Living With Lies Trilogy (Books 1, 2, and 3 of The Dancing Moon Ranch Series)

by Watters, Patricia

  Grace touched Justine's shoulder. "There are other fish in the sea," she said.

  "Honey, I'm all fished out at this point," Justine replied. "I'm through being used."

  "You've never been used," Grace said. "Men love you for who you are. Smart. Beautiful. Witty. Sean Elliot was just a bad catch."

  Justine gave her sister a wry smile. Grace actually believed what she'd said because that's who Grace was. A sweet, devoted little homebody who had the love of a man most women would die for. Except for her big sister, who only gravitated toward men who would screw her over, then drop her flat. Beginning and end of story.

  "We'll talk while you're here," Grace said. "I hope you'll stay long enough for that."

  "I have no choice," Justine replied. "Sean already moved his bimbo into my place." Probably screwing the hell out of her at the moment, Justine had to stop herself from saying, but she didn't want to completely burst her little sister's bubble. "I will have to find a place to live before long though," she added, "and a job, maybe even start a new career. Now that's a novel idea. Justine Page starting over at thirty-three."

  "I need to get back to the house," Grace said. "Flo's okay with a couple of three-year-olds and a one-year-old for about ten minutes, but after that, she self-destructs. Help yourself to what's in the kitchen though." She gave Justine's arm a little squeeze and turned and left.

  Justine had no stomach for food, but she did need something to take her mind off her humiliation and her new status in the corporate hierarchy, which was back to ground zero.

  Heading for the bookcase at the back wall of the great room, she decided to immerse herself in a book. She scanned the paperbacks, most with scuffed covers and looking as if Grace raided the local Goodwill to fill the bookcase. Danielle Steel, Tom Clancy, Stephen King, Brad Meecham. She'd tried Clancy and didn't get past the first few pages. Stephen King kept her up one night, but it wasn't a pleasant read. Danielle Steel was all about male-female relationships, and the only relationship she might entertain at the moment would be one with a eunuch. Brad Meecham she'd never read.

  She slipped his book entitled Forewarned from the shelf, flipped it to the back cover and read about the author: Since the publication of his blockbuster thriller, "Deadly Contract," every novel has become an international bestseller... published in over thirty-eight languages... lives in San Francisco when he's not on book tour...

  She looked at the photo of the author. Not an in-your-face kind of photo, the close up with the author's jaw against his fist. This author stood in the distance, face in shadow. Flight jacket. Arms folded. Untouchable. Not a man to cozy up to.

  Settling into an overstuffed chair, she flipped the pages to the opening and started reading...

  The narrow ledge was eighteen stories above ground and he had only two objects to grab onto: a 7000-volt electric line, or the outstretched hand of the naked young woman standing in the window behind him, a woman who had just learned his darkest secret and wanted him dead, but for one thing...

  ***

  From the far end of the great room, Brad stared at the woman. She'd been sitting immobile in the chair since he came in, head bent over a book. Earlier that day he'd seen her standing at the window staring out, and he'd come to the same conclusion then that he did now. She was a fish out of water, and he didn't want to touch her with a ten-foot pole. Everything about her was textbook perfect. And high end. She knew what she had and how to use it to get what she wanted, who she wanted, and where she wanted to go, which for her was to the top.

  Could have been a model at one time. Long lanky legs. Small breasts. Chiseled features, wavy red hair, the kind that would swish around with the jerks of her head if she were on top of a man, which is where she'd be. Her kind had to keep control, whether it was when she was having sex, or running the corporate offices, and she was way up the corporate ladder. He could almost smell the expensive perfume, the aroma of the black leather top hugging her trim breasts, the scent of the thong underwear he knew she'd be wearing under her designer slacks. The kind of woman who triggered wet dreams and night sweats in a man. He moved, and she looked up. And stared directly at him. He walked toward her. "I take it you don't do sleigh rides," he said.

