Free Genuine Lies by Nora Roberts

if you’re a girl,” Brandon told her.
    “My own little chauvinist.” She waited until he’d gulped the last of his juice. “Homework.” “But couldn’t I—” “Nope.”
    “I hate stupid vocabulary.”
    “And I hate math.” She flicked a finger down his nose. “Work on that first, then I’ll help you with the vocab.”
    “Okay.” He knew if he talked her into letting it wait until after dinner, he’d lose out on TV. A guy couldn’t win. “See you,” he said to Paul.
    “Sure.” Paul waited until the screen door slammed. “Nice kid.”
    “Yes, he is. I’m sorry, but I have to go in and supervise.” “It’ll keep a minute.” He rose. “What happened, Julia?” “I don’t know what you mean.” He put a hand under her chin to hold her still. His fingerswere warm, firm, the tips roughened from work or some kind of male play. She had to fight back the urge to bolt. “With some people, everything they feel comes right out the eyes. Yours are scared. What is it?”
    She didn’t like it at all that she wanted to tell him, wanted to share. For more than a decade she had handled her own problems. “Long division,” she said carelessly. “Scares the hell out of me.”
    It surprised him just how keen his disappointment was, but he let his hand drop away. “All right. I don’t suppose you’ve got any reason to trust me at this point. Give me a call, we’ll set up that interview.”
    “I will.”
    When he walked back toward the main house, she lowered herself into a chair. She didn’t need help—his or anyone’s—because nothing was wrong. With steady fingers she took the crumpled paper out of her pocket, smoothed it, and read it again.
    On a long breath she stood and began to load the tray. Depending on people was always a mistake—one she wouldn’t make. But she wished Paul Winthrop had found some other place to spend a lazy hour that afternoon.
    While Brandon splashed in the tub upstairs, Julia poured herself a single, indulgent glass of wine from the bottle of Pouilly Fumé Eve had sent over. Since her hostess wanted her to be comfortable, Julia decided to oblige. But even as she drank the pale golden wine from a crystal glass, she worried about the paper in her pocket.
    Had Paul left it for her? She stirred the idea around in her mind, then dismissed it. It was much too indirect a move for a man like Paul Winthrop. In any case, she hadn’t a clue how many people had cruised through those big iron gates that day, any one of whom could have dropped the envelope on the stoop.
    And she didn’t know enough about the people who made their home inside those same iron gates.
    Peering through the kitchen window, she could see the lights in the apartment atop the garage. Lyle, the broad-shouldered, slick-hipped chauffeur. Julia had sized him up immediately as a man who thought of himself as the stud of the West. Had he and Eve—No. Eve might indulge herself with men, but never with someone like Lyle.
    Travers. The housekeeper skulked around, disapproval tightening her already-pinched mouth. There was no doubt she’d decided to dislike Julia on sight. And, since Julia doubted the woman objected to the scent of her perfume, it was obviously because of the job she’d come to do. Perhaps Travers had thought one cryptic, anonymous note would send her scurrying back to Connecticut. If so, Julia thought as she sipped her wine, the woman was doomed to disappointment.
    Then there was Nina. Efficient and chic. Why would such a woman be content to subjugate her life to another? The background information Julia had collected on Nina was sparse. A fifteen-year veteran of Eve’s world, she was unmarried, childless. At dinner, she’d unobtrusively managed to keep the peace. Was she worried that the publication of Eve’s story would disrupt that peace irrevocably?
    Even as Julia thought about her, she spotted Nina coming briskly along the path, carrying a large cardboard box.
    Julia pushed the kitchen