Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series)

by Stephie Smith

  I was just checking my purse for all the necessities—compact, lipstick, Xanax—when the doorbell rang. Several cats and I shot out in different directions; I recovered first. After taking a last glance at myself, I somehow made it to the foyer without fainting. I stood there with my hand on the doorknob, frozen for a few seconds, before I forced myself to pull open the door.

  Uh-oh. Embarrassment City. Bryan was dressed in comfortable jeans, a navy T-shirt, and sneakers. Now I looked like a low-class slut on the make, someone who didn’t know how to dress for the occasion—or lack of it. I forgot about that within three seconds, however, because comfortable had never looked so good on a man.

  While I was checking him out, his gaze swept over me, slowly, from head to toes and back up. When his eyes met mine, I knew I’d made the right choice.

  “Wow,” he said softly, under his breath. His gray eyes darkened. “I’m totally outclassed here. I figured you’d be dressed for your little adventure.”

  I smiled coyly. “I am.”

  He did one of those whistling things that some guys can pull off.

  I grabbed up the tote bag with an effort at a carefree laugh. It was an effort because the longer I looked at him, the closer I came to swooning. “My Catwoman clothing’s in here.”

  He took the bag from me and then put his hand at my elbow to guide me as we proceeded down the walk, removing his fingers only long enough to open and close the courtyard gate.

  It was from the gate that I got my first look at his Jaguar. I could tell it was a classic, but that was all I knew. That, and the fact that it was a convertible. But the top was up.

  He swung the door open and helped me in. Chivalry wasn’t dead after all. It had been sick while I was living with Pete, but it was back, better than ever.

  I was in LaLa Land during the ten-minute drive to the island.

  “What year is this?” I asked. It was a four-speed, with roll-up windows, caramel-colored, leather-upholstered bucket seats, and an aluminum-trimmed instrument panel. It had either been completely restored or someone had given it tender loving care from day one.

  “Sixty-one,” Bryan said. “One of the first five hundred produced. It belonged to my grandfather, and he kept it for me.” He smiled over at me, throwing my stomach into a fluttering thing that I probably hadn’t felt since high school. Jeez.

  “It’s beautiful.” It was. He was beautiful driving it too, but I kept that to myself.

  I couldn’t believe I was on a date with Bryan Rossi and I hadn’t done a thing to get here except be me. Well, if you didn’t count that part about my asking him for a favor. But he could have done the favor without feeding me dinner.

  We turned onto the palm-tree-lined drive which led to the gated entrance, slowing as we approached the guardhouse. The black iron gates thirty feet ahead of us began to slide apart. By the time we were close enough to drive through, the road was open.

  “Does the guard know every car?” I asked.

  “Residents’ cars have a wireless transmitter. Once we get close enough, the gates open.”

  “So if I ever want to get on the island again, I just have to steal your car?”

  Bryan chuckled. “No, you’re special. All you have to do is call me.”

  Wow. I was feeling pretty special. We meandered along a road that was dark, smooth, and unlined, with the two lanes separated for the most part by narrow islands of clustered palm trees surrounded by ground-covering tropical plants and flowers. On my right was a brick paver sidewalk in varying shades of terracotta, and across the street was a russet-colored bicycle or running path. Old-fashioned teardrop lighting fixtures on black lamp posts were situated every twenty or so feet on both sides of the road.

  As we moseyed past mansions staggered alternately across from each other, I did my best to not gawk, trying to guess as each one came into view if it could be Bryan’s. I dismissed some at first glance, like the pink Victorian and the English Tudor. They seemed too busy for him. On the other hand, the contemporary with its flat roof and unornamented walls seemed too stark. Would the real Bryan Rossi please stand up, I thought to myself. This was assuming, of course, that his house would truly represent him. But who would spend millions to build a house that didn’t?

  He eased off the gas, and I craned my neck to get a look. Which would it be? On the left or the right? The road was twisting to the right, so I couldn’t see the house on that side yet, but coming up on the left was a Mediterranean-style mansion too big for words. I was just talking myself into accepting that this could be Bryan’s when he braked and wheeled to the right, turning onto a drive paved in multi-colored bricks ranging from red and terracotta to peach and cream.

  The lawn was green velvet. Cone-shaped fir trees marched up the left side of a hill, forming a privacy hedge between Bryan’s house and that of his neighbor. Areas were mulched and landscaped, some with evergreen shrubs shaped into balls and cones, others with flowering plants surrounded by ground cover. My eyes took it in with one quick sweep. I was afraid to let them linger for fear of missing the main course.

  I drew in a breath at the sight of his home. It was an Italian-style villa—more Old World than contemporary—two stories with creamy white stone walls topped by a gently pitched red-tiled roof. Overhanging eaves were supported by large, decorative, dark brown or black brackets evenly spaced between cornices. A paver walkway and wide brick steps led to the white-columned portico where arched, red double doors at least fifteen feet high were set off by stained glass sidelights.

