Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) (25 page)

“That’s what I like about you, Jane. Any one of the other fifty women I know would disappear into that powder room and come out somewhere between twenty and sixty minutes from now.”

“You’re dating fifty women?”

He shook his head, still grinning. “No, but I’m sure I have—at least. And you’re the only one who’s ever passed up the opportunity to primp.”

“Hmmm. I don’t know if I should be flattered or embarrassed.”

“Flattered. Definitely.” He moved to a medium-sized wooden salad bowl, poured liquid into it from a small ironware pitcher that matched the plates I’d set on the table, and proceeded to toss a salad. He grabbed up a pair of tongs and took the bowl with him to drop some salad onto each of our plates.

“Are you sure I can’t help?” I asked as he pulled a dish from a rather large food warmer built into the cabinetry. An appetizing aroma wafted through the room.

“You can grab a couple of wine glasses and the wine carrier that’s sitting over there.”

I did that as he drained and then forked hot noodles from the pan on the stove into the warmed dish and then stirred in some grated cheese. He topped that with whatever he’d taken from the food warmer, sprinkled on some more of the grated cheese, and added parsley. He brought the plates to the table, served me with mine, and sat down with his.

“So … what is it?” I smiled, holding my expression steady. I had a bad feeling that my plate was filled with seafood because I didn’t exactly recognize the meat. I’d never liked seafood. I really wanted to, but every time I tried it, I got the urge to throw up.

“Clams linguine. My grandmother’s recipe.” He loaded his fork and then set it back down. “Okay, that’s a lie. It’s really my gardener’s recipe, but it doesn’t sound as appealing when I say that.”

My lips were frozen in place. Fortunately, it was a smiling place. “Oh. Goodie.”

“You’ve never had it, have you?”

He tipped his head sideways, studying my face. I tried to inject some life into my eyes but judging from his expression, I’d only managed to make myself look bug-eyed crazy.

“I have,” I breathed out, my mouth still stretched wide. I’d had clams linguine at a local restaurant and remembered because it was on my list of foods to
never
try again. Well, I’d just have to make do, wouldn’t I? Because vomiting in this gorgeous kitchen would not make a good impression on Prince Charming.

Bryan poured the wine, and I kept my now aching smile pasted on my face. Thank God for wine. Thank God for Bryan and for the beautiful kitchen and for the salad and for the wine. I just couldn’t thank God for the freaking clams linguine.

He raised his glass, and I did the same.

“To you, Jane. To all the things you want to accomplish, to the person you are, to your happiness.”

Jeez.
I wanted to cry as I clinked my glass to his. He was toasting all these great things for me, and I was a selfish bitch who didn’t want to choke down a bite of dinner to make him feel good. I took a gigantic gulp of my wine. It was wonderfully good. And then I drank the rest, straight down. Bryan tried to smother a laugh, but couldn’t quite pull it off.

“Go ahead and take a taste,” he said, “because if you don’t like it, I’ve got some great homemade pizza that I can heat up in sixty seconds. Really. If you have to get drunk to eat it, you’ll probably throw it back up.”

He forked up some of the dish and chewed. He seemed to like it. I forked up some too and moved it toward my mouth. I did a mental chant,
In twenty minutes this will all be over. In twenty minutes this will all be over.
Fifteen if God really loved me.

I opened my mouth, pushed the stuff in, and chewed. And then I chewed again. And again. And then I almost wept with relief. It was tasty. I took another bite and this time my smile was genuine.

“It’s delicious. I mean it.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I don’t understand why it tasted so awful the other time. It was like chewing garlic-drenched rubber bands.”

Bryan leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ve got a secret. It’s fresh parsley.”

“Really?” I whispered back. I glanced down at my plate where the parsley lay untouched. “But I didn’t eat the parsley. I thought it was garnish.”

He grinned. “That
is
garnish,” he said with a nod at the greenery on my plate, “but there’s parsley in the sauce. You can’t imagine what a difference a little thing like fresh parsley makes. The rubber band problem has nothing to do with that though. That comes from overcooking the clams.”

