Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) (24 page)

I
decided to show up at Bryan’s office unexpectedly. I didn’t think he would embarrass me by refusing to see me. I’d just waltz in and ask his secretary if I could have five minutes of his time to discuss something personal.

I zipped across town to the medical building that held such fond memories for me and was heartened to see that the hurricanes had not been kind to it. Then I noticed the sign that had previously said, “We’re moving,” now said, “We’ve moved.” Crap.

The good news was I didn’t have to write down the address because I knew exactly where it was. His new office was next to the hospital, less than five minutes from my house.

I drove back the same way I’d come until I neared the modern facility that now housed forty doctors. I had to park in Timbuktu since all the convenient spaces in the gigantic parking lot that wrapped around three sides of the five-story bronzed glass and steel building were taken.

This gave me a moment’s pause. If his waiting room was just as packed, I’d have to cut in front of what could be scores of women. But heck, I only needed five minutes. Well, five minutes to ask for his help and twenty-five to charm him beforehand.

By the time I had schlepped through the humidity and heat to the entrance, my hair and make-up had wilted. I reminded myself that the times he’d seen me previously, I had looked worse, so really, this would be a treat for him. Still, in the elevator on the way to his fourth-floor office, I fluffed up my hair and whipped out my compact to touch up my lipstick. After all, he
was
a young, rich, good-looking doctor.

The elevator doors slid open, and I hung a right. I yanked open the door to his office and strolled in as though I belonged there. All heads swiveled in my direction. It was a bunch of heads too. His office was every bit as full as Dr. Forester’s had been, and I could swear the same women were sitting in his chairs.

Well, maybe not. On closer inspection, these women looked like super models with an occasional high society type mixed in for variety. They were all long hair, long lashes, and long legs. But they were cousins at least to the other set of women because they too had never been taught that it was rude to stare.

I suddenly felt short, fat, and ugly, not to mention under-jeweled, under-accessorized, and under-dressed. Not under-dressed in the sense that I didn’t have on enough clothing because some of these women—or should I say girls—would have been considered half-naked on the street. But what little clothing they wore had come straight from a couturier or high-priced boutique.

I refused to double-check my appearance, mostly because I was afraid if I looked down, sweat might drip off my face. None of the women sitting in the office had ever sweated a day in their lives, of that I was sure.

I was too embarrassed to announce in front of nosy ears that I was there for personal reasons. I suspected that every other woman in the room was there for personal reasons too, but they’d probably had the foresight to make an appointment so as not to appear desperate. It seemed a better idea to sit for a while, and after some of the women cleared out, talk to the receptionist then.

There was only one empty seat in the room. As I turned toward it, the long-legged blonde sitting in the adjacent chair slid a Louis Vuitton satchel onto it, the one that cost about a thousand bucks. She gave me a cool stare, daring me to do something about it. I decided to pass since her stilettos were sharp enough to skewer me.

I didn’t appear to have any other option, so I headed for the window. I was five feet away when the young woman on the other side of the glass jumped to her feet. She was a couple of inches taller than me, slim but curvy, with long auburn hair and a smattering of freckles across her peaches and cream complexion. Her hazel eyes were warm and her smile was beaming.

“Ms. Jansen, how wonderful to meet you! I’m Hanna, Dr. Rossi’s secretary. I can’t believe you’re here! I hope you liked the sandals; I recognized the brand right away.” She stopped for a moment, blushing, then went on. “I’ll just let Dr. Rossi know you’re here. He’ll be so delighted. Why don’t you come on through that door?”

She pointed to the door at my left, and I murmured some polite thanks. I made a show of tossing my hair, mostly so I could throw a boastful look over my shoulder at the women who weren’t fortunate enough to share my good fortune. It backfired since I don’t have a lot of hair, and what I had was stuck to my sweaty head.

A few seconds later I was standing inside the inner sanctuary and Hanna was back, still beaming. I thanked her for her part in the sandal replacement, and she blushed again.

“Dr. Rossi will see you now,” she said. “He’s in the last room on the right. And if you wouldn’t mind, I have a copy of
Dark Scoundrel
that I’d love to have autographed before you leave. It’s my all-time favorite romance.”