  I was restraining myself to keep from bouncing up and down with anticipation. Decorating was a passion of mine, and my love of European styles might have been the reason I’d gravitated to writing historical romance. But it was one thing to look at beautiful rooms on the Internet or in books. It was another to live the experience as I knew I was about to do.

  We followed the drive around the right side of the house, and a double-wide garage door on our left began to open. As we sat there for the few seconds that it took for the door to slide up, I gazed along the drive to where it continued around the right of what was either a guest house or a pool house and terminated farther back at another, much larger garage. I supposed the detached garage was for overflow parking, because the one we were pulling into would comfortably fit only two cars. There was no second car in the garage though, just a couple of motorcycles and four bicycles hanging on the back wall.

  Bryan keyed off the engine. “Let me get the door,” he said. I did and he did. Ever the gentleman. He grabbed up my tote bag and steered me into the house. I felt his hand on my back, and my knees went weak as I recalled a romance writers’ class where they discussed the signs that let a reader know a relationship was progressing toward sex. I didn’t remember which number the hand at the small of the back was, but it was up there.

  We passed through the mudroom into a laundry room that was larger than my living room. He pulled open the door to the next room and stood back so that I could enter.

  I stepped into the kitchen, and a rush of endorphins went to my brain. If I could have had any kitchen in the world, this was the one I would choose. The downside was that this kitchen begged to be cooked in, so if it were mine, it would be a waste.

  Venetian plaster walls and ceiling in warm yellow, a travertine mosaic floor, and cream-colored, stone countertops and sink aprons set off the dark, dovetailed ceiling beams and wood cabinets. Several antique cupboards, including an exquisite hand-carved eighteenth century bonnetiere almost two feet deep, provided extra storage.

  A sub-zero refrigerator with cabinet-matching doors, double ovens, an open fire grill, and a sink ran along one wall. Across the room was another, larger, sink surrounded by cabinetry. I was pretty sure a dishwasher was hidden somewhere, but the exact location was a mystery.

  Bryan washed his hands and selected a gleaming copper-bottomed pan, one of many hanging from iron racks attached to the wall at one end of the counter. He moved to the sink to fill the pan w
ith water, and I continued to look around.

  The dark cabinets with light countertops contrasted with the kitchen island cabinetry, a natural cherry varnished with a warm glaze and topped by a dark, polished granite countertop. The contrast between the two kitchen areas had the unexpected effect of opening up the room.

  The focal point was the arched keystone hearth that housed gas and electric stove tops. But the real charm lay in the artistic touches. Iron handles and grillwork, hand-painted chairs gathered around the island, hand-painted tiles in the stone countertops and backsplashes and, most especially, the slab of hand-painted polished stone that had been set into the back of the hearth above the stove tops. It depicted an idyllic scene of a vineyard at sunset with an Italian-style home similar to Bryan’s—though much simpler in scope—in the distance.

  The painting was caressed by a lambent light, its source hidden somewhere within the hearth. The scene conveyed a feeling of warmth and good cheer and something more basic. I gravitated to it and just stared, trying to figure out what I was feeling and why. Bryan kept one eye on me as he turned on the gas and slid the pan of water onto the burner.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked in a husky voice.

  “I feel a sense of wistfulness, of nostalgia, so strong that I almost want to weep, but in a good way, if weeping can be good. I feel like I’ve come home, which is totally bizarre because I’ve never been to a vineyard.”

  “This painting was my inspiration for the house, for my decisions.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I commissioned it. It’s a picture of my grandfather’s property in Italy. My home away from home.”

  We stood gazing at the scene until the water began to boil. Bryan sprinkled coarse salt into the water and then opened a box of linguine noodles. When the water reached a second full boil, he dumped the noodles in.

  “We have three choices for dining. That two-seater,” he said, nodding at a small square table next to a kitchen window, “a larger table in the breakfast nook, which looks out on the same view, or the loggia outside.”

  The loggia was a tempting choice, mostly because it would sound romantic when I repeated this story to every person I came across during the next few days. But the mosquitoes had recently come out for blood, and for reasons that escape me, they always skipped everyone else and zoomed in on me. I was willing to sacrifice blood for romance, but not for a story. Besides, it wouldn’t be very romantic when I started slapping myself and jumping around.

  “I think I prefer the table for two.”

  “Good. Grab the flatware and plates, would you, and set those up?” He was stirring the noodles with a big wooden spoon.

  I washed my hands in the same sink that he had used to wash his as I glanced over at the utensils. Thankfully, he had the normal items like forks, knives, and spoons. I hoped he didn’t expect me to turn the napkins into flowers because I hadn’t a clue about things like that. “What else can I do?” I asked after I’d set the table.

  “If you want to freshen up, there’s a powder room down the hall.”

  “I just washed my hands; that’s good enough.”

  He laughed.

  I loved it when he laughed. Actually I loved it when he smiled. Or talked or drove or anything else.

  “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.”