Sweet Liar (6 page)

Several times over the weeks she heard laughter in the garden, but she no longer got up to see what was going on. And her landlord no longer disturbed her. A few times she'd seen him in the kitchen, but she just smiled sleepily at him and went back upstairs, no longer running to get away from him.

Putting the book on the bedside table, she turned off the light. It was only seven in the evening and it was full daylight outside, but she was too sleepy to stay awake. As she fell asleep, she thought that as soon as she was rested, she'd finish the book and all the others in the apartment, but right now she wanted to sleep.

Looking across the picnic table in the back garden at Mike, Daphne Lammourche knew it didn't take a genius to see that he was upset about something. Usually Mike was cheerful, always making jokes, and usually he came close to eating his weight in meat, but tonight he was pushing his steak around on his plate as though he weren't hungry.

Daphne didn't know why he'd invited her tonight, but then maybe it was because she'd pretty much invited herself because she was “between jobs” at the moment, as people put it so politely. The last club where she'd worked had hired a new manager, a greasy little creep who thought it was Daphne's honor to be allowed to do things to his body. When Daphne had declined the honor, she'd been fired as a result. She had a bit of money saved, and she knew she'd be okay until she got another job, but until then she knew Mike was good for a meal.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Sure, fine,” he said, but he was almost mumbling.

Daphne had never seen Mike like this. Usually he was the life of the party, always laughing, always ready to have a good time. With his looks, he always had women falling all over themselves for him, even though, for the most part, Mike remained unaffected by them. Daphne wondered if he had a girlfriend back home somewhere, or for all she knew, maybe he had a steady girl right here in the city. When she saw the girls from the club who worked with her fling themselves at Mike, Daphne felt like telling them to stop wasting their time, because they weren't going to get a guy like Mike.

Daphne was aware that all the girls thought she slept with Mike, and she never told them differently, but she and Mike were just friends.

Daphne had a problem that, unfortunately, she shared with too many women: She desperately wanted a man to love her, but every man who did love her she couldn't seem to care about, so she spent all her time and energy, and often her money, trying to make uncaring, screwed-up jerks love her. When they did nothing but abuse her, she cried on the shoulders of the people who did love her—usually men—that all men were scum—just as her father had been. As for Mike, she thought he was lovely to look at and he always took care of her when yet another of her boyfriends dropped her, but she didn't think of him as a man. Not an actual man, because Mike had never treated her with contempt as the men Daphne was attracted to did.

When Daphne was sober, she laughed about the long list of losers in her life, and when she was drunk, she cried about them. But drunk or sober, she basically understood that the reason she, of all the girls at the club, was invited to this rich house was because she never made a pass at Mike.

“How's your book coming?” she asked.

Mike shrugged. “All right. I haven't worked on it much lately.”

Daphne had no reply to that. To her, there was something magic in putting words on paper and having them mean something, so she tried to think of something else to talk about. Feeling the need to try to cheer Mike up was something altogether new—it was usually Daphne crying while Mike laughed and told her she was better off without so and so.

“So how's your tenant?” she asked.

“I guess she's all right. I never see her.” He toyed with his food. “I don't think she likes me.”

Daphne laughed. “You, Mike? There's a girl on this planet who doesn't like
you?
” When Mike didn't say anything, Daphne kept laughing. “And what do you think of her?”

Mike looked up at Daphne with eyes so hot, eyes that showed such desire, that Daphne, who thought she'd seen everything a man could dish out, leaned away from him and had to take a deep drink of her cold beer before she could speak. “I don't know whether I envy her or I'm afraid for her,” she whispered, holding the frosty bottle to her cheek.

Mike looked back down at his plate.

“Have you asked her out?”

“Tried to, but she runs away every time I get within ten feet of her. If she hears me coming, she hits the stairs, and except for meals, she stays in her apartment all the time, never leaves.”

“What's she do all day?”

“As far as I can tell, she sleeps,” Mike said in disgust.

Daphne took a bite of her steak. “Poor kid. Didn't you tell me her father just died and that she just got a divorce?”

“Yeah, but from what I heard, her husband was no great loss.”

“Maybe so, but losing your guy makes you feel rotten. I remember the first time a guy walked out on me. Lord! but I was in love with that man. He was my first and I lived my whole life for him, anything he wanted, I gave it to him.” She snorted in memory. “That was when I first started stripping. He said I was so good at it when I did it for him that I ought to make us some money. But even when I did what he wanted, one day I came home and he was gone. No note or nothing. Of course, looking back on it, I doubt if the bum could read and write. Brother! was I depressed after that. I didn't think I had anything to live for after he left me. I managed to drag myself to work for a few days, but after a while I even stopped doing that; just stayed in the apartment and slept. Hell, I'd probably still be sleeping if that man hadn't made me see what a creep the guy was—that he wasn't worth sleeping for.”