I thought about pretending I didn’t hear so she could speak up and repeat her praise a little louder for the benefit of my bitchy non-friends, but why be petty? Instead I gave her a beatific smile and told her in an overloud voice that I’d be delighted to autograph her copy of
my
book.

I sashayed down the hall to the room on the right and sauntered on in. The door closed behind me, making me whip around to see why.

Oh my God.
I had forgotten how drop-dead gorgeous he was. He’d been standing behind the door when I came in and now was lounging against it as though determined not to let me out. He didn’t have to worry. I wasn’t going anywhere.

His body was mostly covered up by his doctor’s coat, but I hardly noticed. His thick dark hair curled back from his face, and his gray eyes were almost as dark as his hair. He pushed away from the door with a grin, and I almost fainted with the pleasure of seeing that sexy, dimpled smile spread across his face.

I took a half-step toward him, smiling myself, and then I was in his arms, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to tip my head up and open my lips to his kiss. And what a kiss. I tingled from my lips to my toes and back up again. He pulled me closer, and I breathed in the scent of him. Soap and aftershave and
Bryan.

“I knew you’d come crawling back,” he murmured against my lips, but it didn’t sound the least bit smug. It sounded happy, and for a few seconds I forgot why I was there. Oh yeah. Right. I was there to ask for his help spying on someone so I could save my house, so I didn’t have to be rescued by Prince Charming.

The question was, how did I segue from kissing to
that
? Honesty was the best policy, wasn’t it? Probably not in this case, but I wasn’t suave enough to know what the best policy was.

“Um,” I began, and then he nuzzled my neck, which made it impossible to remember my next words. My head lolled back to give him better access until I had the thought that my neck probably tasted like sweat. Ugh. Poor Bryan. Starting tomorrow, I was carrying baby wipes around with me, and elevator rides would consist of fluffing my hair, checking my face, and wiping my sweaty neck. Just in case.

“Um,” I began again. “I didn’t actually come here to kiss you. It never even occurred to me that I could walk in here and kiss you …or that you would kiss me. Not that I don’t like it because I do. I do like it. I really do like it. I like it a lot.” I was starting to slobber now, so I decided to straighten myself up. “I mean, I came here to ask for your help.”

His lips stopped moving. I felt a keen disappointment somewhere south of the border.

He angled his head around until he was looking me in the eye. “You’re not hiding a snake, are you?”

“No.” I smiled at the recollection of him catching the ring-necked snake in my living room. Then I smiled again at the recollection of his butt as he’d turned around to carry the snake out the door. Then that area south of the border started to heat up again, and I forgot what I was smiling about.

I was almost a puddle, especially now that I could really
feel
him against me. If someone didn’t walk through that door, I might start ripping off my clothes. Or his.

He released me with a rueful shake of his head. He knew that I knew exactly how he was feeling because I was feeling it too. Both ways.

“I have to remind myself that I have a waiting room full of women, some of whom might have contact dermatitis and really need my help.”

“Yeah, I think I saw Paris Hilton out there. She probably flew down because of some nasty rash.”

He just grinned.

There was nothing left to do but say it. “Okay, look. Here’s what I wanted to ask you.” I quickly explained about Mr. Carlson and asked Bryan if he could arrange for me to get on the island after dark so I could snoop around the house owned by Carlson’s trust to see if Carlson was, in fact, residing there.

“Why do I feel as though I’m aiding and abetting a criminal?” he asked.

“You shouldn’t because I won’t be doing anything illegal.” Unless you counted breaking and entering, or entering anyway. I didn’t know how to
break,
so I’d have to pray that if I needed to, I could
sneak
in. But Bryan didn’t have to know that. At least not yet.

He pulled me against his body, but leaned back to give me a searching look. I started to shiver but not because of the look. It was that aftershave. It made me want to
do
things.

“Why don’t I believe you?” he asked.

I snuggled up for another kiss, determined to make him believe, but he laughed and shook his head. “No, no, no,” he said. “My better sense tells me I’ll probably regret this, but it also tells me you’re going to do it with or without me. So, here’s the deal. If you promise not to go spying on your own, I’ll get you on the island in
my car
when I pick you up and bring you to
my house
for dinner. And you’ll have to let me tag along on your adventure so I can make sure you get back in one piece. But first, you’ll have to sit through dinner.”

