Liar, Liar, Heart's Desire

by Suzie Quint

  “I figured it out before Annaliese got arrested. That morning when you went to meet your school chum.”

  Her school chum? What was he talking about? And then she remembered the excuse she’d used to sneak off to meet Martin. It felt like years ago. “That long? And you didn’t say anything?” It almost felt like a betrayal that he hadn’t. “Why?”

  The warmth in his eyes dampened. “I wanted you to tell me. I wanted”—his voice dropped to an intimate tone—“you to trust me with the truth.”

  If anyone had earned the truth from her, it was him. He’d been there every step of the way, sometimes forcing himself into places where she didn’t want him, but also going above and beyond when she’d wanted to do things that he didn’t see the benefit of.

  And she hadn’t even been honest with him. Worse, he’d known she wasn’t being honest yet he’d still been there for her.

  She didn’t deserve a partner like him.

  Her throat clogged up, and for a moment, she thought she might cry.

  “Cleo!”

  The voice came from behind her. Cleo cringed at the sound of it, but she turned anyway and tried to sound pleased. “Martin. What are you doing here?”

  “I got a call from a source.” He flicked a glance at Alec as though surprised to find him at her side, then focused on Cleo in a way that dismissed him. “He says you’d broken the Koblect case and it’s not the Carson woman they have in custody.”

  The way Martin said the Carson woman made her feel like a crappy daughter. So maybe Annaliese wasn’t anyone’s idea of Mother of the Year. Maybe Cleo wasn’t a candidate for Daughter of the Year either.

  “You know The Sun would have been happy with a good story, but you breaking the case . . . It’s like your border story all over again.” He shook his head as though she was the most amazing reporter ever. “You’ll be able to write your own ticket at the paper because this is a story no one else can write.”

  It had always been a story no one else could write. As Annaliese’s daughter, she knew things no one else would ever understand. Anyone else would paint Annaliese as a woman of loose morals. They’d probably taint her friendship with Willa, making Willa look like a cast-off lover bent on revenge. And lord knew what they’d make of Jada. Even without embellishment, the whole story sounded sordid.

  At The Sun, at least she could write the story the way she wanted, and no one would be the wiser. Of course, Alec would write his own story, and he knew all the secrets she wanted to keep.

  But at least her byline wouldn’t be on it.

  And who would believe a story in The Word anyway?

  “Cleo?”

  She looked up into Alec’s eyes. Saw the worry there.

  “You work for The Word, remember?”

  “I know.” Her voice sounded fatalistic with a heavy overlay of apology.

  Alec’s gaze flicked to Martin. “You signed a contract.”

  “I know.” But contracts could be broken.

  Martin finally looked directly at Alec. “You’re kidding, right? You don’t really think she’s going to stay at a tabloid when she’s going to be the hottest commodity in the media, do you?” He wasn’t laughing at Alec. Not out loud, but it was there in his voice. That you didn’t really think you could win note. The one that said he was so much better than Alec that it had never been a real contest. That belief Alec had nailed the first time he’d met Martin.

  “This woman is going to win the Pulitzer.” Martin spoke with an assurance that belonged to someone who had seen the future. “If not this year, then next year. And maybe more than one.”

  Through Martin’s entire spiel, Alec’s gaze stayed locked with hers. Even the shame she felt couldn’t make her break away. What if this was their last moment together? She’d known this could happen, but she hadn’t realized how deep the wound would cut. There should be blood all over the floor.

  A long pause followed Martin’s last words. Then, in a low voice, Alec asked, “What about us?”

  Cleo opened her mouth, but words failed her. Was there an us? She hadn’t allowed herself to think they would last outside of Vegas. She closed her mouth.

  She saw the realization dawn slowly in his eyes. The Word had lost her. He’d lost her.

  His eyes went blank, shutting off any chance of reading his emotions, and he stepped back.

  “I hope―”

  What? What did he hope?

  “I hope you win a dozen Pulitzers.” And then he turned and walked away.