Mike was only half listening to Daphne's story as her stories tended to depress him. He'd told her once that she could walk into a crowd of a hundred nice guys with one wife-beating scum-of-the-earth hidden among them, and she'd be able to pick out the bad guy within thirty seconds. Daphne had laughed and said that if he was bad enough, she'd have him moved into her apartment and be supporting him within three minutes.

What Mike was thinking about was Samantha. Maybe over the years he'd become spoiled with women liking him, maybe girls had been too easy for him to get. Samantha was a challenge. Since she'd come to New York, he'd tried everything to get her attention, up to and including slipping invitations under her door. He'd “accidentally” met her in the kitchen a few hundred times. He'd even hinted repeatedly that he'd like to learn how to use a computer, but she'd looked at him as though she'd never heard the word before.

For the life of him he couldn't figure her out. There was the prim little miss who hadn't wanted to stay in a house alone with a man; there was the hot tamale who'd kissed him like he'd never before been kissed; and lately there was the grubby little zombie who silently moved about the kitchen wearing her father's pajamas and robe. He rarely heard her footsteps above anymore and when he did see her, she was always yawning, even though she usually looked as though she'd just woken up.

Mike's head came up sharply. “What did you say?”

“I said I missed him so much that I wore only his clothes. I couldn't button his shirt across my chest, but that didn't matter because wearing his clothes made me feel closer to him. If that man—”

Mike came out of his seat. “What man?”

Daphne looked startled. “The man at the hospital. Haven't you been listening to what I've been telling you? I wanted to sleep forever, so I decided to do just that. I took a bottle of pills and woke up in a hospital, and that's where that man talked to me, told me I had to keep on living.”

Mike stood looking down at her for a moment, but he wasn't seeing her, because he was beginning to comprehend what Daphne was saying. “Samantha's had a hard time, Mike,” he could hear Samantha's father saying over the phone, his voice harsh and weak, heavy with his impending death. “She's had a hard life, and when I'm gone, I don't know what she'll do. I wish I knew my daughter better, but I don't. I don't know what goes on inside her head, but I want to leave this world knowing that she's going to be taken care of. I want you to look out for her, Mike, and I want to make up to her for some of what I did to her. Take care of her for me. There's no one else I can ask.”

Mike had experienced the death of his uncle Mike, but that was all—and that was enough. He couldn't actually imagine more death in his life or losing as many people as Sam had. He definitely couldn't imagine what he'd feel like if his father died—or if, like Samantha, his last and only friend and relative died.

Looking up at Samantha's windows, he saw that, as always, the curtains were drawn. No doubt she was sleeping again. Sleeping forever, as Daphne put it.

“You're a poor guardian, Taggert,” he said to himself, then turned to look at Daphne.

“Want me out of here, Mike?” she asked as she picked up her purse and started to go back through the house to leave, but at the door she turned back. “You need anything, Mikey, honey, you let me know. I owe you a few favors.”

Absently, Mike nodded, but he was looking up at Samantha's windows, and his mind was wholly on his tenant. Two minutes later he was on the phone ordering a meal to be delivered from La Côte Basque.

S
tanding outside Samantha's door, Mike took a deep breath, then knocked. He had no idea if what he was doing was right, but he was going to give it his best shot.

She didn't answer his knock, but then, he hadn't actually expected her to; so, balancing the tray in one hand, he took his key out of his pocket, inserted it into the lock, opened the door a crack, and saw that all the lights in the room were out. Raising his eyes skyward, he murmured as he stepped into the room, “Please don't let her be wearing white.”

Samantha came awake slowly, reluctantly opening her eyes against the bright light and trying to focus. For a moment, she lay in bed blinking at the light, gradually coming awake enough to realize she was seeing her landlord standing over her, a tray in his hands.

“What are you doing in here?” she asked, frowning and pulling herself into a sitting position, but there was no real fear in her voice or even much interest. The truth was, she was so tired her bones ached and nothing could make her feel very much.

“I brought you something to eat,” he answered, setting the tray down on the desk by the window. “It's food from one of the best restaurants in New York.”

Samantha rubbed her eyes. “I don't want anything to eat.” As she came awake more fully, she looked through the living room toward the closed door of her apartment. “How did you get in here?”

