6
After she got home, Layla immediately went to her dark room. She developed the pictures she’d snapped on her trip to the movies. They were different. Something about them…she felt different. They didn’t give her relief; rather, the pictures were a new view of the world. No pictures of women with shrewish expressions shouting at their children here. Instead, a little boy blew bubbles on the sidewalk, and all the pedestrians skirted around with indulgent grins.
But what did they make her feel? She couldn’t say. Just…different.
With a sigh, she combed out the tease she’d performed earlier to urge her hair into the perfect height and shape. She flipped it forward at the crown, gave it a few backward strokes, and then twisted it into a loose bun. Tendrils curled around her face, but she left them. Using strategically placed pins, she anchored her hair in this seemingly precarious upsweep. She’d put in nearly as much work as she had earlier that day, but it looked like she possessed perfectly reasonable, biddable hair that stayed up on command. Silly, the time women spent to look like they had put in no effort.
Once again, she reapplied her eyeliner and lipstick. She wanted to achieve that soft-but-polished look she’d seen on Elizabeth Taylor in the movie this afternoon. This look, borrowed from a beauty icon, made her feel more like herself than all the extra she usually wore, especially for a night on the town.
Finally, she flipped through the dresses behind the screen. She used an old department store rack cast-off to hang the many dresses she’d received from her mother. The message these gifts sent were clear: don’t humiliate me by being ugly. Layla got it, over and out. She wished it mattered less to her—that she still fit into the dresses—which never deviated in size. Thankfully, neither did she. If anything, she wished she were a bit more voluptuous.
She chose a pale pink, fitted, knee-length dress with a square neckline and heels to match. Her stomach did a strange flutter, wondering if Jace would like what he saw when he arrived.
Sizing herself up in the mirror, she nodded. She hoped he would. Satisfied, she sat on the edge of her bed, slipped on her shoes, and waited. She couldn’t move around, look at her albums of photographs from the floor, or work one of the crossword puzzles Mrs. C. saved her from the paper her father discarded every day. She’d muss her clothes if she did anything. Dear Lord, being pretty took far too much effort.
Layla sighed in relief when a knock sounded from the front. Finally.
When she opened the door, Jace looked from her face to her toes, and she flushed with heat everywhere his gaze traveled. “Well?” she asked, after a moment.
“You’re stunning. And a good listener, apparently. That is a deeply important quality in a woman.”
“Hmm. Better than last night, with the curlers and the shirt?”
“Close.”
Layla picked up her handbag and stopped to study him. She was pretty stunned, herself. His dark suit only accentuated his height, his ebony hair, and his puzzling expression. “I can never tell if you’re serious or having a laugh at my expense.”
“Layla, I know how you feel about the odor of mendacity. I would never do such a thing.”
“Oh, please. Can we just go?”
“Of course. We have dinner reservations. Then I thought we might go to a nightclub I know. It’s low-key, good music. We can get to know one another. Have a practice at this.”
Layla followed him out to his beautiful corvette, complete with the scent of new leather. “This car is lovely.”
“You said that the day we met.”
What was wrong with her? It was as though she’d turned into one of those mindless women who spent their afternoon gossiping, pretending to volunteer time on some committee, incapable of anything more than small talk. She screwed up her courage to ask the question she’d gone over and over, like one of those Chinese puzzle boxes, since this afternoon. “Can I ask a question? Oh, damn it. Never mind that. I’m going to ask you a question.”
In response, he turned the soft music from the radio down. “All right. Ask me a question.”
“I don’t mean to sound like I don’t appreciate your help—”
“It’s not helping when you’re coerced.” He threw her a grin then focused on the road before him. “Stop prefacing your questions to blunt the effect. Just ask.”
“You are certainly brimming with advice today. Fine, are you planning to…well, what I mean is, someone in your position…”
“Someone blackmailed into dating you?”
She glared at him. “Into pretending to date me. I’ll give you the blackmail point, but I’m not so sad and alone I have to force men I meet into compromising positions while I hope for flowers and candy and pretty little notes with hearts doodled in the margins.”
Jace slowed as they hit the tangle of city traffic, shifting gears smoothly. “You hate candy and flowers, although you never gave me your position on notes with hearts in the margin.”
“Hearts are clichéd. Now, stop teasing me for five minutes and listen. I understand. I’m being awkward, and I’m babbling because—”
“Question, doll. Ask your question.”
“It’s only this: one might think because we’re pretending to date, a little affair would be a simple thing. Desirable, even.”
Sliding into a parking spot without missing a beat, Jace corrected her. “Brief, not little, would be more accurate.” Then he turned to face her, and it seemed like the door to a furnace opened between them. “It would have the added benefit of aiding us in appearing to be intimately connected. So, yes, I do intend to seduce you, which I believe was your real question.”
She watched him, his demeanor calm as ever, sizing him up like a foe in battle. “You said yes.”
“I did.”
“Oh, hell. Would you mind if I have a cigarette?”
“Not at all.” He lifted his wrist into the fading light from the window. “We have a few minutes until our reservation.”
