Bed of Lies (18 page)

“Le . . . Le Bayou Bleu,” she repeated, taking a step out of the embrace. She bent down and picked up his cane, which had fallen into the condo's hallway. She handed it back to him. “You know, the . . . the restaurant. Our dinner reservations.”

“Oh! Oh yeah.” He licked his lips, and she was momentarily reminded of their steamy kiss. “I forgot to tell you . . . I had to cancel the reservations.”

She frowned in confusion. “Cancel them?”

“Yeah, I'm afraid my leg is acting up tonight,” he said with a slight wince as he gripped his cane and shifted his weight onto it. “It happens from time to time.”

She stared down at his leg, feeling disheartened. So all her agonizing had been pointless. They weren't even going on a fourth date tonight!

“I'm sorry you aren't feeling well,” she said softly. “Is there anything you need me to get for you?”

He shook his head. “No, I'm good.”

“Well . . . uh . . .” She twisted her satchel strap, trying her best to hide her disappointment, though she suspected she wasn't being very successful. She painted on a smile. “I guess I can come back another day. Maybe we can reschedule when you're feeling better.”

“Reschedule?
” He raised an eyebrow. “Why would we reschedule?”

C. J. fell silent, now even more confused. Was he saying he didn't want to see her again? Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“You thought I was canceling the date,
too
?” He reached out and grabbed her hand. He leaned down and kissed her reddened cheek. “You really think I'd let you get away that easily? Hell no! I just canceled the dinner reservations. We're still having dinner, though.” He stepped back from the door and gestured with his cane into the home's interior.

Her frown deepened as she peeked around his broad shoulder. The lights were turned down low in the living room so that she could only see the outline of his leather sectional sofa and armchairs. Beyond the living room was the dining area, where a table was set. It seemed to sit under a little spotlight in his vast condo. She could see from here the white tapered candles, a bouquet of white dahlias, and two table settings of fine china, silver dishes, and crystal set out on a white linen tablecloth. Two empty chairs also sat waiting for them.

When C. J. saw the setup, she blinked a few times as if to clear her vision. Was all this for her? Her mouth fell open in shock.

“Don't worry. No one is gonna die from food poisoning tonight. I didn't cook the dinner,” he joked before tugging her inside and shutting the door behind her.

They walked across the hardwood floor and Terrence paused to lean down and grab a digital remote from his glass coffee table. He tapped a button and flames erupted in the glass-tiled fireplace a few feet behind them, making her jump in surprise. He tapped another button and music suddenly filled the room—a low, soothing instrumental jazz piece.

“I had the food delivered,” he said as he lowered the remote back to the coffee table. He then guided her into the dining room. “And it's not takeout—a reputable chef made it for us.”

He let go of her hand and pulled out one of the chairs at the dining room table. He then gestured for her to sit down and she fell back into the seat, too stunned to sit down gracefully.

He removed the silver lids from the plates sitting in front of her, revealing their dinner. “Escarole salad, beef tenderloin, puréed potatoes and leeks, sautéed spinach and caramelized onions, and a bomb dulce de leche cake is in the fridge,” he said as he walked to the other side of the table. “I cheated and sampled some of it before you arrived.” She watched as he sat down next to her and reached for the bottle of wine at the center of the table. “It was pretty good.”

“No,
you're
the one who's good, Terrence Murdoch,” the voice in her head murmured before laughing again.

He had canceled their dinner reservations and decided to give her an intimate, five-star dinner at his home. Part of her—the inquisitive, incredulous journalist part—wondered if he had embellished the story about his leg. Was all of this some orchestration on his part?

It is the fourth date, after all,
she reminded herself yet again.

Terrence was a master player, the ultimate seducer. What better way to seduce a woman than pulling a grand romantic move like this one? C. J. should have seen a move like this coming from a mile away, but then again, why would she? Shaun was the last man she had seriously dated, and he was far from a lothario. She had no experience at this.