Smiling as though it were all a great joke, Mike held up his key.

Samantha pulled the covers up to her neck. With her wakefulness was coming anger. “You lied to me! You said you didn't have a key. You said—” Her eyes widened as she pressed herself back against the headboard. “If you come any closer, I'll scream.”

At that moment, an ambulance went down Lexington Avenue, and the ear-piercing screech through the half-open window was so loud it practically made the curtains shake. “Think anyone would hear you?” Mike asked, still smiling at her.

Samantha was now, indeed, beginning to feel, and the panic rising in her showed on her face. Trying to remain calm, she folded the blanket back and started to get out of bed, but Mike caught her arm.

“Look, Sam,” he said, his voice pleading. “I'm sorry I somehow gave you the impression that I'm a sex pervert. I'm not. I kissed you because—” With a boyish grin, he stopped speaking. “Maybe we better not go into that. What I want from you is more important than sex. Maybe not nearly as nice, but in the long run, more important. I came in here to talk to you about Tony Barrett. I want you to get me in to see him.”

Abruptly, Samantha stopped trying to pull away and looked at him as though he were crazy. “Would you get your hand off of me?”

“Oh, sure,” he said. He'd meant only to hold on to her elbow to keep her from running from the room, which she looked like she might do, but instead, he had spread his fingers and was moving his hand up her arm. She was by no means the most desirable-looking woman he had ever seen, because she looked as though she hadn't had a bath in days, her hair was greasy and tangled, there were black circles of fatigue under her eyes, and her lovely mouth had a downward turn to it. But in spite of the look of her, Mike had never in his life wanted to climb into bed with a woman as much as he wanted to with her. Maybe spring was getting to him. Maybe he needed to spend a long weekend in bed with one of Daphne's friends. Or maybe he needed Samantha.

Releasing her, he stepped back from the bed. “I think we need to talk.”

When Samantha looked at the bedside clock and saw that it was ten minutes after eleven at night, she took a deep breath. “The first time I met you, you nearly attacked me. Tonight you used a key that you swore you didn't have to unlawfully, not to mention discourteously, enter my apartment in the middle of the night. Now you ask me about a man I've never heard of. And you ask why I should be upset. Mr. Taggert, have you ever heard the word
privacy?
”

“I've heard lots of words,” he said, dismissing her comment as though his being in her private apartment meant nothing. Instead of considering her rights, he sat down on the edge of the bed, facing her.

Samantha again started to get out of the bed. “This is intolerable.”

“I'm glad to see you're angry. At least that's better than sleeping your life away.”

“What I do with my life is none of your business,” she snapped as she got off the bed and grabbed her father's robe.

Turning to the tray behind him, Mike lifted the napkin that covered the basket of bread and took out a roll. He bit into the delicious bread, then with his mouth full said, “Don't put on that robe. It's too big for you. Don't you have something girly?”

Giving him a look of disbelief, she defiantly shoved her arms into the sleeves of the big flannel robe. The man really was too much to bear. “I suggest that if you want something…girly—what an old-fashioned word—you should go elsewhere.”

Her tone, her hostility, not to mention her direct request that he leave had no effect on him as he ate the rest of the roll. “I'm an old-fashioned guy. I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

Samantha had her hand on the doorknob, and when he warned her, for the first time she felt fear. With her back to him, her hand on the verge of trembling, she didn't turn to look at him.

“Ah, Sam,” he said, annoyance as well as exasperation in his voice, “you don't have to be afraid of me. I wouldn't hurt you.”

“Am I supposed to believe you?” she whispered, trying to be calm, trying to hide her fear, but failing. “You lied about the key.”

Mike could hear the fear in her voice, and he didn't want her to be afraid of him—that was the
last
thing he wanted from her. Slowly getting up from the bed—no sudden movements—he went to her, but she continued facing the door. Very gently, he put his hands on her shoulders, then frowned when she drew her body together, as though to fight off the coming blows. As gently as though she were a wounded animal, he led her to the bed, pulled the cover back, and directed her into it, smiling at her in a way that he hoped was reassuring.

“No,” she whispered, her voice almost quivering with fear.

It was obvious that she thought he wanted her in bed so he could more easily attack her—or worse. Never before had any woman thought Mike was a rapist. Never had a woman been afraid of him and he didn't like it, but more importantly, he damned well didn't deserve her fear.

