Sweet Liar (22 page)

“No, I was just looking. It's dark in here, isn't it?”

Samantha looked about the room, at the dark greens, the hunting prints, and the plaid on the furniture. When she'd first entered this room she had loved it, but now she thought she might buy a slipcover for the largest chair. “I saw some lovely rose damask in a shop on Madison,” she said. “Maybe…” She stopped, for what she was thinking seemed to be disrespectful to her father. After all, he had chosen everything in this room, and, too, it didn't make sense to spend money on the apartment when she was going to be leaving in such a short time.

She looked at Mike, then had to look away. It was better not to think of leaving and going somewhere where she knew no one.

“Rose damask, huh?” he asked, taking her arm in his, offering to take the bottles from her, but Sam said no, then asked him to get a beat-up old hatbox from inside the closet. He didn't even want to know what was in it, probably some more female-only products, he thought.

Downstairs, as he helped her put her things on the bathroom counter, which was already packed, she looked at the counter in dismay. “You'll have your space back when they put the grills on.”

A minute before, Mike had been thinking with regret of his lost space, but now he didn't want to think of her moving back upstairs.

“And, Mike,” she said softly, “about the ring.” Holding out her left hand, she looked at the big diamond sparkling, thinking that it was so beautiful that she didn't want to part with it. Reluctantly, she began tugging at it. “I meant to give it back, but—”

He put his hand over hers. “Keep it. As long as you want to wear it, it's yours.”

“I couldn't do that. I mean…”

“I'll just have to take it back to the bank and put it in the safe, and it'll just rot there. Mother says that jewels react better to being used than to sitting in a safe deposit box. Besides, it looks better on your skin than in the ugly gray box.”

“Mike…” she began. “No one has ever—I mean…”

Leaning forward, he kissed her softly and gently. “If you again tell me thanks, I'll get angry.”

When she looked up at him, there was gratitude in her eyes—and he didn't like it. He'd never done anything but shown her simple human kindness, kindness that she should have expected. “You want to spend the night in bed with me?” he asked.

For a moment Samantha looked startled, feeling betrayed that he'd expect her to thank him in that way, but then she realized he was teasing. She laughed and the moment of tension was broken. “I'm not
that
grateful.”

“The gratitude comes
after
you spend a night with me,” he answered, grinning at her.

“Get out of here,” she said, laughing, then quickly he stole another kiss and left the bathroom.

Mike went into his bedroom and began to undress, smiling all the while. Damn it, but he was glad she hadn't left, glad she hadn't gone with his skinny cousin to Maine. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that there was danger if she stayed here, and sometimes all he could remember was Sam with his friends, all of his friends. He had been surprised but pleased when she hadn't snubbed Daphne, and Sam had liked Corey and the others. He knew she would like his family in Colorado and that they'd like her. He could imagine her and Jeanne talking about rose damask together.

At the thought of his family, Mike frowned, remembering her story of tonight. What had she meant with her little story about clocks winding down? He had an idea that if he asked Sam for further explanation, she'd tell him another story and another and another, and he just might never find out the truth. She called
him
a liar, but she could give lessons.

Picking up the telephone extension, he called information in Louisville, Kentucky, giving the operator the name of Dave's attorney to get his home number. Mike knew it was late in Louisville, but he didn't know anyone else who might be able to answer his question of what had happened to Sam after her mother's death.

When the attorney answered, Mike quickly apologized for its being so late, then asked his question. The attorney jolted him by saying that Allison's death had sent Dave into a clinical depression that had lasted for years.

“He was so bad that a couple of us wanted to commit him,” the attorney said, “but we couldn't bring ourselves to do it. Dave stayed in the house in the dark—he couldn't bear any light in the house—ate only enough to keep alive and saw only Samantha. She was his little substitute wife, doing all the cooking and cleaning. The poor kid gave up everything that a kid does. Dave had some savings so he didn't have to go to work, and he couldn't stand for Samantha to be out of his sight except to go to school. Poor, poor kid. If she'd grown up in a mausoleum she would have had more fun that she had in that house with Dave.”

“When did it stop?” Mike asked.

“Dave never did get back to what he was before Allison died, but his savings ran out and he had to go back to work. By then Samantha was a teenager, and Dave was so dependent on her that she continued taking care of him and the house until she got married. All of us were glad to see her get married, see that she would at last have some life of her own.” He hesitated. “But her marriage didn't work out, did it?”

