Liar Liar Page 12

  ‘So, he was in town, on business, and decided to treat himself.’

  ‘It’s a blessing I don’t pay you to think,’ I grunt, tightening my hands on the barbell above my chest.

  ‘I’m just the idiot hired muscle now?’

  ‘Delicacy has never been one of your strong points.’

  ‘Don’t pout, boss man. If you didn’t want anyone to walk in, you should’ve locked the door.’

  ‘Most people knock as a courtesy.’

  ‘I’m not most people, though, am I? Besides, the door bitch wasn’t at her desk, so I snuck in.’

  ‘Maybe I should be paying Madame Bisset to protect me. And Paulette is my executive assistant, not a door bitch.’

  ‘Assistant, bitch, dragon.’ He makes a weighing motion with his hands. ‘She could start her own company. Gargoyles R Us. But you’d have to be sure to tell her you don’t want to be protected from girls with willing mouths.’

  ‘That isn’t what you walked in on.’ I don’t like where this conversation is going as I tighten my fingers, and with a grunt, I push the barbell above my chest, beginning the next set. ‘Salaud,’ I grunt. Arms straight, my chest immediately stretching and burning from the effort, feeding the nature of the beast. The more it hurts, the more I want it.

  ‘Touchy,’ Rhett taunts in return. ‘And also not true. I know who my father was.’ I roll my gaze upwards to where he’s spotting me with the addition of an annoying smirk. ‘He was a right bastard, though. So you’re not far wrong. Anyway, it’s not the willing mouth that’s a worry. It’s her backstory.’

  ‘And what exactly is her backstory?’

  ‘You know what I think.’

  ‘And you’re wrong. Two years ago, she was working in the kind of hotel Emile wouldn’t have subjected his luggage to, let alone his person.’ It was a mid-range place, not exactly the kind that rents rooms by the hour, but the man was an elitist snob. ‘Besides, she isn’t—wasn’t—at all to his taste.’

  ‘It’s all relative.’

  ‘Meaning what, exactly?

  ‘Sometimes, you crave fillet mignon, and other times, you fancy a cheap burger.’

  ‘I suggest you refrain from telling me which you think Rose is.’

  ‘Before you stick that barbell where the sun doesn’t shine, you mean? Seriously though, I wouldn’t have thought she was to your tastes, either. But you know what they say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Stands to reason you both had the hots for the same type.’

  ‘And I thought I was an equal opportunity lover.’ I am not my father’s son in that respect. Also, I have never paid a woman for the pleasure of her company, neither in cash or kind.

  ‘And I thought you’d put those days behind. You know, since you took over the company.’

  I suddenly want to wipe the smirk from his face. ‘Meaning?’ I grunt, lowering, then raising the bar again.

  ‘Remy, mate. You know who I’m talking about. Come to think of it, she also happens to fit the other end of the spectrum of your old man’s preferences. Blonde. Refined. Knows the difference between a Picasso and a pisshead.’

  ‘You forgot gold-digging, demanding, and a bitch.’ I’m not sure if my head or my biceps are most likely to explode as it strikes me that there is more than one way to pay for sex. Something I’ve somehow chosen to ignore. ‘But we aren’t talking about either of those women right now.’

  ‘Even if my steak and burger analogy stands. Don’t fucking glare at me—I’m not saying your girl is cheap.’

  ‘Then what exactly are you saying?’ My question is expelled through gritted teeth and a strained breath.

  ‘Just that good girls don’t work in strip clubs. Good girls don’t have lips like hers.’

  ‘Say another thing about her, and I’ll rip off your balls and feed them to you.’

  ‘It’s what had you shitting bricks,’ he insists. ‘But tell me, was it the thought of losing half of your wealth to your long-lost sister, or the fact that you might’ve fucked said long-lost sister that had you looking the colour of oatmeal yesterday?’

  ‘I’m not going to answer that,’ I retort through another grunt.

  Rise and repeat. Again and again until my muscles scream.