We ate in silence for several minutes. I guess all that sexual tension flowing between us had stirred up our appetites, and not just for sex. I had a mental list of questions I wanted to ask him but after he’d gone to the trouble to cook, I figured it would be nice of me to let him enjoy the results of his efforts without an interrogation.

“So,” I said, when I finally slowed down with the food, “when you gave me the options for dining, you never mentioned a dining room. You have one, surely?”

“Through there.” He nodded toward a bi-fold swinging door, top half glass, bottom half wood, on the far side of the kitchen. I couldn’t see anything because the room on the other side was dark.

“There’s a staging room and then a dining room that opens to a ballroom. My mother calls it cozy dining since it only seats twenty. But it’ll seat forty with the second table.”

I stopped in mid-chew. “You have a ballroom?”

“Yes, but it’s never been used. Three years and counting.”

“Going for a record?”

“No, it’s just that … it’s one of those things. A
mother
thing.”

Hunh.
This guy had no idea what a
mother
thing was, but I decided to humor him. And myself.

“A mother thing, huh? The
using
it or the
not
using it? Or do you mean she made you build it?”

He laughed, and I smiled at hearing it. “She didn’t
make
me—she’s no bigger than you—but it was obvious she’d be miserable if I didn’t have one. I didn’t really care, so it seemed best to keep the peace. I’ll take you on a tour later. The dining room and ballroom are more elegant than the rest of the house, with more French and British influences than Italian. My
father
is Italian.”

“And your mother …”

“Isn’t.” His eyes held a mischievous twinkle.

“Ah, right. Isn’t she a Vanderbilt? What are they, Dutch?”

“
They
may be, but
she
is not. She secretly loves that Vanderbilt rumor though. It wouldn’t surprise me if she started it.”

Hmmm. This was an interesting turn of conversation, and I wanted to pump him for more information about his mother, but I feared turnabout. This was one dinner Mom wasn’t ruining for me, even though that single thought of Mom sent my gaze to my plate.

What had happened to my food? Unless a food fairy had sneaked in and stolen it, I had scarfed it all up. It would have been embarrassing but for the satisfied smile on Bryan’s face. Besides, he was right there with me, empty plate and all.

I leaned forward to push back my chair, and Bryan surged to his feet.
Yikes.
One second later he was standing behind my chair to assist me, as all gentlemen were supposed to do. Well, I was guessing here. Someone needed a brush-up on manners, and it obviously wasn’t Bryan.

As we cleared the table, I considered what he’d said. There was something to be learned here. He placated his mother because he knew what she needed from him and knew
she
couldn’t change. It wasn’t as simple a sacrifice as he pretended either, because it had to do with his home. Yet he didn’t let it bother him.

Could I do that? Could I sacrifice something like that to make my mother happy and still be happy too? Sure, I was thinking, but it would take a hell of a lot of lying. And a different mother.

He drew me to him, and my heart stopped beating. This was no good because if something exciting happened, I wanted to be alive to enjoy it.

He dipped his head for a kiss, and I gave myself up to it because if there was one thing Bryan Rossi was really good at, it was kissing. His body grew rigid, and I melted bonelessly into him. From somewhere came the thought that we’d fit together perfectly in bed. I shoved that thought out of my brain because I didn’t want to think; I wanted to
feel.

His hand slid up my side and somehow—God he was good—he managed to ease my nipple out of my bra. His thumb, and then his tongue, brushed over it. I heard someone moan. I guess it was me. Parts of me went liquid and squishy. I won’t say which parts.

“Are you sure you want to go spying,” he murmured, his lips against mine now, “because I can think of other things that might be more fun.”

Oh God, so could I. I was aching in all my private places and
Dr.
Rossi had the cure. I went to war with myself.
This
was really good. I really needed
this.
I also needed my house.

“Can’t we go spy and then come back and do this?” I whispered. I needed to find out about Carlson before he went to bed, but I also really wanted to do this. If I had to choose between the two activities, I would have to choose
this
. It would screw up all my plans, and I might end up losing my home, but heck, I was only human.

