Love Lies

by MaryJanice Davidson

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No, I don’t know. I never knew my mother.”

  “Oh.” The import of this was slow to strike. “Well, your father must have told you something—”

  “I never knew him, either. My earliest memory is of a foster family. One of many, unfortunately.”

  He sat up so suddenly he nearly toppled off the couch. “You’re an orphan? An honest-to-God, left-on-the-doorstep orphan?”

  “Please.” She held up a hand, traffic cop style. “I prefer the term ‘parentally impaired’.”

  “That’s it!” he cried, throwing his icepack on the carpet. “That explains why you’ve got such shitty self-esteem!”

  He looked entirely too pleased with himself, she thought with growing irritation. And for a weird twist, she couldn’t recall anyone being so pleased when she revealed her family background…or rather, the lack thereof. “What are you talking about?”

  “I couldn’t figure out how you could be so gorgeous and smart and have such a low opinion of yourself. Well, that explains it.”

  “I do not have a—”

  “No wonder my money freaked you out. You’ve never had any money, ever. You can’t tell me state-funded foster families are rolling in dough.”

  “How did my telling you about my childhood turn into a talk about your money?” She tried to sound light, unconcerned, but it was hard to conceal her anger. Now he would offer to take care of her, so she never had to feel lonely or unwanted again. Then she’d have to punch him.

  “Don’t you see, Ash? My money doesn’t matter, and your background doesn’t matter.” He snapped his fingers. “That’s why you’re scared of lawyers. You must have done something when you were a kid…the state isn’t known for its empathy toward children. Well, whatever you did, it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “It doesn’t?” she asked coolly.

  He smiled at her with great affection. “You were silly to let either one bother you.”

  She nearly gagged. “Silly?”

  “Yes, honey, I’m afraid so. You shouldn’t let being a foster kid get you down. You shouldn’t have such a low opinion of yourself,” he scolded tenderly. “I can give you everything you ever wanted.” He smiled at her, so pleased, so anxious to be her Prince Charming. Well, she was no damn Cinderella, and that was a fact. For one thing, she wore a size nine shoe.

  “You can give me whatever I want?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  She jumped up, knocking the phone over in her rage. “Here’s my order, then. See if you can fill it. I want my mother, you puffed-up cocksure jerk! I want to know why she gave birth to me, hung on to me for a year, and then dumped me.” His mouth fell open, and she wasn’t so mad that she couldn’t notice, and take malicious pleasure in it. “You think I don’t have a good opinion of myself? You’re all happy because you figured out the big mystery? What is the matter with you? My whole damn family didn’t want me! My father probably abandoned my mother, and my mother sure as shit abandoned me. So don’t sit there on your four thousand dollar sofa in your million dollar living room, with full knowledge of who you are and where you came from, and lecture me on self-esteem.”

  She kicked the throw pillow away with a fat ‘pop’ and headed for the door. Then, remembering that if she left there would be no one to help Victor if he became dangerously sick (sure would serve him right, she thought in a rage, but, mad as she was, she couldn’t leave him), she turned around, marched to the guest bedroom, and slammed the door closed. This was a wonderful exit, yes, she was tough and strong and she sure showed him.

  She clapped her hand over her mouth before the sobs could escape.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nothing, absolutely nothing, could make him feel worse than he felt right now. Forget the pounding headache, the nausea, the pain of finding out your ex-wife never cared for you. Nothing was worse, he now realized, than having Ashley Lorentz scream at you in a rage because you behaved like a condescending schmuck.

  Then he heard her crying, and wished the floor would swallow him, chew on him for a while, and spit him out, preferably with every bone broken. It was no less than he deserved. He made a fist and smacked himself on the thigh, hard. What an asshole, he jeered at himself. You wanted to solve all her problems, and instead you made her cry. You passed off her childhood like it was a business deal gone bad, and tried to blow off everything she did, fought for, endured. Tried to turn your money into a magic wand that could make all her problems disappear. Great going, you stupid shit.