Hell, it was a sacrifice, but someone had to do it.

I
was a nervous wreck. I’d spent four hours dressing and undressing and dressing again. I’d started by throwing everything on the bed or over furniture once I’d tried it on and dismissed it, but then, after having to dig through layers of clothing to find a piece that I wanted to try on with something else, I’d hung it all back up.

Now I had a closet full of half-wrinkled clothes and I was dressed in a rather short, slimming black skirt topped by a cap-sleeved, snugly-fitted white knit blouse with a wide scoop neck that stopped just short of showing my nipples. I slipped on some black and white tiger-print stilettos and stepped in front of the full-length mirror.

I looked like a slut on the make. Maybe I was, but I didn’t want to look it. I threw off those clothes and rummaged again.

One thing had me thinking. I couldn’t very well spy on Carlson in a short skirt and heels. What if I had to climb a fence? What if I had to run and hide? The clothes I’d need for a spy scenario would be dark and body
concealing,
not body
revealing.

On the other hand, no way was I having dinner with one of the sexiest men I’d ever met dressed like a cat burglar. This might be my only chance to wow Bryan. I’d be stupid to pass up the possibility of a relationship with him in the future, after my house problem was sorted out. I might be a lot of things, but stupid isn’t usually one of them. I say
usually
because sometimes it is.

I put the slut clothes back on, including the stilettos. My legs were my best feature, and I needed all the help I could get. I practiced lounging against the wall to see how sexy a pose I could make. Then I went for the
I’m an innocent virgin even though I’m dressed like a slut
look, which consisted of cowering slightly and smiling tremulously while I gazed up through batting lashes.

Then I tried a sexy pirouette, tripped over my feet, and crashed into my hope chest, dispelling all hope of making a good impression. At least I’d avoided whacking myself on the face, if only by throwing out my arm, which got whacked instead. Mental note: no pirouetting in stilettos unless I wanted to look like a fool.

I rubbed my arm, the one already sporting a bruise from Richard’s death grip at the bank. It was always nice to re-injure a weak spot. I grabbed a tote bag and threw a pair of black spandex pants, a black tank top, black long-sleeved but lightweight jacket with a hood, and a pair of black running shoes and socks into it. I smudged some concealer on the arm bruise, applied a second coat of mascara, re-powdered my nose, and added a touch more pink-frosted lip gloss over the darker all-day-wear lipstick I’d painted on.

I was just checking my purse for all the necessities—compact, lipstick, Xanax—when the doorbell rang. Several cats and I shot out in different directions; I recovered first. After taking a last glance at myself, I somehow made it to the foyer without fainting. I stood there with my hand on the doorknob, frozen for a few seconds, before I forced myself to pull open the door.

Uh-oh. Embarrassment City. Bryan was dressed in comfortable jeans, a navy T-shirt, and sneakers. Now I looked like a
low-class
slut on the make, someone who didn’t know how to dress for the occasion—or lack of it. I forgot about that within three seconds, however, because
comfortable
had never looked so good on a man.

While I was checking him out, his gaze swept over me, slowly, from head to toes and back up. When his eyes met mine, I knew I’d made the right choice.

“Wow,” he said softly, under his breath. His gray eyes darkened. “I’m totally outclassed here. I figured you’d be dressed for your little adventure.”

I smiled coyly. “I am.”

He did one of those whistling things that some guys can pull off.

I grabbed up the tote bag with an effort at a carefree laugh. It was an effort because the longer I looked at him, the closer I came to swooning. “My Catwoman clothing’s in here.”

He took the bag from me and then put his hand at my elbow to guide me as we proceeded down the walk, removing his fingers only long enough to open and close the courtyard gate.

It was from the gate that I got my first look at his Jaguar. I could tell it was a classic, but that was all I knew. That, and the fact that it was a convertible. But the top was up.

He swung the door open and helped me in. Chivalry wasn’t dead after all. It had been sick while I was living with Pete, but it was back, better than ever.