She watched as Terrence poured himself a glass of red wine, then held the bottle over the lip of her glass. “Would you like some?”

C. J. tore her gaze from the dining room table spread and stared at him in amazement. She dumbly nodded.

“I hope you aren't too disappointed about not going out tonight,” he said as he poured.

“No. No! This is just as nice,” she answered honestly, running her hand over the linen tablecloth. “It's even better!”

“I'm glad you think so, because I'll be honest”—he set down the bottle, reached across the table and held her hand—“this leg thing isn't fun, but I looked forward to the chance to have you all to myself.”

Her face warmed again, this time for a very different reason.

He gently ran his thumb over her knuckles and she started to tingle. “It may sound corny as hell when I say this, but . . . I don't think I've ever met a woman like you before.”

“What . . . what do you mean?”

“Well, you're smart. You definitely have a lot more going on in here”—he gestured to his forehead—“than I'm used to. You're funny. You're sexy as hell. You're quite a woman, C. J.”

“You're . . . you're not so bad yourself,” she said dully, trying her best to reconcile herself with the woman he was now describing.

“I'm glad I met you,” he whispered before leaning toward her, raising a hand to cup her face, and kissing her again.

And that's when C. J. knew she was gone. There was no hope of walking away from Terrence or postponing any sexual advances he might make tonight or in the near future. She didn't know if his intentions were fake or legitimate, but it didn't matter anymore. She had officially fallen for this guy—
hard!

They ate dinner and fell into the familiar warmness that she had gotten used to having with Terrence. They joked with one another. They laughed and talked about anything and everything. All the while he kept touching and kissing her. A dumb smile plastered itself to her face. She felt drunk and giggly and it wasn't just because of the red wine. Being with Terrence was intoxicating.

As it neared midnight, they had moved from the dining room table to the couch to watch old Hitchcock films while the fire glowed nearby. Their wineglasses sat on the coffee table in front of them, along with plates covered with crumbs and scraped icing from the dulce de leche cake. Terrence had been right; the cake had been the bomb.

“You know what I've never gotten about this damn movie?” Terrence announced as he lay across the sectional cushions. C. J. sat beside him with her elbow propped on the armrest. His head rested in her lap. “If they're really so scared of the damn birds, why not just walk around with bread and birdseed and start throwing that stuff as soon as the birds come at them? Do it to distract them.”

She sipped her wine and grinned. “I guess because it would be a pretty short movie if the answer was as simple as throwing Wonder Bread.”

“But it would be straight to the point. You wouldn't waste almost two hours of the movie ignoring the obvious.”

She shrugged and stared at the flat screen, watching as Tippi Hedren screamed and batted away an angry seagull. “Maybe.”

He looked up at her. “Don't you think ‘straight to the point' is best?”

She tore her eyes away from the television to look down at him. Terrence's gaze had become a lot more heated. Were they still talking about the movie? “I guess it . . . it depends on the circumstances,” she said, lowering her glass to the end table.

“Not to me.” He slowly raised his head from her lap and sat upright. He then eased toward her on the sectional so that they were only inches apart. He snaked an arm around her. “I'm a guy who hates to beat around the bush.” He lowered his head to place a series of butterfly kisses on her bare shoulder.

She loudly swallowed, feeling her heart pounding again.
Okay, we're definitely no longer talking about the movie
, she thought.

“For me, directness works every time,” Terrence said as he nipped and flicked his tongue along her neck.

C. J. closed her eyes and fought back a moan.

“And believe me, I like to be direct,” he whispered before bringing his mouth to hers.

This kiss wasn't like the others. They had all been passionate and steamy, but C. J. got the sensation that imaginary floodgates had been thrown open. The hunger that Terrence had been keeping at bay surged forth—and she was swept under the current. They fell back against the sofa cushions and Terrence shifted his mouth from her lips to her neck and collarbone, then descended lower, kissing her breasts through the cotton fabric of her dress. He eased the straps of her sundress off of her shoulders and shoved the hem of her dress upward, revealing her white lace panties underneath. C. J. felt a mix of overwhelming pleasure, anticipation—and sheer panic.