  Well, he had to go to her, and right now. Had to try and apologize, to try to fix things between them. He hoped he could do it without putting his foot further into his mouth. He rose and walked down the short hall to the first bedroom. Before he reached her room, the door was flung open and she practically jumped into the hallway. They met halfway.

  “And another thing,” she snapped, her face streaked with tears, “which I forgot to say before I left, because I was very upset—hey!”

  He reached for her, pulled her to him, buried his face against her neck. This was extremely nice and she worked hard to hold on to her anger. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I’m an asshole. What I said was stupid and thoughtless and I don’t blame you for being mad, you should be mad, but please don’t cry anymore. I can’t bear it.”

  “I was not crying,” she said, furtively wiping her tears away. “I was so angry my eyes leaked.”

  He laughed before he could lock it back. Even in this midst of this, their first serious fight, their first fight, period, he was astonished and pleased. Rocketing out of her room to yell at him some more, tears be damned. And then making a joke, yet another wisecrack that surprised him into laughing, him, the original stone-face, except with Derik. And Ashley.

  “Please, please forgive me. This has been…I’ve ruined everything today. I couldn’t stand it if the day ended with you mad at me.”

  He was holding her so tightly, she could hardly wriggle. Not that she wanted to. But the feel of his long, hard body against hers was distracting. It was extremely difficult to remember why she’d been so mad. She told him so.

  “Thank God for that, because I made a real jackass of myself.” For the first time since Derik had nailed him, his headache faded and he forgot about feeling sick as he realized Ashley’s delectable body was pressed against his. His hands wanted to reach down and pull her more tightly against him. He fought the urge. “Ashley, you’re so important to me. I never want to mess that up. Never.”

  She blinked up at him solemnly. He felt so good against her, so solid and strong. And he smelled terrific. “I appreciate that, Vic, and I’m grateful you feel that way. I don’t want to mess things up between us, either.” She paused. “I shouldn’t have come down so hard on you. You just wanted to help, and I’m oversensitive about some things, especially my childhood.”

  “That’s very generous,” he said, but it was muffled because his lips were pressed just below her ear. It tickled, and at the same time her nipples hardened. “More generous than I deserve. Incidentally…” Now he was kissing the nape of her neck, long, slow, wet kisses that made her shiver, that made her knees weak—it wasn’t just a cliché, she realized. Her knees really did feel shaky. “…your mother could only have let you go if she had no other choice. She’d never have willingly given you up.”

  “No?” Ashley felt the tears start again and ruthlessly willed them back. Crying, she had discovered by age eight, never solved anything.

  “No. She couldn’t have. You’re too special, too beautiful and loving and marvelous. Maybe she thought you’d go to a good home. Maybe she got sick and the state made her give you up. It was something like that, I know.”

  “You can’t know something like that.”

  He stopped kissing her neck and she was vaguely sorry, and then he was looking at her, his deep black gaze filling her world. “I know you, Ashley, my dearest one. And
so I can know something like that. I’d never give you up without a fight. And your mother would have felt the same way.”

  “Victor…” Stupid damn tears! Damn tears never solved anything, never solved anything, did nothing but waste time and make her face feel funny, and she wouldn’t cry again, twice in one day was twice too many, she would not, would not, would not…

  “Oh, sweetheart. It’s all right.” His thumb was there; gently catching a traitorous tear as it spilled down her face. Then he leaned forward and kissed it away, and then kissed her eyelids, slowly, reverently. She clung to him, wondering who was making that silly whimpering noise—and realized with a start that it was her. Then his mouth was on hers, his tongue gently parting her lips, and she gasped into his mouth. He kissed her deeply, kissed her as she longed to be kissed, and his hands were sliding up under her shirt and resting on her waist, and she could feel his fingers trembling and knew they wanted to go further, knew he wasn’t letting his hands roam all over her, though he desperately wanted to.