“No, her marriage didn't work out,” Mike said softly, then thanked the attorney and put down the telephone, feeling that he understood a great deal more now than he had. He now understood Sam's fascination with his family. He understood her pleasure at the smallest bit of attention; he understood why she sometimes seemed as though she were seeing the world for the first time.

As he thought of Sam, he remembered seeing her in Dave's apartment, remembered the look she had given that plaid chair. In the next moment he picked up the phone and called his sister in Colorado. Jeanne lost no time in getting to the point: Samantha. Eyes rolling skyward, Mike had no doubt that Samantha was a major topic of conversation with his family.

“What's this Samantha look like?” Jeanne asked, not trying to hide her curiosity.

Mike didn't hesitate. “A modified Bardot; skin like cream; eyes the color of Kit's '57 Chevy; hair the color of that palomino you had when you were fourteen; a body that belongs on the cover of
Sports Illustrated.
” He stopped because Jeanne was laughing, but he grinned into the telephone.

“Mike,” Jeanne said, still laughing, “does she have a brain?”

“Yeah and a real smart mouth.”

“I think I like her already. Tell me what you need.”

“You still have the floor plan for the top two floors of my house? The apartment you did for Dave Elliot?”

“Yes. Mike, I was sorry about his death. I know you liked him a lot.”

“Thanks. I want you to redecorate the apartment and I want it done fast—real fast.”

“Two weeks?”

“Overnight. I take Sam out for a day, say next Monday, and come back to a new apartment.”

Jeanne didn't say anything for a moment as she thought of her sources in New York. She could buy most of the furniture off the showroom floor, a lot of it at Tepper Galleries, put it in storage, then move in a day. “I can't get curtains made or paintings done, and you'll have to pay retail for some things.”

“All right,” Mike said without hesitation.

Jeanne gave a low whistle. “You
must
be in love.” When Mike was silent, she asked, “What style is she?”

“She lives with me, but she's only let me kiss her a few times, no hands.”

“Ahhh. Old fashioned. English chintz. Rose silk cushions. Aubusson rug. A four-poster bed draped in slate blue damask. Tassels. Eighteenth-century antiques.”

He interrupted her. “Sounds good to me. Hey, Jeanne,” he said as he was about to hang up, “make the bed
big.
”

Laughing, she hung up.

S
amantha awoke in the morning and, half asleep, staggered into the bathroom, only to be brought up short by the sight of Mike standing before the mirror wearing only a towel about his waist and shaving lather on his face.

“Sorry,” she murmured and started back into the bedroom.

“It's okay,” he said. “I'm decent. What do you want to do today?”

Turning back toward the bathroom, she blinked to clear her sleepy vision. He was certainly something wonderful to see so early in the morning, with his broad back and that tiny towel barely hanging onto his hips. One tiny tug and…

“You're going to get into trouble if you keep looking at me like that,” he said, watching her in the mirror.

Samantha smiled at him, but instead of going back into the bedroom, she went to stand by him to watch him shave. Both her father and her husband had used electric razors, so it was new to her to see a man shave with lather and a blade.

“You don't like electric razors?” she asked, picking up a bottle of his aftershave, English Leather, opening it, and smelling it.

“I inherited my father's thick beard, an electric won't touch it.”

Standing there, leaning against the wall that ran beside the mirror, playing with the bottle, she watched him stroke the razor over his face, then rinse the blade in the sink. Once, he looked at her in the mirror and winked.

Smiling at him, she thought, What a lovely moment. Sometimes she felt more married to Mike than she ever had to her husband. Her husband had had ironclad rules, and one of his rules was that a man and woman were never to be in the bathroom together.

“Have you decided?”

“Mmmmm?” she asked dreamily, watching him.

He finished shaving, then held a washcloth under the hot water and wrapped his face in the cloth for a minute before wiping away the last of the lather. Turning to her, he bent so his face was close to hers. “What do you think?” He turned his face first one way, then the other.

Smiling, Samantha put her hands on his cheeks, feeling the freshly shaved skin, and was tempted to run her thumbs over his lips, maybe even to kiss him. “Baby soft.”

“Are you sure?” Bending closer, he rubbed his cheek against hers, first one side then the other.

Putting her hands on his shoulders, she felt his warm skin and closed her eyes for a moment.

“No stray whiskers to hurt a lady's skin?”

“No, none,” she said softly, leaning her head back against the wall. “Perfectly smooth.”