“Terry,” she whispered as he nestled between her legs and opened the top two delicate pearl buttons of her dress. His leg pain miraculously seemed to be forgotten. “Terry,” she muttered plaintively, but her words were drowned by another kiss.

He undid yet another button and her breasts were suddenly exposed to the warm air of the living room. She felt her underwear being eased over her hips. Of all her emotions, panic won out.

I can't do this
, her mind screamed.
I can't do this!

“Terry, stop!” she ordered, shoving hard at his chest. “Stop, damnit!”

He did as she ordered, shifting back so that he was no longer on top of her. He stared at her in confusion. “What? What's wrong?”

She scrambled to sit up and closed the panels of her sundress, covering her breasts. She shoved her disheveled hair back from her face.

“What
happened?
Why'd you tell me to stop?”

Her eyes stayed downcast as she buttoned her dress. She couldn't meet his gaze. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“Sorry about what?”

“I can't do this. I thought I might be able to . . . but I can't. I can't have sex with you. I'm sorry.”

She finally looked up at him, expecting to see anger on his face. Instead, he looked hurt. “Okay. Okay, fine.” He grabbed his cane and hoisted himself to his feet. “I get it.”

“You . . . you get what?”

He shook his head and laughed bitingly, walking away from the sofa. “I told you I prefer directness. Thanks for being so direct, C. J.” He turned to glare at her. “But you didn't have to drag this out. You didn't have to lead me on!”

“Lead you on?”

“I thought you just wanted to take things slow, but I guess I was wrong. If you weren't interested in me in that way, you just could have said so in the beginning!”

Her brows furrowed. “What are you talking about? What makes you think I'm not interested in you? I just said I couldn't have sex with you tonight. That's all!”

“I should have known, though,” he continued, not hearing her. “You're the bleeding heart type, right? You thought I was some sympathy case you could indulge with a few dates. You saw the half-blind cripple as some charity case that—”

“Is that what you think? That I went out with you for sympathy?”

“But I'm nobody's charity, all right?” he shouted. “Next time you decide to help out the needy, you make a fucking donation to the Make a Wish Foundation! Don't waste my time!”

“Hey!” She angrily shot to her feet. “I went out with you because I
wanted
to go out with you, Terry! Not because I pitied you, you . . . you asshole!”

“Yeah, okay,” he mumbled. “Whatever.”

“It's true! And if you really want to be direct . . . if you really want some real talk, let's talk about the fact that you probably never would have gone out with
me
if it wasn't for your accident, if you weren't so down on yourself. Let's talk about that!”

He paused and narrowed his eye at her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that last month's banquet isn't the first time we've run into each other, Terry! You've met me before, but you never asked me out.
Why?
Because you were too preoccupied chasing after fucking supermodel lookalikes and women who could star in porn movies! You weren't interested in someone like me,” she said, pointing at her chest. “You looked right past me!”

He slowly shook his head. “That's not . . . that's not true.”

“Yes, it is!” She took a deep breath. The living room fell silent. “Look, your limp isn't going to be this bad forever. You aren't going to always need that cane, either. You can get a good prosthesis to cover your eye. One day, you're going to go back to normal and you'll . . .” Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment again. “I'm worried that you won't see me the same way that you do now. You'll look right past me again.”

“I would never do that,” he said softly.

Her throat tightened.

“I mean it!” He stepped forward and grabbed her hand. “I like you. I wasn't bullshitting you when I told you that. I admit, before the accident I was one shallow son of a bitch, but I'm not completely blind! Only half-blind.” He laughed and she couldn't help but join him. “But I can see what's right in front of me. I'm attracted to you, C. J. There's no doubt about that.”