Thankfully, Bryan didn’t make me choose. Thank God for that. Thank God for Bryan. Or maybe not.

B
ryan had changed into clothes, which, like mine, were entirely black. Black jeans, black T-shirt, black windbreaker, black running shoes. I wouldn’t have minded changing with him—I was wearing the pink thong and matching bra reserved for young, good-looking doctors—but he had ushered me into a cozy dressing room off the kitchen where he’d left me all alone.

Now we were in the garage, though it didn’t seem fair to call it that since it was air conditioned, with walnut wood paneling across the back wall and a polished terrazzo floor that was gray with speckles of tan, white, and royal blue. Wood cabinets that matched the paneling lined the two side walls. If the Jaguar hadn’t been parked there, I would have called it a room.

“We’re at the southern tip of the island, and Carlson’s address is on the other side of the clubhouse,” he said. “We can ride bikes and park them at the clubhouse and walk from there.”

As he spoke he lifted a man’s bicycle—black and silver—from the paneled wall. I didn’t know much about bikes, but it didn’t look like one of those geared-up racing bikes, and I was glad. A racing bike would be incongruous with the lush tropical surroundings. Why would anyone speed around when he could slow down and enjoy the view?

Three bikes remained hanging; two were for women. He hesitated and threw me a glance. “Either of these would do, but you’re what, five foot five?”

“Five six.” That was my story and I was sticking to it. That height was on my license, and I’d actually measured that barefoot once while standing slightly on my toes. Maybe someday I’d have to cop to being five five, but that day wasn’t today.

Bryan smiled and lifted a navy-blue bike from the wall. “This one’s good for five
six.
The other’s more comfortable for someone half a foot taller.”

Yeah, like those long-legged beauties hogging the chairs in his waiting room. The retort in my head was that those girls didn’t need bikes; they could use their brooms. I managed to keep that thought private, though, because no one likes a bitch. At least that was what I’d been told. More than once.

He pushed a button on the handlebars of his bike, and the garage door opened. We rolled the bikes out, and he pushed that button again to close the door.

It was after nine, fully dark outside, but the street was well lit by the street lights. The air was thick with the scent of night blooming jasmine. As we pedaled toward our destination, gliding slowly past majestic mansions perched on little hilltops, I fantasized that we were honeymooning on an exotic island, taking a romantic bicycle ride by moonlight. Except there was barely any moon, the lights were electric, and I was on my way to spy on a jerk. Oh yeah … and we weren’t married.

The clubhouse was upon us much too soon. I could have gone on cycling for hours, taking in the night scents and the scenery, which, of course, included the sexy Bryan Rossi on his bicycle, smiling over at me now and again with a grin that told me he really enjoyed being with me. How cool was that?

Unfortunately, I had work to do. Just what that work entailed, I had no idea. I had no clue what I should look for. Sure, if Carlson was here, that fact could support my theory that he
lived
here, which meant he shouldn’t be on the homeowners’ association board for my neighborhood, let alone presiding as president of said board. Proving that, however, might require the help of an attorney, and I had no money to spare. I realized I was really hoping to learn something else that would help me, some nefarious piece of information that would give me a smidgeon of control over Carlson. I just didn’t know what.

Bryan cycled around to the back of the clubhouse, with me coasting behind him. He stopped in front of a bicycle rack, dismounted his bike, and settled it into the rack. I—gracefully, I might add—dismounted my girly bike and let him take it from me, as he was so obviously wont to do, and lift it into the rack.

We stood there for a few seconds, Bryan gazing down at me with a lazy half-smile and me wondering why the heck I was standing there instead of being back at his house in the sack with him. That damned house. Someday I’d have to figure out why a house meant more to me than a relationship, especially with a man like this.

We took the bike path back to the front of the clubhouse, and Bryan checked out the road in both directions. No one was around, so we scurried across the median to the other side and started down the sidewalk in full stride toward Carlson’s. Bryan’s legs were about twice as long as mine, but I noticed he took smaller steps so I could keep up.