  She didn’t realize she’d taken a step to follow him until Martin’s hand on her arm stopped her.

  “Let him go, Cleo.” His voice was more understanding than she’d expected.

  The look in his eyes told her that, for all his posing, he’d guessed she and Alec had something more than a working relationship. She should have known he would. Martin had never been a stupid man.

  “Come on. I’ll buy you a few drinks, and you can tell me all about how you broke this story.”

  That was the last thing she wanted. And whether Martin knew it or not, he didn’t either because, with a few drinks in her, what she’d end up doing was crying about Alec. Martin might understand about her affair, but he certainly wouldn’t find her misery over another man amusing.

  “Uhm. I really can’t right now. I have to be here when they finish questioning Jada.” And when they released her mother.

  “Jada.” Martin’s brow furrowed. “She’s that Carson woman’s lover, right?”

  She wished he’d stop calling Annaliese that Carson woman. “Yes. She helped me with the story.” There’d be time enough later to explain. If she decided to.

  “I can help with the interview,” Martin said.

  “What interview?”

  Martin smiled as though he saw her subterfuge. He thought she was protecting her source from poaching.

  “It’s just that she’s . . . shy around strangers.”

  “I understand.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Call me when you’re done.”

  Cleo promised she would then watched him walk away. This time, she felt nothing but relief.

  ~***~

  Alec sat alone at a table in the casino bar, five floors below the hotel room he’d rented at El Dorado, a half-drunk Cuba Libre in his hand. Willie Nelson and Ray Charles were singing “Seven Spanish Angels” on the jukebox for the simple reason that cry-in-your-beer music suited his mood.

  Why he was in the mood for sappy country music was something he didn’t understand. He should have been grateful to Martin for getting Cleo out of his hair. He could have been stuck with her Ms. Pulitzer attitude forever. This was better. She was back where she belonged, and he’d go home tomorrow and not have to wrestle her for the plum stories.

  So why did he feel restless and lethargic at the same time?

  He stared into his drink, watching the ice melt and considered that he might have gotten a little too comfortable being the tabloid’s golden boy. Maybe he needed new challenges, new horizons, to make him stretch himself. Maybe he should write a book. What he’d told Bales at their first meeting was true. Sebastian Koblect’s life would make interesting reading, and he already had a good start on the research.

  Of course, to do it right, he’d need to interview Cleo to get her insights about his death and . . . No. That would make him look like he was using the book to reconnect with her. He didn’t want to look pathetic. Even more, he didn’t want to be pathetic. It was better to let her go and not look back.

  “Do you make a habit of drinking alone?” a feminine voice said.

  He looked up, suddenly aware that the woman had been standing there for . . . he had no idea how long.

  Bales was still dressed for the memorial, but she had a drink in her hand. A gin and tonic, he guessed, based on the lime wedge in the clear liquid.

  “Not usually,” he said, “but it’s a lonely life when you’re on the road.”

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

 
He gestured to the chair beside him.

  “I hear you’re not freelance after all,” Bales said, sans any accusatory tone. “You’re actually a staff writer for The Inside Word.”

  He folded his arms in front of him and leaned on the table. “You don’t sound upset about the subterfuge.”

  “I’m not.” She took a sip of her drink then set it on the table. “I don’t care what you write about Sebastian. Or El Dorado. Or anyone else because”—she looked at her watch—“about an hour ago, I quit.”

  “Do you have another job lined up?”

  “Nope.” She made the p pop.

  He felt his eyebrows go up. “What about your mother? How are you going to afford the nursing home?”

  “I called my brother and told him I was tired of being the responsible one and the bills will be going to him in the future.”

  “And if he doesn’t pay them?”

  Bales took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I don’t know. I may have to move someplace cheap and take care of her myself.”

  “Can your brother afford the nursing home?”

  She laughed without humor. “Oh yes. He does quite well for himself.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a congressman in the House of Representatives for the great state of Florida,” she said as though reciting something she’d heard until she was heartily sick of it.