  She looked annoyed, even though she replied, "Not unless someone chains me to the sleigh." She bent over her book again, but when he made no move to leave, she looked at him, and said, "If you want to go to bed with me forget it. I'm not available."

  "You're not a lot of things," he said. The woman really pushed his hot buttons.

  "What is that supposed to mean?" She pinned him with dark eyes with sweeping lashes. She knew how to use those too. Raise the face slowly to make the eyes wider, let the lashes sweep up, scan the full length of the man. She was doing it now.

  Holding that dark brown gaze, he said, "You're not my type, for starters."

  "Good. That makes us even. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm busy."

  Why he didn't turn and leave, he couldn't figure. The woman was a trap waiting to spring. But she was also a puzzle. A fish out of water. "If you call reading paperback trash being busy, then I guess you are."

  She lifted the book and looked at the cover, as if to reassure herself that she wasn't reading trash, and said, "To each his own," then bent over the book again.

  He sat on a chair across from her and put his mug on the coffee table between them. "How long are you staying?" he asked, not really expecting an answer, but curious to know how long a fish could stay out of water.

  "About ten seconds if you don't leave," she replied.

  "Where will you go? Out into the snow?"

  "To my bedroom."

  "Alone?"

  "Does that shock you?"

  "Does it you?"

  She looked intently at him then, a long fixed stare that should have made him uncomfortable. Most men would have walked away from that stare. He should, but didn't. The woman was an enigma, and he didn't like enigmas.

  "I've been to bed with my share of men," she said. "You won't be one of them."

  She returned to her book, but he could tell from the way her eyes were moving and shifting that she wasn't reading the words. She was trying to figure out what to do with him. He took a long slow sip of coffee, and said, "The naked woman's his daughter. He found it out when he was about to screw her. She commits suicide in the end."

  The woman slapped the book down. "So you read trash too."

  "Only the first few pages and the ending. Everything in between is crap." He tipped his mug toward her in a silent toast and smiled.

  She didn't smile back. "From the ledge?"

  It took him a few seconds to follow her line of thought. She was quick. "Overdose."

  "Cliché. You're right. This stuff is trash." She closed the book and waited for him to say something. Or leave.

  "How would you have done it?" he asked.

  "I would have had him commit suicide. Same difference, but the man gets shafted this time. Typical male writer. The woman always gets screwed."

  "Not the way it's written. He doesn't screw her. He's an honorable man."

  "Then why does she commit suicide?" the woman asked.

  "She's tired of men using her," he replied.

  In an instant, all the bravado left the woman. The defiance in her eyes died, her lips parted in dismay, and she looked vulnerable. Exposed. So the fish was out of water because she'd had her fill of men using her.

  Oddly, the way she was looking at him reminded him of Yvette. He hadn't thought about her in a while, but she was always hovering around somewhere in his memory. When things got bad he'd retrieve those four days with her and wonder why he never went after her. He was wondering now. "So let's rewrite the ending," he said, wanting to get some of that bravado back. He didn't want to solve the enigma of her. Not yet.

  "I can't," she said. "I haven't read the book. Someone keeps interrupting me. So you tell me the new ending." That little flare of defiance was back in her eyes. He could imagine he
r in his bed now, but he'd never let her get on top. He'd keep the control. He glanced down at her hands folded together over the book, like she was guarding it, then looked at her and said, "After suffering abuse from her father over the years, the daughter becomes a strong, in-control woman who uses everything she's learned to become an international counter spy for the Department of Defense. And her father gets testicular cancer and has to have his balls cut off."

  "Too many men in the Department of Defense," the woman said. "She needs to get away from men. All her life she's been used and dumped. I say we make the daughter the editor-in-chief of a magazine for women called, Shafted. But I'll go with the part about the father."

  "You're a dangerous woman," he said.

  "How so?" she asked, curiosity hovering in her eyes.

  He offered her a wry smile. "A man would need to watch his balls if he found himself in bed with you or he could lose them."