Before finding her voice again, she took several drags from the cigarette. Her throat had gone all funny—dry—at his spoken intent. “I don’t think that’s a good idea?” She hated the inflection at the end of her sentence, as though she were asking a question. As though it were anything other than a mistake she simply couldn’t emotionally afford.
His expression never changed. God, he was cool under pressure. Was it so small to him he didn’t feel the pressure that threatened to crush her?
“An affair, you mean? Because the reservations are a foregone conclusion,” he said.
“That, yes. You are very surprising. I feel terribly uncomfortable now. No one ever discusses things as openly as I do. Is this the effect I have on other people?”
“Most definitely. I assumed directness would be the best approach. I find you enchanting.”
She cranked the window down, exhaling slowly, then tossed her cigarette onto the pavement. “You have known me two, three days now? And, quite honestly, that’s usually enough for most people to realize I’m a wreck. And affairs are messy, messy things.”
“They don’t have to be, Layla.” His fingers encircled her wrist, and he traced tiny circles there. “They can be pleasurable and satisfying, on many levels.”
“I don’t think there’s really any reason to continue on this topic.” She withdrew her hand regretfully, with the acceptance that she might never have a connection with another person like this again. It wasn’t impossible this was it. She’d certainly never experienced it before. “Truthfully, if I’m arguing against a thing, you should never, ever do that thing. Because my judgment tends to be poor, especially in these matters, and even I know this would be a bad idea.”
“Then it hardly makes sense to listen to you.” He exhaled slowly, settling against his side of the door. He turned to offer a grin, probably to show he’d accepted her decision with good grace. Which meant she’d have to be twice as careful because he was too skilled at finding chinks in her defense. He said, “Why don’t we discuss
it more over drinks later and enjoy our dinner?”
“What would we possibly discuss instead, with this between us, like one of those bombs they test out in the desert?”
“Seen any good movies?”
“You’re not very likable right now.”
“It happens.” He got out and came around the car to open her door. When he grasped her hand to help her out, she wanted to slide her hand up his arm, twine her fingers in his hair, and kiss him blind. Instead, she stood from the low seat and walked in front of him to the restaurant. At the next door, he opened it as well. When had good manners become so arousing?
Layla stewed on all the reasons this wouldn’t work as he ordered them both cocktails and an appetizer. She stared at the menu, seeing nothing specific, until she couldn’t stop her big mouth from starting up again. “The problem is: I don’t want to go into the reasons this isn’t something I can do. They’re very…personal. I need you to understand you’re not the reason. If my attraction to you were the only deciding factor, then… But it’s not.”
“Did you get everything out you wanted to say?”
“I suppose so.”
“Good. Let’s go on about our own objectives and not concern ourselves with whether or not we should become lovers, all right?”
Layla shrugged. He wasn’t giving up on the idea, but she didn’t have any more arguments to offer. She could only continue to say no. “Fine.”
Once again, Jace ordered for her, which she appreciated. She couldn’t remember one single item on the menu she’d spent fifteen minutes pretending to peruse. He started asking her questions. Polite, gentle, probing questions. Did you grow up here? How many brothers and sisters do you have? What do you do besides take photographs to blackmail people with?
The food came, and Layla mostly moved it around her plate. Every question he asked—and she tried to answer without revealing how twisted her life had been—made her stomach clench. When she wanted to avoid a question, or at least think up a good answer, she’d fork some food into her mouth and chew deliberately, then dab at her lips with the napkin from her lap.
“Tell me about your family. Your parents, they’re…well, we know what they’re trying to do. Are you close to them?” he said as he cut through his steak with precision. The man did nothing without forethought.
Layla looked past his shoulder, the painting on the wall behind him going out of focus as she tried to think of an answer. “It’s very complicated. I know what they’re trying to do is wrong, but… My Papà would do anything for me. He only wants me to be happy; I know it. My mother, on the other hand, would probably throw a party if she found a way to get rid of me.”
She glanced back at him and saw the pity she’d grown to accept when it came to her mother, but something more, as well. A genuine desire to know her, maybe? She couldn’t decide, but then he reached across the table and took her hand, and it didn’t matter anymore.
“What about your brothers? Two of them, right?”
“Right. Anthony, he’s the middle child. He believes that Mother and Papà have all of our best interests at heart, so we should go along with whatever they demand of us. I’m not sure he’d bat an eye if Mother got her way and I was locked up.” Frowning, she pulled her hand away. It was like her family might somehow taint Jace, and she never wanted that. “But Dominic—he’s the oldest—he would fight for me. I think he got fed up with our parents, and that’s why he moved back to New York. That’s where our family is from, originally.”
The waiter swooped in to take their plates and ask if they wanted dessert, which Jace declined. She had barely eaten, so it would’ve been a waste to order her more food.
They were drinking a cup of coffee after dinner when he said, “Tell me about your romantic history. For realism, of course. I understand you were engaged.”
“And who told you that?” Sip, dab, dab. This had been the longest evening of her life. Why did he get to give her the third-degree? When was it her turn to find out more about him?