  When I saw her yesterday, I’ll admit I was terrified I’d had carnal knowledge of my sister, no matter how unwittingly. And now that I know I haven’t, that knowledge is like a weight lifted from my very being. Only a degenerate would lust after their sister, unwittingly or not. And God knows, I’ve hungered for her. Many a night since March, I’ve woken from dreaming of her, my cock rock hard and pounding, the phantom wisps of her hair dragging across my chest.

  And then she came to life, and in that hallway, my world fell away.

  I thank God and all the saints that a lesson of high school biology had come back to me as I’d looked at her paperwork on my desk. Her application for medical care. Mention of her height, her weight, pre-existing conditions, nil, and there in one column in neat, black penmanship, her blood type.

  AB+

  I don’t know about be positive, but my heart had suddenly jolted in my chest cavity. I saw my younger self in the biology lab at boarding school in Switzerland, jotting down blood type charts, learning about alleles.

  Without even realising it, I found myself flipping over the sheet and plotting my father’s blood type against hers. You can determine the chances of a child’s blood type by examining those of the parents. And while you can’t guarantee parentage by this method, you can, in some cases, eliminate it.

  And Rose’s blood type was one such case.

  ‘I take that back. Emile would never have let anyone know what he was thinking.’

  ‘You have no fucking idea what I’m thinking.’

  ‘Don’t I? You’re, what’s the word? Énèrve. Pissed off. You’re also thinking about ripping my head off when you’re finished here.’ His hands hover under the bar as I lower it to the frame this time. ‘And yesterday, you were shitting bricks. I thought you were going to hurl all over your shoes. But tell me again how she can’t be your sister.’

  Metal clunks against metal, and I twist on the bench, rising to sit.

  ‘AB+ and O blood types can’t lead to a child with AB+ blood.’ My heart and head pounds, and though I owe Rhett no answer, I long to repeat the science and speak the truth. ‘There has to be a commonality in the alleles. Her father can’t be mine.’ As I wipe the sweat from my face, I send another thanks to the heavens. ‘I’ll confirm it, of course. But these things take time.’ Even though DNA will confirm what I know in my gut to be true.

  ‘Had she fucked him, though? Before he died?’

  ‘She’s hardly likely to have done so afterwards.’ Elbows on my knees, I drop my head between my shoulder blades.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘You really want this, don’t you?’ I turn my head to look at him. Really look at him.

  ‘Fuck, yeah. A bit of humility could be the making of you.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll learn to live with the disappointment because she doesn’t know him. She never met him.’

  ‘Or maybe she just doesn’t want to admit to it, admit to selling herself to him. I’m not judging. Poor girl, a rich man, and a chance of escape. It’s just the way the world works. You know it’s true. What though the Rose have prickles, yet 'tis pluck'd.’

  I stand from the bench and languidly stretch, before I twist from the waist, swiftly and violently planting my right fist into Everett’s gut.

  ‘You won’t speak about her that way again.’ Shakespeare or not. My hand on his left shoulder, my warning is a growl in his ear as he tries to catch his breath, not that it stops the bâtard stupide from wheezing out his retort.

  ‘Getting information out of you is like getting blood out of a fucking stone.’ His smile is more grimace than smug. Regardless, I wouldn’t chance punching him again. ‘I shouldn’t need to goad you into a grand fucking reveal. You could’ve just said you were i
nto her.’

  ‘Who says I am?’

  ‘My mistake,’ he says as he straightens, stretching the kinks out of his neck. ‘You must’ve lost a contact lens this afternoon. Did you find it in her throat or her underwear?’

  ‘Casse-toi.’

  ‘Such fine words from a man defending a lady’s honour.’ With a flutter of his lashes, he fans his face like a debutant.

  ‘If you mention this to anyone . . .’ I let the threat hang in the air.

  ‘You’ll what? Throw me off the top of Wolf Tower?’ His eyes drop to where my hands are balled into fists by my sides. ‘How long have I worked for you? No, how long have we been friends? You should’ve told me, Remy. If for no other reason than because your enemies become her enemies, too.’

  ‘There was nothing to tell. Not until this afternoon.’