  “Really?” Alec said in an exaggerated tone.

  Bales met his gaze. “Why do you say it like that?”

  He didn’t owe her anything in spite of all she’d shared with him, but what was the point of being a reporter if you couldn’t do a good deed now and then? He smiled at her. “Florida, you say. Where all those northerners from the eastern seaboard go to retire. What do you think would happen if his constituency discovered their representative’s dear, sweet, sainted mother, the woman who raised him, who changed his diapers and wiped his snotty nose while working two jobs, so he could attend a fancy school and have all the privileges of life, and who now suffers from Alzheimer’s disease, might get thrown out onto the mean streets of Las Vegas because he refuses to pay for her nursing home?”

  Bales’ eyes grew wide as he spoke, and she held her fingers to her lips. “How―”

  “The power of the press. Even if the story breaks in a tabloid—which has national circulation, I might point out—the local papers will pick it up and look into it. Do you suppose he can stand up to the scrutiny?”

  “Oh my.” Even before Bales’ hand dropped, revealing a smile, he saw her eyes shining. “Yes, I think that would do it.”

  Alec was willing to bet they wouldn’t have to even run the story. All he’d have to do would be to call the congressman from the great state of Florida asking for a response to the planned story. “You know,” he said, figuring, in for a penny, in for a pound, “if you can’t find a job you want here, Denver’s a nice city, and if you don’t mind working for a tabloid, I’ll bet The Word could find a place for someone with your skills.”

  She picked up her glass, looking at him over the rim as she took a sip. “You know, I kind of like the sound of working for a disreputable company.”

  From his wallet, Alec pulled a business card—one that actually had the tabloid’s name under his—and gave it to her. “I’m heading home tomorrow. Give me a day or two to settle in before you call.”

  He finished his drink as she tucked the card in her purse. When he stood to go, she stopped him.

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “No need.” He tipped his head. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you, Ms. Bales.”

  She smiled almost shyly at him. “Call me Nancy.”

  Chapter 23

  Sleep eluded Cleo.

  Stupid sleep.

  The bed felt too empty without Alec in it. She rolled over again, scrunching the pillow before settling back down.

  When she’d arrived home with Jada and Annaliese, he’d already been gone. Him and all his things. Not that she blamed him. She wouldn’t have stuck around either.

  But the disappointment that he wasn’t there, waiting to hear about her victory, caught her off guard.

  She should have been glad he wasn’t there. Who needed a big scene about her jumping ship and going back to The Sun?

  It was for the best.

  She’d catch the noon plane back to Tucson then find a lawyer who could handle the details of breaking her contract. Martin could recommend someone, she was sure. She’d get on with the life she’d planned.

  And Alec . . . Well, he’d get on with his life, too. He’d write his afterlife story. Or maybe a story about ridiculous government boondoggles. Or . . . or Elvis impersonators.

  It wasn’t that she wanted to write such things herself, but . . . What would it be like to have the freedom to pursue whatever caught her interest? Sebastian’s story would buy her some flexibility at The Sun, but anything she wanted to pursue would be under tight scrutiny from her editor. She understood why. They were interested in breaking news and everything was under a deadline. Wasting time and energy on what ifs didn’t change that.

  She punched her pillow, trying to find a comfortable position that would make sleep irresistible, then froze when she heard a noise. Were they being burglarized? She threw back the covers, annoyed enough by her failure to find sleep that kicking a burglar’s ass sounded like a great stress reliever.

  The noises led her to the kitchen. The light over the stove was on, giving the kitchen a soft glow. Annaliese stood at the sink, rinsing out a sponge. She was wearing a pair of low-slung lounge pants and a midriff-baring top and, at forty-five, still looked like a showgirl, which was reassuring since Cleo had inherited her mother’s looks and metabolism.

  Cleo brushed her bed-head hair out of her face and asked, “What are you doing up?”