  She opened her shirt. Thank God for snaps, she had time to think before he groaned and leaned forward to kiss the tops of her breasts. Her bra suddenly felt much too tight, too restraining, and she longed to be rid of it.

  “Victor…”

  “Oh, Christ, you’re so beautiful.” He nuzzled her cleavage; she brought her fingers up, into his thick dark hair, and locked them there, desperate to touch him, to know him, as he was touching and knowing her.

  “Victor…I can’t…stand up…much longer.”

  “You mean I’m affecting you as much as you’re affecting me? Good to know. I didn’t want you to have that much power over me.” He stepped back and held her shirt closed with one hand, theatrically covering his eyes with the other. “Very well. Clothe yourself if you must.”

  She did, with fingers that felt thick and clumsy. She was glad they had stopped—and not glad. She wanted him badly, and was thankful he had discipline enough for both of them. It wasn’t right. Not yet. It was too soon for her, for one thing—so said her mind, though her body was vigorously protesting—and he was sick, for another. She should be watching for dangerous symptoms, not flashing her breasts in his face. You tart! she told herself with grim humor. You’re molesting him in his own hallway. For shame, for shame.

  “Thanks,” she said shakily, running her fingers through her tangled curls, pushing them back from her face. “I’m lucky. I can feel safe with you. You’re strong enough to know when to stop. Because I…well, I don’t know if I could have. But I would have been sorry in the morning.”

  He smiled at her. “That’s right. You can count on me, Ash. Always.”

  “That’s—”

  “Excuse me, I have to use the bathroom.” He spun away from her and tottered down the hall, actually running into a small table and bouncing off it like a pinball. Such clumsiness in a usually graceful man was startling; wide-eyed, she watched him stumble into the bathroom. A few seconds later, she heard the shower start up, and blushed with understanding.

  * * * * *

  Victor came out of the shower feeling better than he had all day. His head still ached dreadfully, pounding in exact rhythm with his heart, but the nausea was gone and he felt like he could actually eat something. And the cold shower helped cool him off, figuratively and literally. He’d been too warm for the last hour or so, and it had nothing to do with Ashley.

  He smiled at the thought. Boy, she was something. Gorgeous even in the midst of a rage. And so passionate! She said she wasn’t sure she could have stopped, well, he could relate to that. Another minute and he would have lowered her to the floor and had her. Or let her lower him to the floor so she could have him.

  He toweled his hair and frowned, thinking about her parents. Dead, quite possibly…but maybe not. He could probably find them for her, he had P.I.s on the payroll at the shipyard. Their job was mostly limited to background checks on all future employees—big business practiced more espionage than the government—but he could set them another task. He made a mental note to ask Ash if she wanted him to try.

  She must have had an awful childhood. Never knowing who she was, where she came from, but worried about where she was going. How did she get the money for journalism school? By working like a dog and saving every penny, that’s how, he answered himself. His respect for her, high from the beginning, went up a few more notches.

  He left the bathroom, hair still towel-damp, and found her in the kitchen making dinner. “You know what I like about you, Ash?”

  She plopped a spoonful of butter in the frying pan. “My clean close shave?”

  He shook his head. “You’re really amazing, you know that?” he said.

  “It’s just an omelet. Boy, are you easily impressed.”

  “That’s not what I—yuck, don’t put tomatoes in!”

  “If you don’t like it,” she said with ruthless cheer, “then don’t eat it. Besides, this is mine. I’m just your baby-sitter tonight, not your chef.” She then proceeded to make the most disgusting egg dish in creation. On top of the eggs in the skillet, she threw gross quantities of chopped ham, tomatoes, green peppers, mushrooms, and mozzarella cheese. When everything was bubbling and oozing and melting, she expertly folded the omelet, cooked it a minute or so longer, then slid it onto a plate. He saw with horror that the bottom of the omelet was burned almost black, while the inside was still runny with raw egg and melted cheese, and so big it flopped over one end of the dish. She poured herself a large glass of milk, found a fork, and appeared ready to devour the thing with gusto.