  Even as the words leave my mouth, I recognise them as lies. I’m drawn to her. I have been since that first night. No matter what transpired before or even after, I know the true Rose. The woman who opened her heart to me, as well as her door. I know her beyond the feel of her under me. My recognition of her is soul deep. Rose with the soft skin and generous lips. She is made of the tears of those who both built and broke her somehow. The sum of her parts, brittle and battle worn.

  I know this about her. And I’ll know more.

  ‘What about Ben?’ Rhett’s question pulls me back to the moment. ‘You heard him—he saw her first. He’s not interested in her as a bit of skirt. He knows there’s something going on.’

  ‘I’ll find something to distract him.’

  ‘Are you going to tell her about the money?’

  ‘I will. When I’m ready.’

  ‘And you say you’re not like him,’ he scoffs, shaking his head.

  ‘Few sons are like their father,’ I retort as his head comes up fast.

  ‘Many are worse.’

  ‘A few are better.’ I keep my words mild.

  ‘That’s not how it goes. Not according to Homer.’

  ‘Stick to the fat yellow man, Rhett. Leave the dead philosophers to someone else.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ he retorts, throwing his sweaty towel at me as we exchange places.

  Few sons are like their father, I intone silently. Few are better. Many are worse.

  With regard to the business, I’m well aware I’m no facsimile of my father. Despite being christened the wolf cub, since I took over the helm, I’m much worse than a pup. I am much worse than my father.

  But with Rose, it remains to be seen if I’ll treat her better or worse than my father has.

  14

  Rose

  ‘H-hello?’ I pull myself upright against the upholstered headboard. My voice sounds like I’ve taken up smoking in my sleep and leased my mouth to a hamster colony. It can mean only one thing. I polished off a whole bottle of red last night.

  Smooth, Rose. Real smooth. At least you didn’t have an ex to call and abuse. Not one in the same time zone anyway.

  ‘Miss Ryan?’

  ‘Speaking.’ I try not to rustle the bedlinens as I pull the phone away from my ear to have a look at the time. 6.25 a.m. Holy moly; my alarm hasn’t even gone off! Urgh. Waking up still drunk is so much more fun than waking to a hangover. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘This is Madame Bisset,’ says a French accent and imperious tone. ‘I am assistant to Monsieur Durrand.’ Oh. The regal looking silver-haired keeper of his calendar I sorta-kinda met yesterday. Well, smiled at, more like. ‘Monsieur has asked me to call to convey to you to pack up you sings.’

  ‘My sings?’

  ‘Oui. Your sings. Que lest mot pour les bagages?’ she murmurs to herself. ‘Ah, luggage!’ she adds in the vein of someone hitting jackpot.

  ‘I-I have to pack up?’ Something flutters painfully in my chest. I’m leaving? Because I let him grope me on the desk or because I didn’t hang around to put out? Or was it because he was the almost-ex I called last night? The ridiculous thought it followed by the realisation that I don’t have his number, let alone the right to call him an ex.

  ‘Yes. You should be ready for . . .’ There follows the sound of a keyboard being tapped. ‘Seven o’clock.’

  ‘That’s only thirty minutes from now. And where exactly am I going? Don’t I have to sign paperwork or something first? And there’s the matter of my ticket. I don’t even know what time my flight is!’ I push my hand through my hair, my mind running in a million different directions. I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t have a job, and I barely have any money. I am so, so very screwed.

  But am I screwed because we didn’t screw or because we almost did?

  ‘Flight?’ she repeats, sounding just as confused. ‘You are new to Industries du Loup. It is too soon yet for a ’oliday.’

  ‘So I’m not going anywhere?’

  ‘Yes—this is what I am telling you! At seven o’clock, a car will pick you up and take you to your new apartment. The key is with concierge, the department you will be working from today. They will expect you to report to the desk later at . . . le midi . . . Ah, at noon.’

  A new apartment? A new job. What the hell is going on?

  ‘So, I’ll be working at the concierge desk at the hotel? And where is my new apartment?’

  ‘Not at l’hôtel. You’ll be working and living at the residence—at Wolf Tower.’

  Three hours later and I’m at Wolf Tower and I’ve wandered around my new home approximately eleventy-billion times. I could walk around it eleventy-billion more times and I’d still have trouble believing I live here now.

