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  24

  WHEN HE WAS FINISHED EATING, Zack settled back against the sofa and propped his ankle on the opposite knee, watching the flames leaping and dancing on the hearth, as he gave his dinner companion a chance to finish her meal without further interruptions from him. He tried to concentrate on the next stage of his journey, but in his state of sated relaxation he was more inclined to dwell on the amazing—and perverse—quirk of fate that had caused Julie Mathison to be sitting across from him. Throughout all the long weeks of working out every detail of his escape— throughout the endless nights he’d lain in his cell, dreaming of his first night in this house—not once had he ever imagined that he’d be other than alone. For a thousand reasons, it would have been far better if he were alone, but now that she was here, he couldn’t just lock her in a room, bring her food, and pretend she wasn’t. After the last hour in her company, however, he was sorely tempted to do exactly that, because she was forcing him to recognize and reflect on all the things he had missed in his life and the things that were going to be lacking in it for all time. At the end of a week, he’d be on the run again, and where he was going, there’d be no luxurious mountain cabins with cozy fires; there’d be no more poignant conversations about handicapped little boys with prim third-grade teachers who happened to have eyes like an angel and a smile that could melt stone. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a woman’s entire face light up the way hers had when she talked about those children! He’d seen ambitious women light up at the possibility of getting an acting role or a piece of jewelry from him; he’d seen the world’s finest actresses—on stage and off, in bed and out of it—give thoroughly convincing performances of passionate tenderness and caring, but until tonight, he had never, ever witnessed the real thing.

  When he was eighteen years old, sitting in the cab of a semitruck, bound for Los Angeles and almost strangling on tears he refused to shed, he’d vowed never, ever to look back, to wonder how his life might have been “if only things had been different.” Yet, now, at the age of thirty-five, when he was hardened beyond recall by the things he’d done and been and seen, he looked at Julie Mathison and succumbed to the temptation to wonder. As he lifted the brandy snifter to his lips, he watched a log tumble off the grate in a shower of sparks and wondered what would have happened if he’d met someone like her when he was young. Would she have been able to save him from himself, to teach him to forgive, to soften his heart, to fill up the empty spaces in his life? Would she have been able to give him goals greater and more rewarding than the acquisition of money and power and recognition that had shaped his life? With someone like Julie in his bed, would he have experienced something better, deeper, more profound, more lasting, than the mindless pleasure of an orgasm?

  Belatedly, the sheer unlikelihood of his musings hit him, and he marveled at his own folly. Where in the hell would he have ever met someone like Julie Mathison? Until he was eighteen, he’d been surrounded by servants and relatives, whose very presence were daily reminders of his social superiority. Back then, the daughter of a small-town minister, such as Julie, would never have entered his sphere.

  No, he wouldn’t have met her then, and he damned sure wouldn’t have met someone like her in Hollywood. But what if he had, by some quirk of fate, met Julie there? Zack wondered, frowning with concentration. If she’d somehow survived unscathed in that sea of social depravity, unbridled self-indulgence, and raging ambition that was Hollywood, would he have really noticed her, or would she have been completely eclipsed in his eyes by more glamorous, showy, worldly women? If she’d walked into his office on Beverly Drive and asked him for a screen test, would he have noticed that lovely fine-boned face of hers, those incredible eyes, that lithesome figure? Or would he have overlooked all that because she wasn’t spectacularly beautiful and built like an overfilled hourglass? If she spent an hour in his office talking to him there as she had done tonight, would he have truly appreciated her wit, her intelligence, her unaffected candor? Or would he have hustled her out because she wasn’t talking about “the business” nor giving any indication that she’d like to go to bed with him, which would have been his two primary interests.

  Zack rolled his glass between his hands as he contemplated his answers to those rhetorical questions, trying to be brutally honest with himself. After several moments, he decided that he would have noticed Julie Mathison’s delicate features, glowing skin, and striking eyes. After all, he was an expert judge of beauty, conventional or otherwise, so he would not have overlooked hers. And, yes, he would have appreciated her straightforward candor, and he would have been as touched by her compassion and gentleness, her sheer sweetness as he had been tonight. He would not, however, have given her a screen test.

  Nor would he have recommended she put herself in the hands of a good photographer who, Zack was absolutely certain right now, could capture that all-American girl freshness of hers and turn it into a million-dollar magazine cover, even though she was well past the age for starting out as a model.

  Instead of that, Zack honestly believed he would have ushered her straight out of his office and told her to go home and marry her almost-fiancé, have his children, and live a life with meaning. Because, even at his most calloused, most jaded moments, Zack would never have wanted to see anything that was as fine and unspoiled as Julie Mathison become handled and used and corrupted, not by Hollywood or by him.

  But what if she had insisted on staying in Hollywood anyway, despite his advice, would he have then taken her to bed later, if and when she seemed to be willing?

  No.

  Would he have wanted to?

  No!

  Would he have even wanted to keep her around, perhaps see her for lunch, evenings, or invite her to parties?

  Christ, no!

  Why not?

  Zack already knew exactly why not, but he glanced over at her anyway as if to confirm what he felt: She was sitting with her feet curled beneath her on the sofa, the firelight gleaming on her shiny hair as she looked up at a beautiful landscape portrait hanging above the fireplace—her entire profile was as serene and as innocent as a choirgirl’s at Christmas Mass. And that was why he would never have wanted to be around her before he went to prison and why he didn’t really want to be around her now.

  Although he was only nine years older than she in actual years, he was centuries older than she in experience, and most of that experience had not been the sort she would admire or even approve of—and that was true even before he went to prison. Beside her youthful idealism, Zack felt terribly old and jaded.

  The fact that he found her incredibly sexy and desirable right now, even engulfed in that shapeless, bulky sweater, and the fact that he had an erection at this very moment only made him feel like a dirty, old, disgusting letch.

  On the other hand, she’d also made him laugh tonight, and he appreciated that, he decided as he tossed down a swallow of brandy. Leaning forward, he propped his arms on his knees, smiling absently at the empty glass as he rolled it in his hands. He wondered if he’d ever listen to another football game without remembering her laughing protest at the idea of having a fullback, a halfback, a quarterback, but not a “three-quarters” back. And would he ever hear a football player referred to as a “tight end” without smiling because Julie Mathison had felt, very seriously, that simple common sense required a “loose end” as well.

  It suddenly occurred to him that she had not asked him a single question about his old life in the film business. He couldn’t remember meeting a single woman, or a man, who hadn’t gushingly—if dishonestly—proclaimed that Zack was their favorite movie star and then plied him with personal questions about himself and the other stars they particularly admired. Even some of the toughest, most bloodthirsty cons in prison had been absurdly dazzled by his past and anxious to tell him which of his movies they liked most. Normally, all that fawning inquisitiveness had annoyed and disgusted him. Now he was just a little irked that Julie Mathison seemed not to have ever h