Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) (7 page)

“What?” I asked, sure I’d heard wrong.

“A date,” he said, smiling with those white, white teeth.

He must have had a full set of veneers put on because no one had a real smile like that. I switched my gaze to his eyes. They were twinkling with humor again.

“You know, boy asks out girl, girl accepts, boy takes girl to a nice dinner and show … a date.”

“Well, um, dinner and a movie sounds nice but—”

“Not a movie—a show. Or concert, rather. Seal. He’ll be in Atlanta the weekend after next. We could fly up, take in dinner and the show, spend the night, and fly back on Sunday.”

Holy crap. At any other time in my life I’d be thinking I hit the jackpot. A young, rich, good-looking doctor
and
a Seal concert. Not to mention the possibility of what might happen during that overnight time, assuming my dermatitis was gone. But my life was no longer about having a good time. It was about saving my house, and every single day counted in my effort.

“Are you applying for the Husband Wanted job?” I asked.

His eyes widened for a split second, and then he blinked. Was that fear lurking behind those baby grays?

“No!” he said. “I mean, no, not really.” He was smiling again, but it was a shadow of the smile he’d worn before. “I just thought you might enjoy dinner and a show.”

I told him I would under normal circumstances, but right now my life wasn’t normal. For some weird reason which I’d need to examine later, my mouth told him that in two weeks I might be engaged, and if not, I’d still be looking for a husband. Either way, every minute of my time would be involved with getting my property into conformance.

He said he was sorry, that he wished things could be different, and I believed him because I felt that way too.

M
y work schedule varied since I was part-time, but it was Wednesday, and I had to work the rest of the week. Although I liked my job just fine, it was difficult to force myself back after being off for several days. There were so many chores I needed to do at home that I actually thought about calling in sick.

Oh, who was I kidding? This wasn’t about chores at home; I was embarrassed to face my boss, Henry Phipps. His learning of my past as a historical romance writer with a rock and roll boyfriend was bad enough, but worse was that business of my butt on display for the world to see.

Yes, the whole world, according to my sister Marci, whose voice had trilled with excitement when she’d called to let me know it was all over the Internet and without the black dot.

Since our business was software technology and my boss was always online, there was no chance he would have missed my little—or I should say
big
—humiliation.

I got into the office early, hoping to settle into my work before anyone else showed up. Maybe they wouldn’t know I was already there but even if they did, at least the awkward morning greetings as I passed them in the hall wouldn’t happen.

When ten o’clock came and went without anyone saying boo, I worried that I was being shunned. But then my boss arrived, acting completely normal, and he didn’t say a word about the article. I took a deep breath. Relaxing, finally, I got to work.

As the only administrative assistant in the small company, I was in charge of every admin task. Correspondence, filing, customer mailings, press releases, scheduling, company events … Today I needed to wrap up dinner plans for the board members and key personnel. I’d received RSVPs from everyone except my boss’s wife. When the deadline passed and I hadn’t heard, I shot off a quick email to my boss asking if his wife planned to attend. He would either know the answer or would give his wife a call. Minutes later I received his response.

No, she replied, tears streaming over high cheekbones like a river over boulders, convinced in her heart of hearts that she would never see him at a company dinner again …

What the heck? It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Was he laughing at me? Maybe he thought he was laughing
with
me. Except I wasn’t laughing.

I clicked on
Reply
and started to ask him to clarify, but then typed, “Did you see the article?” instead. I didn’t say which article. I was still hoping he hadn’t seen my butt.

With great trepidation I clicked
Send.
His reply came back in seconds; he must have had it written and was just waiting for the chance to send it.

Yes! Congrats … he said, his rippling, sweat-drenched torso heaving like a blacksmith’s billowing bellows …

Oh brother. In parentheses he’d written, “You can use that if you want, and you don’t even have to give me credit.”

Was he serious or joking? I wasn’t sure. I shook myself out of my dumbfoundedness when I realized he had sneaked up and was lounging against one side of the doorframe, his tall, lanky body somewhat awkwardly placed. His straight dark hair fell over his forehead and his round eyeglasses, which he was constantly pushing up, had slid to the bottom of his nose. I had the feeling he would push them up now, if it wouldn’t spoil his pose. I stared, speechless, as he crossed his arms negligently over his chest. I’d never seen him in such a stance.

“You didn’t tell us you’re a famous writer,” he said with a big smile.