“The PI I paid to check into you.”
“Oh my. All right, then. He cheated. I found out. I ended it. That’s all there was to it.”
“You really hate talking about yourself, don’t you?” Jace flipped his empty cup upside down on his saucer and toyed with the small plate’s rim.
“Are you writing a book?” Layla jerked her cigarette case free from her purse and dug around for a matchbook. “What my life was like growing up, who my parents are, my brothers, my ex—none of those things are who I am.”
“Fair enough. But they are things you might share with someone you’re falling in love with.”
“Maybe.” She found her matches and struck one to life. God, that first drag was always good. She couldn’t keep this up. He didn’t want them to get to know one another because he never spoke about himself, only dug deeper into her life. “Listen, I have an idea. Why don’t we go to a party of an acquaintance of mine? She’s dating this B.S.D. It should be pretty unreal.”
“What’s a B.S.D.? Are those his initials?”
“Sort of. Sorry, it’s what I think of guys from out of town who like to show up, act like a ‘big stupid deal,’ and find a local to impress.”
“I like that a lot. Can I use that?”
“You’re making fun of me again. Sure.”
He frowned then took her hand across the table. She would have pulled away, but he resisted her little tug, and she gave in. “Let’s get this straight. I never make fun of you. I enjoy teasing you immensely because you turn pink all the way to the tips of your ears. And that’s adorable on someone who comes off as so jaded and tough. I love listening to you. I don’t make fun of you. Got it?”
Layla nodded slowly. Oh boy, was she in deep with this one.
“Good.” He relinquished her hand. “How do you know this acquaintance?”
“Acquaintances. Daughters of one of my mother’s friends. If we play it right, this could be one of those situations that makes its way to the right ears.”
“And you’re ready for this? The kissing, the touching—all of it?”
“I have to be ready. I can do this. Neither of us has time to get used to the idea.”
Jace stood, came around the table, and pulled her chair out. “Let’s go then.”
“In the car, you can tell me all about your childhood, your defining moments, and former relationships. You know, for the sake of realism.”
“Oh, I’d never share all that after only a couple of months.”
“That is so unfair, Mr. Russell.”
“I’ll tell you a little bit, fair enough?”
Now that she wasn’t the one in the hot seat, this was a much more interesting game. Layla nodded eagerly.
They had left the parking lot before he spoke again. “My parents detest one another because my father is an affirmed, lifelong cheater, but my mother doesn’t believe in divorce. It just isn’t done. Two people should not have to be that miserable because they believed after a few weeks they’d be happy together.”
“I’m thankful I realized who Ben—that was my fiancé—was, before we got married, certainly. But I think marriage to the right person would be wonderful. One person who accepts you and loves you exactly as you are.”
“Is that what your parents are like?”
“Of course not. My mother is the unfaithful one. They don’t detest one another, though. It’s more like they tolerate one another; neither could work up the passion for hate.”
“Which street did you say, again?”
She repeated the address. She knew why she’d been invited—so Stephanie could show off her B.S.D. and she and Greta could make Layla feel inadequate. Again. Some old guy who’d made a bunch of movies when they were ten was not Layla’s future, so Stephanie could show off all night long. Layla still had a lot to figure out, but she knew she’d rather be herself than someone like Stephanie.
“Have you ever seen anyone happily married?” Jace asked. “Because I t
hink happy marriages are about as real as unicorns.”
She’d been so lost in her own thoughts it took her a moment to retrace their conversation. “You truly don’t like marriage. I’m glad we’re not really dating.”
He chuckled. “I think that’s a put-down.”
“That would be a condition I couldn’t live with. We’d be another former relationship I’d have to talk about.” Because that was the real problem. Layla had made a promise to herself after the mess with Ben, after she’d gone off the rails and…done things she regretted now. No more sex, not until it was someone who loved her. Not until her husband.
“I’ll keep it under my hat, then, when we’re with other people. Will that work?”
“It works. Are you ready to pretend to be in love with me?”
He switched the car off and turned to her. “I’m ready for the kissing part.”
A shiver slipped down her spine. Trouble was—so was she.
7
Inside the elevator, on the way to the penthouse apartment, Jace took Layla’s hand. “Practice,” he replied when she shot him a questioning look. “So, these women aren’t your friends. Just girls, you know.”
“Right.” She tilted her head left then right, like she was squaring up for a fight. He didn’t know if she was preparing for the not-friends or if it was because he was touching her.
He let his finger graze her pulse-point, where it beat like a trapped bird. “And the boyfriend, sorry, the B.S.D.—you don’t know him either.”
“I don’t care to. I don’t like or trust guys like that.”
“Sure thing, I get that. It’s making me wonder, why would you come to this party?”
Layla lifted his hand to her lips and grazed his knuckles with a soft kiss. “To show off my sexy, rich, important boyfriend.”
The bell dinged, indicating they’d reached their destination. “You wouldn’t take a man out just to show him off,” Jace murmured.
My Fake Vegas Boyfriend Page 5