Three minutes later we closed in on Carlson’s house. It was a two-story Colonial with a symmetrical exterior, central front doors, white pillars, and white shutters. There were no touches of color in the landscape. Nothing about it stood out. It was respectable and boring, just like Carlson.

We slowed our pace as we neared the drive.

“Someone’s living here, obviously,” Bryan said with a shrug at the house. “So … you need to know that the
someone
is your Mr. Carlson?”

Ugh.
He wasn’t
my
Mr. Carlson, but I’d overlook that for the moment. “Um, I guess that’s what I need to know.” That and whether or not he had a predilection for hiring hookers or something worse. Anything I could blackmail him with.

Hunh.
Had I actually thought the word
blackmail
? Because I couldn’t see me in any scenario threatening someone, no matter what he was into. Well, except pedophilia. I could see myself turning in a pedophile, but threatening him with it? Wouldn’t that mean that if he did what I said I’d have to keep quiet about what
he
was doing?

Good grief, I was in a quandary. I wanted dirt on Carlson, but I didn’t want him to be so dirty that I couldn’t bargain with him. And what if we overheard him talking about me in an uncomplimentary manner? Did I really want Bryan in on that?

“What?” Bryan asked. “You’re looking a little pasty, though maybe that’s because you’re so fair-skinned, dressed in full black, loitering outside in the dark.”

“I was just thinking maybe you should watch the driveway while I go check things out.”

“That’s what you were thinking?”

“Yeah.” Sort of. After the other thing I was thinking about how I didn’t want him to overhear any nasty things said about me. But, really, must I reveal my every thought?

He raised his brows. One of them anyway.

“Okay, so I just think it’s better if one of us is a lookout for unexpected visitors, and since you don’t know what I’m after with regards to Carlson, the lookout should be you.”

“No.”

“No?” I could not believe my ears. What did he mean by
no?
He was supposed to be helping, wasn’t he?

“That’s what I said. No. We do it together or not at all.”

“You didn’t say anything about this at your house.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t know how I felt at my house. Now that we’re here, I’m worried you’ll get hurt. So,
no.
”

I huffed without even trying to hide it. “Okay, then, follow me. But don’t you dare try to keep me from doing something I want to do.”

I heard him chuckle under his breath. “No promises, but I’ll try.”

“Hmph!”

I tried to get over it. If I thought about it, I’d remember that without Bryan I wouldn’t even be here, and the fact that he was worried about me should make me even happier. So why didn’t it?

Five seconds later it hit me. I was worried that I would embarrass myself or that something would happen that I couldn’t handle and Bryan would see it, which was the same thing as embarrassing myself. I constantly put down my family for worrying about what people thought and here I was, exactly like them. Just as Hank had said. Unflattering truths were so … unflattering.

I gritted my teeth and started up the hill. “No alarms will go off, right?” I asked.

“Not unless you try to break in. I doubt he’s got his entire property wired for intrusion. That’s what the guard and the gates are for.”

“What do we say if we get caught?” I was thinking we’d better get our stories straight beforehand, just in case something happened.

“
I
could say all kinds of things, if
I
got caught, by my
self.
I’m looking for my cat, dog, parakeet. Something flew out of my car and landed up here. I thought I saw a prowler and decided to investigate. But there’s no point. Once he sees
your
face, he’ll know we’re lying.”

Oh yeah. So much for getting our stories straight beforehand.

I folded myself down as I sneaked around the front of the house to the other side where most of the lights seemed to be. I halted beside the first window, flattened myself against the wall the way they did on TV, and then quickly swung my head around to peer inside. Draperies were drawn and nothing could be seen through them. Next window, same story. And the next and the next and the next.

We were at the last window, near the rear of the house, when a shadow passed on the other side of what I realized were sheers. I went through the same scenario with the flattening and the peering. But this time I pressed my face against the window and I could make out the shadow. Bingo! Mr. Carlson, or SUC, as I now liked to think of him.