I was in LaLa Land during the ten-minute drive to the island.

“What year is this?” I asked. It was a four-speed, with roll-up windows, caramel-colored, leather-upholstered bucket seats, and an aluminum-trimmed instrument panel. It had either been completely restored or someone had given it tender loving care from day one.

“Sixty-one,” Bryan said. “One of the first five hundred produced. It belonged to my grandfather, and he kept it for me.” He smiled over at me, throwing my stomach into a fluttering thing that I probably hadn’t felt since high school. Jeez.

“It’s beautiful.” It was. He was beautiful driving it too, but I kept that to myself.

I couldn’t believe I was on a date with Bryan Rossi and I hadn’t done a thing to get here except be me. Well, if you didn’t count that part about my asking him for a favor. But he could have done the favor without feeding me dinner.

We turned onto the palm-tree-lined drive which led to the gated entrance, slowing as we approached the guardhouse. The black iron gates thirty feet ahead of us began to slide apart. By the time we were close enough to drive through, the road was open.

“Does the guard know every car?” I asked.

“Residents’ cars have a wireless transmitter. Once we get close enough, the gates open.”

“So if I ever want to get on the island again, I just have to steal your car?”

Bryan chuckled. “No, you’re special. All you have to do is call me.”

Wow. I was feeling pretty special. We meandered along a road that was dark, smooth, and unlined, with the two lanes separated for the most part by narrow islands of clustered palm trees surrounded by ground-covering tropical plants and flowers. On my right was a brick paver sidewalk in varying shades of terracotta, and across the street was a russet-colored bicycle or running path. Old-fashioned teardrop lighting fixtures on black lamp posts were situated every twenty or so feet on both sides of the road.

As we moseyed past mansions staggered alternately across from each other, I did my best to not gawk, trying to guess as each one came into view if it could be Bryan’s. I dismissed some at first glance, like the pink Victorian and the English Tudor. They seemed too busy for him. On the other hand, the contemporary with its flat roof and unornamented walls seemed too stark. Would the real Bryan Rossi please stand up, I thought to myself. This was assuming, of course, that his house would truly represent him. But who would spend millions to build a house that didn’t?

He eased off the gas, and I craned my neck to get a look. Which would it be? On the left or the right? The road was twisting to the right, so I couldn’t see the house on that side yet, but coming up on the left was a Mediterranean-style mansion too big for words. I was just talking myself into accepting that this could be Bryan’s when he braked and wheeled to the right, turning onto a drive paved in multi-colored bricks ranging from red and terracotta to peach and cream.

The lawn was green velvet. Cone-shaped fir trees marched up the left side of a hill, forming a privacy hedge between Bryan’s house and that of his neighbor. Areas were mulched and landscaped, some with evergreen shrubs shaped into balls and cones, others with flowering plants surrounded by ground cover. My eyes took it in with one quick sweep. I was afraid to let them linger for fear of missing the main course.

I drew in a breath at the sight of his home. It was an Italian-style villa—more Old World than contemporary—two stories with creamy white stone walls topped by a gently pitched red-tiled roof. Overhanging eaves were supported by large, decorative, dark brown or black brackets evenly spaced between cornices. A paver walkway and wide brick steps led to the white-columned portico where arched, red double doors at least fifteen feet high were set off by stained glass sidelights.

I was restraining myself to keep from bouncing up and down with anticipation. Decorating was a passion of mine, and my love of European styles might have been the reason I’d gravitated to writing historical romance. But it was one thing to look at beautiful rooms on the Internet or in books. It was another to live the experience as I knew I was about to do.

We followed the drive around the right side of the house, and a double-wide garage door on our left began to open. As we sat there for the few seconds that it took for the door to slide up, I gazed along the drive to where it continued around the right of what was either a guest house or a pool house and terminated farther back at another, much larger garage. I supposed the detached garage was for overflow parking, because the one we were pulling into would comfortably fit only two cars. There was no second car in the garage though, just a couple of motorcycles and four bicycles hanging on the back wall.