A flush started creeping up my neck. Heck, it wasn’t creeping, it was sweeping. My entire face was suddenly hot. “I’m not famous. There wasn’t any reason to tell you about it.”

“Oh, but there is. My wife loves romance novels. I’ve ordered all your books, and I want you to autograph them.”

Please God, just shoot me now.
I would absolutely die if my boss read any of my books. The sensuality level was hot. And I mean
hot.
What would he think when my hero fell to his knees in front of his naked, virginal wife, and did …
that?
What would he think when the heroine of the next book did
that
to the hero? Just knowing the word
nipple
was in my book was more than enough to send me into an anxiety attack. I knew my face was bright red; the heat radiating from it was enough to start a fire.

“You know what? I’d really rather you didn’t get my books,” I said, hoping my face didn’t melt into a puddle.

“Too late! They’re on their way. Coming from Amazon. Overnight! I read the excerpts online, and they were pretty good.” His simmering excitement ignited, and he pushed away from the doorframe, propelling himself to the front of my desk, eyes bright, face lit up, his whole body quivering as though he could barely stand still. Any minute I expected him to break out in song.

“I’ve been thinking about this all weekend,” he said, pacing now with such enthusiasm that he appeared to be skipping. “I can help you write another book. I’m a pretty good writer myself, so I’ll just send you little snippets every now and then that you can use. Really, you don’t have to give me any credit. Well, naming a character after me would be nice. But you don’t have to.”

He’d stopped skipping and had put both hands on my desk, leaning toward me until his face was mere inches from mine. His blue eyes gleamed with anticipation.

Oh God. Now I was wishing I
was
a puddle so that I could evaporate, never to be seen again.

*****

“Jane? Jane, are you there? This is your mother. Pick up the phone!”

I reached for the phone on my nightstand, getting a glimpse of the readout on the clock. Six in the morning? What the hell? Mom never called this early.

I picked up the handset and held it to my ear while I tried to wake myself up. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Jane! Thank goodness you’re there!”

I wanted to say, “Where else would I be?” but I was still asleep so I thought it instead.

“I just got the paper,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. I am so relieved—and
happy
for you.”

“What? Tell you what? Relieved about what?” Good grief, what was in the paper now?

“Dr. Bryan Rossi, that’s what!”

I was awake
now.
And scrambling out of bed. My foot caught on the covers, and I tumbled out headfirst.
Dang.
Not the way I liked to wake up.

I could hear a frantic, “Jane, Jane, are you there?” I groped in the direction of the noise until I found the handset. I took a deep breath and put the phone back to my ear.

“What are you talking about? What about Dr. Rossi?”

“That he is
interested
in you.
Wooing
you! A doctor! You may not put me in the grave after all.”

Okay, at this point I felt like hanging up. Mainly because I was just trying to live my life, and I was getting sick and tired of remarks like this one. Putting my mother in her grave, my ass. She would outlive us all.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

“The newspaper, Jane. The
newspaper.
There’s a picture of Bryan Rossi getting out of his white Jaguar convertible at your house, carrying gifts! Oh, I knew there was a reason you were so pretty.”

Pretty? Me? This was coming from the woman who had made it her life’s work to drill into me that I was nothing special, starting with my birth when she’d decided—no doubt with a smirk—to name me Jane to go with Dough? Maybe she had dementia. Then my mind processed the word
Jaguar.
Jaguar? I loved Jaguars. How did I not notice his Jaguar? Oh yeah. I was too busy booting him out the door.

I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “Mom, start over. There’s an article in the paper about Dr. Rossi …”

“About
you
and Dr. Rossi. It says
Bryan Rossi woos romance writer.
According to Katherine, the Associated Press has picked up the story and it’s everywhere, so it
must
be true!”

Well, sure. If it was
everywhere,
it
must
be true.

My first thought was how incredible that Katherine and Mom had already been talking, before six a.m. My second thought was,
Bryan Rossi
woos romance writer? Not
Local doctor
woos romance writer or
Young, handsome doctor
woos romance writer? Who the hell was Bryan Rossi that a headline would have his name in it, when I, the subject of these stories, was just
romance writer?

“Is Bryan Rossi someone special? Aside from the fact that he’s a doctor, of course.” I had to clarify because the doctor part was all the “special” he would need in Mom’s book.

“Special? Special? Do you not read
Forbes?
Or
Cosmopolitan,
for that matter?”

Hmmm, did Mom read
Forbes
or
Cosmopolitan
for that matter? I doubted it.