I nodded at Bryan, who wasn’t folded down or flattened. He was just standing there, all six feet of him, looking disarming and rakish in black. Excitement surged and my heart began to pound. I didn’t know if it was due to Bryan’s appearance or Carlson’s, but it quickly dissipated. Now what? This was where the embarrassing part could happen. We were on this big spying mission, my target was in sight, and I had no next move. Duh.

A combination of frustration, disappointment, and embarrassment set in. Just as it began to escalate into panic—for which I’d brought along the Xanax that I’d stupidly forgotten to take before we pedaled out on our big mission—another shadow passed the window.

My breath caught in my throat as I sneaked a peek, waiting for the man to turn around. Maybe it would be Richard, confirming they were pals. Since that wouldn’t help me (I was already pretty darn sure they were pals), my spirits sagged. But maybe the newcomer would be a notorious gangster. That was all I’d need to tarnish Carlson’s reputation. Except I didn’t know any notorious gangsters by name, let alone sight, so that wouldn’t help me either.

It suddenly hit me that I hadn’t thought to look up the other two board members. How unprepared was that? If Carlson was living here and the other board members knew it, I could get them all dismissed from the board, buying myself some time while everyone voted on a new lineup. I could see the headline:
Romance Writer Takes Down Homeowners’ Association.
Yeah!

No! I remembered that the other board members were women. Unless this person was a cross-dresser, he wasn’t on the board.

The guy turned around and I’d never seen him before in my life. He was about five eight and built like a fireplug. Square, sturdy, indestructible, and with a pointy head. I sent a look to Bryan, and he wagged his eyebrows at me. I put my finger to my lips and then my ear to the window.

No good. If this were my house, I could have heard the conversation fifteen feet out, just as I could hear every conversation on the street from inside my bedroom at night. But million-dollar houses apparently came equipped with insulated, well-sealed windows. Bummer.

“Fireplug” took a call from his cellphone. Whatever he heard made his swarthy face darken further. When his gaze settled on Carlson, a shiver raced down my spine. That only proved once again that my intuition—if not accompanied by full-body goose bumps—was full of crap, since Fireplug snapped his cellphone shut, gave Carlson a good-natured clap on the back, and gestured toward the door. The two men moved out of the room.

I was about to hang it up for the night, admitting defeat to the hunk of man who still stood beside me, when voices sounded from the pool deck just around the corner of the house. I motioned to Bryan to follow along. He gave me an eye roll, male version, but did as I wanted.

When I got to the corner, I paused to contemplate my next move. A low but irate voice rumbled suddenly from less than ten feet away, startling me into a backwards leap. I collided with Bryan, almost knocking him down, and I whipped my head around to spear him with a glare. What did he think he was doing, standing smack up against me like that while I was spying?

I squinted my eyes in an attempt to tell him through nonverbal language that this was the reason I had wanted to go alone, but he responded by smothering a laugh, just as he’d done when he saw the clump of dirt on my toe. The memory made me want to laugh too, but I stopped myself in time. I forced my almost-grin into a frown, shook my head, and held up my hand, meaning that he was to stay where he was, which was far enough behind me that I wouldn’t crash into him again.

I crept back to my former position at the corner of the house. The slight breeze was working against me. I could only hear snatches of conversation, which included the words
investigation
and
incompetence
and
liability
being spoken by Fireplug, but his tone was ominous.

Knowing my tendency to hold my breath during tense situations, I inhaled deeply to prevent oxygen deprivation and inched my face to the edge of the house so I could observe the men as they spoke. They were inside the pool enclosure, and for a moment the sight made me forget my purpose. The pool sparkled, not because it was crystal clear and a waterfall generated a constant flow of water from the opposite end—which it was and which it did—but because tiny lights in shades of blue and green twinkled around the perimeter just above the surface of the water. The effect reminded me of a string of Christmas tree lights, and I’d always been a sucker for Christmas anything.

The pool deck itself appeared to be turquoise marble—seamless and smooth as glass—rather than concrete or tile, which seemed pretty silly to me, even though turquoise was one of my favorite colors. Why pay so much money for something that would only cost you a lot more when someone slipped on it, broke his neck, and sued?