Abruptly, he moved away from her, and in spite of herself, Samantha frowned. Usually he tried to kiss her, but he didn't kiss her this morning. She had no way of knowing that her early-morning nearness was more than Mike could bear. If he wasn't to touch her, he had to step away. But Samantha didn't understand Mike's abrupt movement, so on impulse, she looked in the mirror—then squealed. Her mascara was under her eyes, and her hair, damp when she went to bed last night, was standing on end. Grabbing one of Mike's combs, she ran it under water then tried to make her hair lay down. Behind her, he laughed, then kissed her neck.

“You look beautiful,” he said honestly.

“As beautiful as Vanessa?” she asked, then put her hand over her mouth in disbelief. She had
not
meant to say that.

Mike raised one eyebrow. “Been snooping? Going through people's drawers? Looking at people's private possessions?”

“Most certainly not. I…I wanted a pair of socks, that's all. I didn't want to disturb you, so I thought I'd look in the cabinet. I had no idea you would object to lending me a pair of socks.” She stopped because he was smirking at her. With her nose in the air to let him know what she thought of him, she pushed past him to leave the bathroom. “I couldn't care less who Vanessa is. I'm sure you have a thousand girlfriends. What do they matter to me?”

When he was silent, she turned around to see him standing in the bathroom doorway, leaning against the jamb, smiling at her in a know-it-all way. “Would you leave? I need to get dressed.”

“So do I and my clothes are in here, but I have an idea you know that.”

“I know nothing of the sort.” She started toward the door that led into the hallway, but he caught her arm.

“Where are you going?”

“To my own apartment, not that it's any of your business.”

Catching her in his arms, he held her loosely while she struggled against him. “Now look what you've done,” he said.

Samantha was
not
going to look, because she knew very well that his towel had fallen to the floor. Resolutely, she kept her eyes on his. “I would like for you to release me,” she said stiffly, holding herself rigid.

“Not until you answer me.” He bent forward as though to kiss her neck, but Samantha turned her head away.

“I
have
answered you: I care nothing about Vanessa.”

Laughing, Mike pulled her a little closer to his big, warm, naked body. “I didn't ask anything about 'Nessa, you did. I asked you what you wanted to do today.”

He was holding her loosely, but when she moved, she was almost close enough that her breasts were touching his chest. Because he was now completely and absolutely naked, Samantha kept her eyes fixed on a place to the right of his head. She wasn't going to start wrestling with him, but she did think of telling him that he shouldn't have spent time in the sun to get the golden color to his skin, then she wondered if perhaps that was his natural color of skin and he was golden all over. “I have a very interesting book I plan to read,” she said, her lips pursed together.

Mike was looking down at her body that was about a quarter of an inch away from being pressed against his, at the very thin fabric that separated them. “You know, I may change my mind about blue nightgowns. I like that one. Is it silk?”

“Cotton,” she said stiffly. “Old-fashioned, boring, or, as you say, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm cotton.”

“Oh? Vanessa wears—” He didn't finish his sentence because Samantha hit him in the ribs with both her fists.

Wincing, he gave a grunt of pain, then laughed, but he didn't release her from the circle of his arms. “Sammy, baby, you're the only woman in my life. Vanessa was a long time ago.”

“It doesn't matter to me at all. Would you stop playing Tarzan and release me? I'd like to go upstairs and get dressed.”

Moving just a bit forward, he put his face close to her neck so she could feel his warm breath on her skin. “Tarzan? How about if we stay in today and play Indian brave and uptight missionary's daughter? All your family could be killed by Indians, then I'd save you, but you'd hate me at first until I made you cry out in ecstasy, then we—”

Try as she would, she couldn't keep from laughing. “Oh, Mike, you're crazy. And what in the world have you been reading?”

“Crazy with wanting you,” he said, nuzzling her neck, but he still kept a breath of space between them, as though he
had
to keep distance between them. “If you don't like Indians, I could show you a few tricks with red silk scarves. Or I could be a pirate and…” He stopped talking because his mouth was on her neck.

When he began to relax, Samantha ducked under his arm and moved away from him, hiding a smile at the groan of misery he emitted when she left the circle of his arms. Keeping her back to him so she wouldn't see him in his present bare state, she left the bedroom and went upstairs to get dressed, smiling all the way.

She had no more than pulled on a pair of jeans than Mike knocked on the outside door of her apartment. His knocking was certainly only a formality as the door had a foot-size hole in it. Even at that formality, he didn't bother to give her time to open the door before he entered and made himself at home in the living room. When Samantha entered the room, still buttoning her blouse, Mike was sprawled in a chair, his feet on the ottoman.