  Annaliese jumped. “Oh honey. You startled me.”

  “Sorry.” Cleo sat down and picked up one of the wilted sunflowers that lay in front of her on the breakfast bar. The stem was broken and the head flopped over, the petals brushing the back of her hand. “I thought you said this could wait until morning.”

  “Yes, well . . . I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Was jail . . . awful?” The three of them had had a long gab session before they’d gone to bed, filling Annaliese in on the highlights since her arrest, but Annaliese hadn’t said anything about her experiences.

  “It wasn’t a picnic.” Annaliese squeezed out the sponge. “But it wasn’t all that bad.”

  “I had visions of . . .” Cleo caught herself before she could say rapes in the shower room. “Prison movies, I guess.” Now that she thought about it, with Annaliese’s open sexuality, the showers probably hadn’t been as frightening for her as they would be for Cleo.

  Annaliese laughed. “I met some interesting women there. When I wasn’t sleeping.” She started wiping down the counter where Willa had laid out the bread for the BLTs only hours before.

  Already, it seemed like ages ago.

  “I slept a lot,” Annaliese said.

  Which could explain why she wasn’t sleeping now, except Cleo didn’t think that was the reason for this middle-of-the-night cleaning spree.

  “I don’t think I’d have closed my eyes at all. I’d be too afraid someone would stab me in my sleep with a shiv.”

  Annaliese laughed again. “Oh dear. You have seen too many prison movies.” She picked up the dead sunflowers and threw them in the trash under the sink. “Jail is mostly boring.”

  “So you slept to escape the boredom.”

  “Partly.” She started wiping down the breakfast bar. “Mostly, it was a way not to worry so much about you and Jada. If I’d known what you were up to, I’d have worried more and slept less.” She rinsed the sponge out again before putting it away.

  “Wouldn’t have done any good,” Cleo said.

  “No. But I’d have done it anyway.” She picked up a Post-It pad and a pen and wrote bread and milk. “That’s w
hat you do when you’re not there to protect the people you love.”

  It had been more than a decade since Cleo had welcomed hearing such sentiments. She’d started calling Annaliese by her first name when she was ten, and by twelve, she avoided introducing her mother to her friends, and later, colleagues. She’d even legally change her last name when she started college. All those things she’d done because her mother embarrassed her. Annaliese hadn’t missed those clues either, though neither of them had ever acknowledged what they meant. So it wasn’t a surprise her mother wasn’t comfortable looking at Cleo when she said she loved her even in this roundabout way. It was more of a surprise that she said it at all.

  The biggest surprise was how much it choked Cleo up to hear it.

  Annaliese opened a cupboard and scanned the contents then reached in and pulled a box of Frosted Flakes out and shook it.

  Uh-oh. Cleo had forgotten to buy another box. “You can blame me. I ate that.” She wasn’t sure Annaliese believed her, but since Jada would never admit to pigging out on it, Annaliese would have to accept her story.

  Cereal got added to the shopping list.

  Annaliese pulled out a pan. “I’m going to have some warm milk. Would you like some?”

  “Sure.” Maybe that would help her sleep. And if Annaliese had any muscle relaxers left . . . Ugh. No. Now that she knew what had really happened to Sebastian, she didn’t think she’d be able to swallow muscle relaxers.

  In the quiet of the kitchen, the whoomp of the burner igniting seemed loud. Cleo shuddered. Think about something else. “Do you think you still have your job?”

  Annaliese looked into the pot as she stirred, though it wasn’t in danger of scorching yet. “I’m not sure I care.”

  “What?”

  Annaliese didn’t answer right away. Finally, she said, “It won’t be the same without Sebastian.”

  Ah. “Things change,” Cleo said.

  “Yes, and sometimes that’s a good thing.”

  Cleo nearly snorted. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d embraced change. Even going back to Tucson had its downside.

  “If you don’t change, you stagnate and die. That’s a law of nature. We should always be moving forward.”