“Absolutely. When I was a boy in Dublin, there was a particular evening where I needed a bit of a dodge off the streets. Seeing as I had several lifted wallets and other pocket paraphernalia on my person and the garda on my heels.”
The wide mouth she’d forgotten to dye for the evening sneered. “Boys will be boys.”
“Well, be that as it may, I happened to duck into a theater. I was eight or thereabouts and resigned myself to sitting through some costume drama I imagined would bore me senseless. And there sitting in the dark, I had my first look at Magda Lane as Pamela in Pride’s Fall.”
He gestured toward the display of a sweeping white ballgown that shimmered under a firestorm of icy stones. The droid replica of the actor turned in graceful circles, dipped into delicate curtsies, fluttered a sparkling white fan.
“How the hell did she walk around in that?” Eve wondered. “Looks like it weighs a ton.”
He had to laugh. It was so Eve to see the inconvenience rather than the glamour. “Nearly thirty pounds of costume, I’m told. I said she had spine. In any case, she was wearing that the first time I saw her on screen. And for an hour I forgot where I was, who I was, that I was hungry or that I’d likely get a fist in the face when I got home if the wallets weren’t plump enough. She drew me out of myself. That’s a powerful thing.”
He avoided interruption by simply aiming a smile or wave in the direction of those who called him. “I went back and saw Pride’s Fall four times that summer, and paid for it. Well, paid the fee once anyway. After, whenever I needed to be drawn out of myself, I went to the movies.”
She was holding his hand now, well able to visualize the boy he’d been, sitting in the dark, transported away by the images flickering on screen.
At the age of eight he’d discovered another world outside the misery and violence of the one he lived in.
And at eight, she thought, Eve Dallas had been born to a young girl too broken to remember anything that had come before.
Wasn’t it almost the same thing?
Eve recognized the actor. Roarke didn’t really go to the movies these days—unless you counted his private theaters—but he had copies on disc of thousands of them. She’d watched more screen in the past year with him than she had in the previous thirty.
Magd
a Lane wore red. Screaming siren red that painted a stunning and voluptuous body like a work of art. At sixty-three she was just dipping into middle age. From what Eve could see, she was approaching it with a snarl. This was nobody’s matron.
Her hair was the color of ripening wheat and tumbled to her bare shoulders in snaking spirals. Her lips, full and lush as her body, were painted the same bold red as her gown. Skin, pale as milk, was unlined and highlighted by a beauty mark just at the outer point of one slashing eyebrow.
Beneath those contrastingly dark brows were eyes of fierce and brilliant green. They landed on Eve coolly, a female to female measuring, then shifted to Roarke and warmed like suns.
She was surrounded by people, and simply shot them a careless smile, then stepped out of the circle, hands outstretched.
“My God, but you’re gorgeous.”
Roarke took her hands, kissed both. “I was about to say the same. You’re stunning, Magda. As ever.”
“Yes, but that’s my job. You were just born that way. Lucky bastard. And this must be your wife.”
“Yes. Eve, Magda Lane.”
“Lieutenant Eve Dallas.” Magda’s voice was like fog, low and full of secrets. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I was devastated I couldn’t make the wedding last year.”
“It seems to have stuck anyway.”
Magda’s brows rose, then the eyes beneath them began to glitter with appreciation. “Yes, it has. Go away, Roarke. I want to acquaint myself with your lovely and fascinating wife. And you’re too much of a distraction.”
Magda waved him away with one slim hand. Light shot off the diamond on her ring finger like the tail of a comet before she tucked her arm companionably through Eve’s.
“Now, let’s find someplace where a dozen people won’t insist on speaking to us. Nothing more tedious than idle conversation, is there? Of course, you’re thinking that’s just what you’re about to be trapped into with me, but I’ll assure you I don’t intend to make our conversation idle. Shall I start off by telling you one of my own regrets is that your ridiculously attractive husband is young enough to be my son?”
Eve found herself sitting at a table in the back corner of the ballroom. “I don’t see why that would have stopped either of you.”
Laughing delightedly Magda snagged fresh flutes of champagne, then shooed the server away. “My own fault. I made a rule never to take a lover more than twenty years older or younger. Stuck with it, too. More’s the pity. But . . .” She paused to sip, studying Eve. “It isn’t Roarke I want to talk about, but you. You’re exactly what I thought he’d fall for when his time came around.”
Eve choked on her wine, blinked. “You’re the first person who’s ever said that.” She struggled with herself a moment, then gave up. “Why do you say it?”
“You’re quite attractive, but he wouldn’t have been blinded by your looks. You find that amusing,” Magda noted, nodding in approval. “Good. A nice sense of humor’s essential when dealing with any man, but particularly one of Roarke’s nature.”