  "Good point," she said. "I wish I'd thought of that before."

  "Before who?" he asked, knowing it was a who. Not a what.

  "Elliot."

  "Left him intact, did you?"

  "Unfortunately, yes," she replied. "But I got to keep the Jaguar."

  "But you lost your self-respect." He looked directly at her, and she didn't flinch.

  "I lost that a long time ago," she said, giving a little shrug.

  "Did you think you'd find it here?"

  "You're asking too many questions," she replied, irritated. "When men ask questions it's because they're ready to screw me over and dump me. It won't happen again."

  "I already told you you're not my type," he said, "so you can answer my questions."

  "I don't have to be a man's type to get screwed over," she replied. "All he has to have are balls. If you're a eunuch, then fire away. If you're still intact, don't bother." When he said nothing, because he was at a loss how to respond to her double-edged statement, she got up and walked across the great room and started up the long bank of stairs to the rooms lining the balcony above, and went into Room Five, not so much as giving him a backwards glance before she shut the door. It wasn't until he started to get up that he realized she'd taken the book with her and planned to read the thing, and he wished he'd written a different ending.

  ***

  Justine was shaking so hard by the time she shut the door to her room she could barely stand. She'd never encountered a man like the one downstairs. He'd pegged her from the start. It was as if she'd been standing naked in front of him, and not only had he seen her body, he'd burrowed into her psyche. She'd felt trapped and vulnerable. She'd even told him about her affair with Sean Elliot. She'd only said a few words, but the man got the whole picture.

  Justine Page in a nutshell.

  She was curious about the book though. She'd already gotten well into it before she found him watching her from across the lodge. She had no idea how long he'd been standing there, but when she looked at him, it was like an electrical charge was buzzing between them. Not so much the man's looks, though that hadn't escaped her—taller than Sean, broader shoulders, dark hair to Sean's blond hair, penetrating eyes that fixed on her like twin lasers. Hard eyes. Cobalt blue she'd realized when he got closer. And unshaved. Sean had never gone unshaved; did it morning and again before bed. Shirts always starched. Silk suits. Designer ties. Nothing but the best for Sean Elliot. Nothing but the best for the firm. And she'd been the best. She just made the mistake of screwing the boss. But that man downstairs... She couldn't begin to piece him together. He was like a mismatched puzzle. All the pieces fit, but the picture didn't match up.

  And like her, he wasn't taking part in the activities at the ranch. Not the sleigh ride, and not the barn dance Grace insisted she go to the night before, where she'd stayed long enough to know barn dancing wasn't her thing. But she would have noticed the man downstairs if he'd been there. She could not have avoided it. She always gravitated towards men who would screw her over and drop her flat. She was setting herself up again for that scenario.

  Concluding it was pointless to give further thought to a man she hoped would be gone by morning, and knowing she would not leave her room until the others returned from the sleigh ride, on the chance that the man might catch her alone again, she decided to waste away the remainder of the evening in her room, with the book...

  By three o'clock in the morning she was still reading. The guests had returned from the sleigh ride hours before, but after a little chatter in the great room below, they'd gone to their rooms, and before long the place was quiet, but she'd kept reading throughout. It wasn't so much the unfolding of the story in the book, but the mind behind it. The story captivated her in a perverted way, but the mind behind the story truly bothered her.

  Setting the book aside, she went to the window and peered out. The snow looked sparkly in the glow from the high utility lights, but beyond the reach of the lights she could make out the string of log cabins along the creek. In the one almost directly across from where she stood looking down, she saw a light. She knew Grace and Jack closed the guest cabins for the winter and only kept the lodge open after the first of September, yet, there was definitely a light in the cabin, the one with two bedrooms and a kitchenette.

  She saw a figure pass by the window, casting a shadow on the rectangle of light thrown against the snow. A tall figure. Broad-shouldered. Restless. Moving back and forth. Then he stopped at the window and looked directly at her. She couldn’t see his eyes, or his face, but she knew who he was, and she knew he knew she was watching him. She turned away, but she couldn't stop wondering why the man would also be awake at three in the morning, pacing back and forth in a cabin that shouldn't be occupied...