  I have three bedrooms—three! For one person. Unless I’m getting roommates, not that this is the kind of place that looks like it allows roommates or subletting or any of that kind of stuff. Almost every room has a view over the Mediterranean Sea, the windows taking up long swathes of the wall. Even the master bath has a sea view!

  From a front door opened by a digital key, the small entrance hall leads into a living large enough to hold a game of tennis. A gourmet kitchen overlooks the dining room, lights like crystal flowers hang stylishly low over a long refectory-style table.

  With seating for eight.

  I don’t even know that many people here!

  The place is light and airy and furnished with such care, and everything is brand new, from the hotel-style linens on the king-sized beds to the artwork hanging on the walls, to the silverware filling the kitchen drawers, including a set of tiny three-pronged cake forks in the kitchen. Who the fork owns cake forks!

  And best of all is the balcony that wraps around the space. It’s not wide by any means, but it’s big enough for a lounger or two. Sunbathing, here I come!

  Or maybe not as I plant my butt on the corner of the sectional and place my face in my hands as I begin to cry. I hate that I do—hate that the passage of tears gives way to hiccupping sobs, but I can’t seem to help it. I can’t seem to stop. I feel so conflicted. This place that’s to be my new home, and it’s so gorgeously stylish, so tempting, so unlike any place I’ve ever lived. It’s mine, but at what cost?

  I feel like my eyelids have swollen to Grinch-heart proportions. I haven’t cried like this since my mom died, and I really don’t know if I’m crying because I feel wretched or because I feel a sense of relief. The last year has been tough, the years before I went travelling tougher still. And now this? I have a job that pays the kind of money people would kill for in a place very few people will ever experience living. But then there’s also the man. The man I feel inexplicably drawn to, despite the fact that he isn’t who he pretended to be—a lie is a lie, isn’t it? I shouldn’t feel this conflicted, but I do.

  I liked the carefree tourist enough to take him to my bed.

  The powerful businessman, I like him less.

  But want him more.

  What’s with that?

  And the way he looked at me, he seems to be suffering the same symptoms. As though he’s drawn to me against his better judgment.

  But to
what ends?

  What is this all about? What does he want me here for?

  It’s not just to get into my panties, I’m sure.

  I sit straight suddenly, drying my eyes with the backs of my hands. This is not me. I don’t wallow, and I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’m a survivor. I do what needs to be done. Fancy job and apartment or not, it’s up to me what I choose to do from now on.

  Resolved, I roll up my damp sleeves and throw my suitcase onto the biggest damn bed I’ll ever have the pleasure of sleeping in and begin to unpack my clothes. I don’t know how long this ride is going to last, but I may as well enjoy the benefits.

  I’m just arranging my toiletries on the marble bathroom vanity when I hear my phone begin to ring with a FaceTime call. Making my way back into the bedroom—my bedroom!—I swipe up my cell from the bed.

  ‘You’re in trouble!’ sings the Phillips collective as the screen fills with the eager faces of Amber and Byron’s children.

  ‘Auntie Rose, do they eat frog’s legs in France?’ asks Matty as he pulls a face of disgust. ‘And do snails taste like snot? Auntie Rose? I can see right up your nose.’

  I begin to chuckle but don’t get a chance to answer his question as his sister, Edie, almost climbs over his head, eager to speak.

  ‘My turn! My turn!’ she sings.

  ‘Oi, get off, Edie.’

  I see nothing but the blur of the white ceiling as the pair fight over the iPad. A beat later, the screen is filled with a close up of Matty’s face again.

  ‘Daaad!’ His mouth opens so wide that I can almost see his tonsils. ‘Edie’s being a brat again!’

  ‘Anyone would think you were both kept in a cage,’ Amber grumbles, her face appearing on the screen, albeit briefly.

  ‘They should be kept in a cage,’ gripes Byron, their dad from somewhere beyond as the iPad is passed to Edie.

  ‘Am not a brat,’ she retorts, her fair brows pulling in. ‘I just have a joke for Auntie Rose. Can I tell it to you?’ Her blonde curls bounce as her head nods eagerly.