“Oh hell!” Mike said as he pushed her down on the bed where she landed in a tumble of bedclothes. He was sick of being thought of as some sexual deviant who regularly attacked his tenants. Walking away from the bed, he turned back to glare at her. “Okay, Sam, let's get some things straight between us. So I kissed you. Maybe according to your rules I should be hanged for that, or at the very least castrated, but we live in a permissive society. What can I say? We have people selling drugs to children, serial killers, child molesters, and me. I kiss pretty girls who look at me like they want me to kiss them. Unfortunately, the law doesn't punish sickies like me.”

Crossing her arms protectively under her breasts, Samantha set her mouth in a tight line. “What's your point?”

“The point is, you and I have work to do and I'm tired of waiting for you to come up for air.”

“Work? I don't know what you're talking about.”

It took him a minute to realize that she was telling the truth. “Did you read your father's will?”

Anger as well as pain surged through her, but she stamped the pain down. “Of course I read it. I know its contents anyway.”

“Then you
didn't
read it.” His sense of frustration was building.

“I really wish you would go away.”

“I'm not going away, so you can save your breath. I'm tired of seeing you skulk about, not eating, not taking an interest in anything. How long has it been since you left this house?”

“What I do or do not do is none of your business. I don't even know you.”

“Maybe not, but I'm your guardian.”

Samantha looked at him, opened her mouth to speak, closed it, opened it, closed it again. This man was insane. Guardians were something out of Gothic novels, not real life, and even in novels, guardians were not given to twenty-eight-year-old divorced women. If she could get him out of this room, she was going to pack a bag and leave this house forever.

It was easy for Mike to see in her eyes what she was thinking, and it made him angry. She was going to listen to him if he had to tie her to the bed. Instead of tying her up—she'd no doubt take him to court for that—he picked up the tray of food and set it on her lap. “Eat,” he commanded.

Samantha wanted to refuse, but she was too afraid of him not to obey. When she hesitated, he spread something on a piece of toast and held it in front of her mouth. He had an expression on his face that made her think he was capable of holding her nose and forcing her to eat, so Samantha reluctantly opened her mouth. It was pâté de foie gras, one of the most heavenly things she had ever tasted in her life. As she chewed, she relaxed a bit and took the second piece of toast he offered from his hand.

“Now,” Mike said, “I'm going to talk and you're going to listen.”

“Do I have a choice?” She was on her third piece of toast. Maybe she was a bit hungry after all.

“No. No choice at all. You're not very good at listening, are you? You obviously didn't listen to your attorney when he told you to read your father's will.”

“I am an excellent listener and I meant to read it.” He was spreading pâté on warm toast nearly as fast as she could eat it.

“Like you meant to take a bath?” He wanted to insult her and make himself believe that she wasn't the sexiest female he'd ever seen. But even when she should have been so unappealing, he had several thoughts about what he'd like to do to her delicious—perhaps that wasn't the right word just now—little body. If she could read his mind, she really would be afraid. He'd like to see that tongue of hers on something besides the piece of pâté that had fallen to her wrist.

“If you don't want to be around me, you could always leave. You have my permission,” she said. Now that she was fully awake, now that her fear of him was lessening, she was looking at him. He had on a soft, dark brown cotton shirt and jeans, and he should have looked respectable, but she could see the outline of his chest muscles under the shirt. While he was slathering pâté on bread and handing pieces to her, he was eating just as much as she was, and when he chewed, his lower lip—that beautiful full lower lip—moved. She looked away.

“I'm not going to leave until you've heard everything. When were you planning to start looking for your grandmother?”

That startled Samantha into looking back at him. How did he know about that? “I am an adult and I—”

Mike grunted. “That's what I thought. You had no intention of looking for her, did you?”

“It's not any of your business, is it?”

“It's entirely my business. Did it ever occur to you to wonder who was to check your research? Who was to approve what you'd done and say you'd done enough searching so you'd get the money your father left you?”

Samantha paused with a piece of toast on the way to her mouth and stared at him. No, not one of those questions had entered her mind.

Knowing he had at last piqued her interest, Mike got up, went to the wine safe and took out a cool bottle of white wine. He knew there were several bottles of wine in there because he had put them there in preparation for Samantha's arrival. Now, he had correctly guessed that every bottle would still be there. She may have problems, he thought as he looked in the safe and saw every bottle he'd put in there still sealed, but she was no drinker. Opening the bottle, knowing exactly where the corkscrew was, he took the wine back to her bedroom and poured two glasses full, frowning at the look on her face. “This is not a prelude to a seduction, so you can stop looking at me as though I'm a satyr. Drink it or not, your choice. I'm sure that someone as uptight as you is probably too prudish to do something so wild as drink a glass of wine.”