  An hour later, she went to the window and saw the man still pacing. It bothered her that he seemed so restless, but she didn't know why it should matter. The man made her uncomfortable. Yet there was a pull between them she couldn't deny.

  Shrugging into a jacket and tugging on a pair of snow boots that Grace had loaned her, she slipped out of her room and crept down the bank of stairs leading to the great room below and left the lodge through the back door. She had no idea what she intended to do once outside, but she felt an urge to find out what the man was up to.

  As she stood in the shadows beyond the glow from the overhead lights, she tried to reason why, at four in the morning, she was standing in snow that was still coming down, even dusting her coat and hair, staring at a cabin not more than twenty feet away. She couldn't see the man inside, and when she finally decided there was no logical reason to remain there, and still no sign of him, she turned to go back into the lodge.

  And found him not more than eight feet away, watching her.

  "Why did it take you so long to come?" he asked, making no move toward her.

  She stared at the man, heart racing from its shot of adrenaline, mouth open to suck in enough frigid air to fill her lungs. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You saw me from your window. You were watching for me here. Why?"

  "I was restless. I'd been reading and couldn't sleep. It's the book."

  "Pulp trash. Why should that keep you up?"

  "Not the story. The mind of the writer. It bothered me."

  "You're not supposed to be in the mind of the writer when you read," the man said. "You're supposed to suspend reality, get caught up into the drama of it. If you're trapped in the writer's mind, he failed."

  "It's a twisted, perverted mind," she said. "I don't think I'd like the man."

  "Most minds are twisted," he replied. "Isn't yours at times? Maybe right now? You're standing in the snow with me at four in the morning, and you came down here to find me. Did you change your mind?"

  "About what?"

  "About sleeping with me. You said you'd been to bed with your share of men and I wouldn't be one of them, yet, here you are, outside my cabin, waiting."

  "I told you before I couldn't sleep because of the book."

  "Because of the mind of th
e writer. It's twisted. And perverted. And you're here with me in the middle of the night. Maybe men screw you over because you let them."

  "Maybe you're right."

  "Do you want to come to my cabin?"

  "Ask me if I will."

  "Same difference."

  "Not the same at all," she said. "One is, do I want to? The other is, will I? The answer to the first is, yes. The answer to the second is, no." She turned and went back into the lodge, wondering why she'd admitted something she hadn't considered until the moment he asked.

  And that was the story of her life. But this time, she'd resisted the first man she'd ever truly felt something intense in a way she couldn't explain. So intense, she would not give herself to him, because to do so would drive him away.

  ***

  Justine looked around the living room of Grace and Jack's home, a rustic log and cedar place just down the drive from the lodge. Homemade Christmas decorations were everywhere—sprays of fresh holly decorated with little red bows, crocheted snowflakes hanging from threads in the front windows, hand-knitted stockings with the names of each of the three boys, and sandwiched between two tall red candles was the Santa-in-a-sled centerpiece Grace always put on the dining room table. The Christmas tree, which sat on its own table out of reach of the boys, also had Gracie written all over it, with fir cones edged in glitter, and puffed rice balls wrapped in plastic, and beautifully decorated gingerbread men, all hanging from the branches by tiny red satin ribbons, and draped between the limbs were garlands of popcorn.

  Justine looked at Grace, who was standing at the kitchen counter, surrounded by the makings of a fruitcake, and said, "Ever since you were a little girl you knew exactly what you wanted to be when you grew up. You never played with Barbies. You only played with baby dolls. I remember how you'd feed them, and bathe them, and change them—your baby dolls also wetted. But I always played with Barbies. It was all about dressing them in high-fashion clothes, and undressing Ken and wondering why Barbie had boobs and Ken was missing a cock. I guess my mind was twisted even when I was ten."