  “Oh…my…God,” was all he could manage.

  “Yeah, Jeannie hates my omelets, too. And the weird thing is, this is the only way I can eat them. I hate restaurant omelets—they cook them all the way through, bleah.”

  “Bleah,” Victor echoed, kissing his temporarily returned appetite goodbye. “Did you see any saltines while you were in here?”

  Incredibly, she ate the whole thing, and then went looking for dessert. He managed to half-heartedly nibble on a few crackers and drink a glass of ginger ale. All he could think about was going to bed. He hoped Ashley wouldn’t mind if he turned in early, but hell, he’d had a hard day, and—

  “You should go to bed,” she informed him, popping the last bite of the ice cream sandwich in her mouth. “You’ve got these incredibly ugly circles under your eyes, and I didn’t think anything about your face could be ugly.”

  “Are you sure you don’t—”

  “This isn’t a date, Victor, remember? I’m here to make sure you don’t get really sick. You’re actually making my job easier if you go to bed now. But you know, I’ll have to keep waking you up every couple hours or so.”

  “It’d be a lot easier on you,” he said seriously, “if you slept in my room.”

  “But Victor,” she said innocently, “where would you sleep?”

  “Ouch.”

  “Nice try, though. Mind if I have another ice cream sandwich? You’ve got a great freezer.”

  “Uh…thanks.”

  “No, really. Nothing worse than mushy ice cream. This stuff is nice and hard. Besides, the alarm would keep waking you up.”

  He was having trouble following her, and he didn’t think it was because of the blow to the head. “Pardon?”

  “The alarm,” she said patiently, as if speaking to someone mentally impaired. “Every time it went off, it’d wake you up.”

  “Just so I understand, you won’t sleep with me because the alarm which tells you it’s time to wake me up, would wake me up?”

  “Well, yes. That, and I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you.” She said this so matter-of-factly he gulped. “I mean, you’re sick, for God’s sake. You should be worrying about getting better, not about me molesting you.”

  “You have permission to molest me whenever you like,” he told her, getting up. “I’m off to bed, then, gorgeous. I’ll see you in the morning.” He bent, which made his headache come back, and kissed her o
n the mouth, once, twice, three times, and then on the forehead. She giggled like a child and snatched at the belt holding his robe closed. He jumped back, avoiding her—not trying very hard, in truth—and went to bed, stopping on the way to drink a tall glass of water. It was too damn hot in here, that’s why he felt so lousy.

  * * * * *

  The first time she woke him, he grumbled good-naturedly but obediently reported his name, his mother’s name, his birthday, and the name of his first pet. The second time, closer to midnight, he was not so good-natured, but still answered her questions. Then he asked if she’d mind getting him a glass of water, and turning down the heat. “It is kind of warm in here,” she said, and did as he asked.

  Her alarm went off again at 2:30 in the morning and she stumbled down the hall, yawning, more asleep than awake. This must be what it’s like to have a baby, she thought. Up every couple hours to take care of it. Well, only a few more hours of this and then Vic was officially out of the woods—and really, he’d been a pretty good sport so far, considering how he must feel.

  She saw at once that he had kicked off the sheets and blankets, and taken off his flannel shorts as well. She stopped short in the doorway, her eyes adjusting to the room's gloom—what little light was given off by a soft light on the dresser, and she could now see him quite clearly. She was once again struck at his handsomeness…he had called her gorgeous on more than one occasion, and she supposed someone who looked like he did might know.

  Knowing she shouldn’t, and not much caring, she stood in the doorway and looked her fill. His limbs were long and lean with corded muscle, his forearms, chest, and legs lightly covered with crisp black hair. He slept with one arm thrown over his eyes and even from here she could see the bulge of his biceps. His stomach was taut, flat, smoothly muscled. His chest was broad and he had powerful shoulders. His cock was laying against his thigh, and she could see he was quite long, even though he was soft in sleep. Even if he never spoke a word or acted on a thought, she would have been content to simply look at him until the end of her days.