“Bryan Rossi is one of the top bachelors in the country! His father is Senator Rossi from New Hampshire! His mother is a Vanderbilt! My goodness, his family has so much money that … Jane, are you there?”

Yes, I was there, but I was about to pass out. The words
Prince Charming
had suddenly flashed before my eyes, pretty much in the manner that I expected something to flash before my eyes as I was about to meet Death. Prince Charming had come for me on his charging white Jaguar and I had turned him down because I was pretending to marry some unknown ad respondent?
Yes,
I had. I started to kick myself, but then I remembered I didn’t believe in Prince Charming.

“Look, Mom, I turned Bryan down. He wasn’t applying for the husband-wanted job, and I don’t have time to fly up to Atlanta for concerts while I’m trying to save my property.”

“What? Concerts? What are you talking about?
I’m
talking about Dr. Bryan Rossi. He could pay your fine with pocket change. You wouldn’t be living in your house anyway, because he lives on the Hill. Did you hear me? The
Hill!”

Yes, I heard her. The “Hill” was Island Hill, an exclusive island neighborhood built within the last five years. Ground had been broken on the island about one second after a news release that a gigantic state-of-the-future medical research facility was in the works. Neurosurgeons, oncologists, and bigtime research scientists snatched up the lots on Island Hill like Christmas shoppers snatched up the newest fad toy on Black Friday.

The island was called the Hill because tons of dirt had been brought in to build up the island prior to construction, as a safeguard against flooding. The prospective homeowners had gone a step further and had the footprint of their homes built up even higher than the surrounding land. The result was that each mansion sat on a hill by itself, the overall effect being one of majesty when looking up from the wide, beautifully landscaped drive below.

It’d be enough to make you snicker—there had been a ton of jokes about how the island was going to sink and take all those heavy egos with it—but so far the Hill had weathered the hurricanes quite well. I’d house-hunted there with Sue when I first moved back. Not because I could afford to buy in the neighborhood—I’d have to be number one on the New York Times bestseller list about sixty-two times before that could be a possibility—but because Sue had insisted. It was one of the few ways a non-resident could get past the guards at the gate for a look.

“Dr. Rossi didn’t ask me to marry him, he asked for a date.”

“But a date, Jane! All marriages start with a date!”

“Not this one,” I said. “This one starts with a legal agreement where a man promises to work very hard to help fix up my lot the way I want it fixed up in return for getting his name on the deed. That’s the way this marriage starts. Bryan Rossi just wanted to have a good time and meanwhile,
my
time was going to run out. I don’t want to talk about it anymore and besides, I’ve gotta get ready for work.”

As I was putting the phone down, I heard one last wail, “But Jane, he’s a
doctor.
”

I sat there for a minute thinking about my life. I’d repeated the husband-wanted lie so many times that I was starting to believe it myself. Except
I
knew there was no way I could really marry a guy in exchange for his help in saving my property. I didn’t want to be rescued by a man.

That was why I’d said no to Bryan. I hadn’t exactly understood at the time, nor later when I called Sue to tell her about the day’s surprising events and she was beyond astonished that I’d turned Bryan down. I could have gone out with him and maybe he’d have really liked me. Maybe he’d have offered to pay someone to fix up my property, thus solving all my problems. And that was what I was afraid of, Prince Charming to the rescue, which would only prove I couldn’t take care of myself. That was what my mother and sisters had been saying all along.

I’d grown up believing in Prince Charming. Really. It seemed ridiculous but I had. I knew that one day my prince would come and whisk me away to my wonderful life, and I had planned on biding my time until he appeared.

I was almost thirty before I realized no one was coming. I actually thought he
had
come, but Pete turned out to be a lying, selfish, self-centered son of a bitch who was only pretending to be Prince Charming for a few years until he started to worry about his age and his future and found a barely-old-enough-to-order-a-drink girlfriend who had no expectations of him, who made him feel like the rock superstar he never quite became, while he managed to steal most of the stuff I had purchased for our apartment.

I would never be that kind of fool again. I’d finally grown up, and I knew now that no one was responsible for my happiness but me. There was no such thing as Prince Charming, and if there were, he wouldn’t be Bryan Rossi, who was probably a spoiled rich boy accustomed to getting what he wanted.

I mourned the loss of my childhood dream, and then I let it go. I didn’t even want Prince Charming anymore. I only wanted a place to call my home, and I’d found it in this little two-acre piece of property. And no one was going to take it away from me now.