“You make up your mind yet?”

“You mean about which book I'm going to read? There's what looks to be an excellent biography here on Captain Sir Frank Baker, the Victorian explorer. I thought I'd start that.”

Mike's frustration showed on his face. “What does a guy have to do to get a date with you? My bony cousin—”

“Raine asked me,” she said pointedly. “He asked me politely and gave me twenty-four hours' notice. Women appreciate that sort of thing.
Asking
a woman on a date shows a little more finesse than saying, ‘Uh-oh, my towel has fallen off,' or ‘Let's play doctor.' ”

Slowly, Mike got out of the chair and stood before her. Taking her hand in his, he kissed the back of it with exaggerated politeness and courtesy. “Miss Elliot, may I have the honor of a day spent in your company?”

“With or without red scarves?” she asked with narrowed eyes.

“It is milady's choice,” he said, again kissing her hand, but this time he touched her skin with the tip of his tongue.

Smiling in spite of herself, Samantha looked down at his tumble of black curls. “What will we be doing on this date?”

Mike looked up at her in disgust.
“Not
swings and ice cream.” After kissing her hand a third time, he smiled up at her mischievously. “We could always visit Vanessa.”

“Only if I can bring Raine,” she shot back at him with an equally impish grin.

Mike laughed and straightened. “How'd you like to see more of New York? Chinatown, Little Italy, the Village, that sort of thing. Believe it or not, there's more to this city than Fifth and Madison avenues—both of which, I might say, you have adjusted to with amazing adaptability.”

“Let me change clothes and—”

“No, jeans are perfect for where we're going.” He slipped his arm in hers and in another minute led her out the front door.

Samantha had her first experience of New York on the weekend. It seemed that on the weekend, midtown Manhattan emptied of all the beautifully dressed and groomed people and was refilled with what were unmistakably tourists. There were women wearing baggy dresses or shapeless trousers with elastic waistbands hanging onto big-bellied men with four cameras strapped over their polyester shirts.

“Where have they gone?” Sam asked.

“Country houses and neighborhoods around the city,” Mike answered, leading her north. First he took her to a street fair on Sixty-seventh near First Avenue, and Samantha saw table after table full of costume jewelry from the thirties and forties. She fell in love with a silver basket filled with flowers created out of colored stones. “It's Trifari,” the woman said as though that meant something. Samantha wanted the pin, but she'd already spent too much the day before, so reluctantly she put the little basket down.

Mike didn't hesitate as he bought it for her, but when he handed it to her, Samantha protested that he shouldn't have, that he'd already done too much for her. When he urged it on her, she refused to take it. “You've done so much for me, I can't take any more.”

Mike shrugged. “Okay, maybe Vanessa would like to have it.”

With a glare at him, Samantha snatched the pin out of his hand, closing her palm around it so tightly the pin bit into her flesh. Smiling, Mike lifted her hand, pulled her fingers from around the pretty pin, then fastened it onto the collar of her shirt. The sparkling pin wasn't right for her casual attire, but she couldn't have cared less as she happily took the arm Mike offered and walked beside him.

They walked down First Avenue together to Sutton Place. Mike led her into a pretty little park that had a few women with baby carriages; the women were obviously nannies and the town houses around them were obviously for the very rich.

As Samantha stood at the wrought-iron fence and looked up at the bridge over the East River, watching the barges along the river, Mike came up behind her and slipped his arms about her waist. As she always did when his touches became too intimate, she started to move away, but he said, “Don't, please,” in a rough voice that she couldn't deny. She stayed where she was, allowing him to hold her, the back of her body pressed down the length of the front of him, and for a moment she allowed herself to enjoy his nearness.

As he pointed out things to her across the river, they stood locked together, his arms around her, her hands on his bare forearms. Leaning her head back against his shoulder, she could feel the warmth of him, the solid sturdiness of him, knowing how safe she felt when he was near, as though nothing or no one could ever hurt her again. “Mike, thank you for the pin.”

“Anytime,” he said, his voice soft and low, as though he were feeling some of what she was.

Samantha started to say more, but a child, a toddler about two years old, came hurtling toward the fence, running on unsteady legs and not looking where he was going. His nanny yelled, but the child didn't stop running. As easily as though he'd done it a million times, Mike's hand scooped down and caught the child's head, keeping him from hitting the fence.