Bryan keyed off the engine. “Let me get the door,” he said. I did and he did. Ever the gentleman. He grabbed up my tote bag and steered me into the house. I felt his hand on my back, and my knees went weak as I recalled a romance writers’ class where they discussed the signs that let a reader know a relationship was progressing toward sex. I didn’t remember which number the
hand at the small of the back
was, but it was up there.

We passed through the mudroom into a laundry room that was larger than my living room. He pulled open the door to the next room and stood back so that I could enter.

I stepped into the kitchen, and a rush of endorphins went to my brain. If I could have had any kitchen in the world, this was the one I would choose. The downside was that this kitchen begged to be cooked in, so if it were mine, it would be a waste.

Venetian plaster walls and ceiling in warm yellow, a travertine mosaic floor, and cream-colored, stone countertops and sink aprons set off the dark, dovetailed ceiling beams and wood cabinets. Several antique cupboards, including an exquisite hand-carved eighteenth century bonnetiere almost two feet deep, provided extra storage.

A sub-zero refrigerator with cabinet-matching doors, double ovens, an open fire grill, and a sink ran along one wall. Across the room was another, larger, sink surrounded by cabinetry. I was pretty sure a dishwasher was hidden somewhere, but the exact location was a mystery.

Bryan washed his hands and selected a gleaming copper-bottomed pan, one of many hanging from iron racks attached to the wall at one end of the counter. He moved to the sink to fill the pan with water, and I continued to look around.

The dark cabinets with light countertops contrasted with the kitchen island cabinetry, a natural cherry varnished with a warm glaze and topped by a dark, polished granite countertop. The contrast between the two kitchen areas had the unexpected effect of opening up the room.

The focal point was the arched keystone hearth that housed gas and electric stove tops. But the real charm lay in the artistic touches. Iron handles and grillwork, hand-painted chairs gathered around the island, hand-painted tiles in the stone countertops and backsplashes and, most especially, the slab of hand-painted polished stone that had been set into the back of the hearth above the stove tops. It depicted an idyllic scene of a vineyard at sunset with an Italian-style home similar to Bryan’s—though much simpler in scope—in the distance.

The painting was caressed by a lambent light, its source hidden somewhere within the hearth. The scene conveyed a feeling of warmth and good cheer and something more basic. I gravitated to it and just stared, trying to figure out what I was feeling and why. Bryan kept one eye on me as he turned on the gas and slid the pan of water onto the burner.

“What are you thinking?” he asked in a husky voice.

“I feel a sense of wistfulness, of nostalgia, so strong that I almost want to weep, but in a good way, if weeping can be good. I feel like I’ve come home, which is totally bizarre because I’ve never been to a vineyard.”

“This painting was my inspiration for the house, for my decisions.”

“Where did you get it?”

“I commissioned it. It’s a picture of my grandfather’s property in Italy. My home away from home.”

We stood gazing at the scene until the water began to boil. Bryan sprinkled coarse salt into the water and then opened a box of linguine noodles. When the water reached a second full boil, he dumped the noodles in.

“We have three choices for dining. That two-seater,” he said, nodding at a small square table next to a kitchen window, “a larger table in the breakfast nook, which looks out on the same view, or the loggia outside.”

The loggia was a tempting choice, mostly because it would sound romantic when I repeated this story to every person I came across during the next few days. But the mosquitoes had recently come out for blood, and for reasons that escape me, they always skipped everyone else and zoomed in on me. I was willing to sacrifice blood for romance, but not for a story. Besides, it wouldn’t be very romantic when I started slapping myself and jumping around.

“I think I prefer the table for two.”

“Good. Grab the flatware and plates, would you, and set those up?” He was stirring the noodles with a big wooden spoon.

I washed my hands in the same sink that he had used to wash his as I glanced over at the utensils. Thankfully, he had the normal items like forks, knives, and spoons. I hoped he didn’t expect me to turn the napkins into flowers because I hadn’t a clue about things like that. “What else can I do?” I asked after I’d set the table.

“If you want to freshen up, there’s a powder room down the hall.”

“I just washed my hands; that’s good enough.”

He laughed.

I loved it when he laughed. Actually I loved it when he smiled. Or talked or drove or anything else.