.  "Three weeks location-shooting in Georgia," she muttered.  "Fucking alligators and mosquitoes."

"Honey, your sexual partners are your business." And earned a quick snort of laughter.  "They've cast Peter Jackson as Robert."

Eve's bright green eyes narrowed.  "When did you hear that?"

"Over breakfast." Maggie smiled and settled deeper into the pastel cushions on the white wicker settee.  "I thought you might be interested."

Calculating, still moving, Eve blew out a long stream of smoke.  "He looks like this week's hunk, but he does excellent work.  It might almost make running around in a swamp worthwhile."

Now that she had a nibble, Maggie reeled in her catch.  "They're considering Justine Hunter for Marilou."

"That bimbo?" Eve began to puff and pace more rapidly.  "She'd ruin the picture.  She hasn't the talent or the brains to be Marilou.  Did you see her in Midnight?  The only thing that wasn't flat about her performance was her bustline.  Jesus."

The reaction was exactly what Maggie had expected.  "She did very well in Right of Way."

"That's because she was playing herself, an empty-headed slut.  My God, Maggie, she's a disaster."

"The TV audience knows her name, and .  .  ." Maggie chose another piece of marzipan, examined it, smiled.  "She's the right age for the part.  Marilou is supposed to be in her mid-forties."

Eve whirled around.  She stood in a patch of sunlight, the cigarette jutting from her fingers like a weapon.  Magnificent, Maggie thought as she waited for the explosion.  Eve Benedict was magnificent, with her sharp-featured face, those full red lips, the sleekly cropped ebony hair.  Her body was a man's fantasy--long and limber, full-breasted.  It was clad in a jewel-toned silk, her trademark.

Then she smiled, the famous lightning-quick smile that left the recipient breathless.  Tossing back her head, she gave a long, appreciative laugh.  "Dead center, Maggie.  Goddammit, you know me too well."

Maggie crossed her plump legs.  "After twenty-five years, I should."

Eve moved to the bar to pour herself a tall glass of juice from oranges fresh from her own trees.  She added a generous splash of champagne.  "Start working on the deal."

"I already have.  This project is going to make you a rich woman."

"I am a rich woman." With a shrug, Eve crushed out her cigarette.  "We both are."

"So, we'll be richer." She toasted Eve with her glass, drank, then rattled ice cubes.  "Now, why don't you tell me why you really asked me out here today?"

Leaning back against the bar, Eve sipped.  Diamonds glinted at her ears; her feet were bare.  "You do know me too well.  I've got another project in mind.  One I've been thinking about for some time.  I'll need your help with it."

Maggie arched one thin blond brow.  "My help, not my opinion?"

"Your opinion's always welcome, Maggie.  It's one of the few that is." She sat in a high-back wicker chair cushioned in scarlet.  From there she could see her gardens, the meticulously tended blooms, the carefully trimmed hedges.  Bright water fumed up in a marble fountain and glinted in its basin.  Beyond was the pool, the guest house--an exact reproduction of a Tudor home from one of her most successful films.  Behind a stand of palms were the tennis courts she used at least twice a week, a putting green she had lost interest in, a shooting range she had installed after the Manson murders twenty years before.  There was an orange grove, a ten-car garage, a man-made lagoon, and a twenty-foot stone fence to close it all in.

She'd worked for every square inch of her estate in Beverly Hills.  Just as she...

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  • EditoreBantam Dell Pub Group
  • Data di pubblicazione1998
  • ISBN 10 0553108344
  • ISBN 13 9780553108347
  • RilegaturaCopertina rigida
  • Numero di pagine406
  • Valutazione libreria

Altre edizioni note dello stesso titolo

9780349408026: Genuine Lies

Edizione in evidenza

ISBN 10:  ISBN 13:  9780349408026
Casa editrice: Piatkus, 2019
Brossura

  • 9780553290783: Genuine Lies: A Novel

    Bantam, 1991
    Brossura

  • 9780553386424: Genuine Lies: A Novel

    Bantam, 2010
    Brossura

  • 9780349408019: Genuine Lies

    Piatkus, 2015
    Brossura

  • 9780345529107: Genuine Lies

    Bantam..., 2011
    Brossura

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