Liar Liar

by Donna Alam

  ‘Rose. Pardonne-moi . . . Forgive me, but I do speak a little English. You might even say perfect English. But there’s no sense in spoiling our fun.’

  The way he says my name makes it sound like a whole other word. The rolling, guttural R. The low rumble. It’s so damn sexy. And the rest? Totally bedroom-y.

  ‘Wait, how do you know that was my name? Comment mon nom?’ Or at least it sounds something like that, I think.

  ‘L’hôpital?’

  I nod because this totally makes sense.

  ‘Si je . . . If I told you what I was doing on your doorstep, you might throw me out.’

  My shoulders rise and fall in a tiny shrug. But whatever he said, it sounded so sexy.

  ‘D’accord,’ he adds in a decisive tone.

  ‘Says who?’ I know d’accord means okay. But, ‘Okay to what?’

  ‘J’accepte je . . . I accept I have your permission to say what I like. I agree to your suggestion to give myself the freedom to say exactly what I think. First, I think I should say that you must be a good person to have brought me here, to have opened your home to me, to have taken care of me as you have. So, I’ll try to behave myself.’

  I’m pleased one of us is amused.

  ‘Mais je aussi . . . But I also can’t help but imagine what you’re wearing under your coat. Not a lot, as far as I can tell.’ He tilts his head, his gaze wandering down my body, his perusal almost a physical thing. ‘Which makes me wonder even more.’

  I’m probably imagining things. Imagining the basis of those looks which, coupled with the deep tenor of his voice, makes every word sound like an invitation to the bedroom.

  Or should that be boudoir?

  ‘Je pense . . . I think it’s a uniform of sorts, rather than something you’re wearing for your boyfriend, given your colourful explanation of just how single you are. Merci.’

  I know “merci” is thank you in French, so I reply, ‘You’re welcome,’ assuming he’s thanking me for my help.

  Lord, this conversation makes me feel like a horny terrier. If I don’t get laid soon, I might start humping fenceposts.

  What a shame he has a broken head.

  But getting back to our little tête-à-tête, I think he must be asking about my coat. He’s probably interested in why I’m still wearing it, judging by the fact that I am still wearing it, coupled with the way his eyes swept over me as he spoke.

  ‘It is a little warmer in here now,’ I begin to explain, ‘but believe me, you really don’t need to see what I’m wearing under here. Especially as, when I take off this coat, the girls are likely to make a break for freedom.’ If I haven’t popped at least one button tonight, I’ll be surprised.

  ‘J’aimerais . . . I’d like very much to see exactly what it’s concealing. The little I’ve seen so far, including when you embarrassed the poor doctor, makes me wonder if you’re some kind of dancer. In a club, perhaps? And speaking of concealment . . .’ He taps the tabletop, a smile catching at the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m as hard as this wood just thinking about what’s under your coat. I did warn you God wouldn’t welcome my confessions.’

  Tapping the table? Maybe he’s hungry. Any food that’s currently in the fridge has a white sticker slapped on it with Sarah’s name scrawled across it. Let’s just say I’m not big on grocery shopping, but I know there’s a little leftover Chinese takeout he can have.

  ‘I’m sure I can offer you better than this.’ I move to the table, leaning across to take Remy’s cup when he also grabs for it, which somehow results in him wearing the contents.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say as he jumps from the chair, pulling the damp fabric from his skin. I round the table, dish towel in hand, and begin to blot the liquid, following the damp slashes down. ‘I told you the coffee was terrible. You could’ve just poured it down the sink instead of wearing it, you know?’ I rub one spot of the garish fabric a little vigorously. ‘Do you know what else is terrible? This shirt. And coffee brown does not help its appearance at all.’

  My hands still as, under the towel, Remy’s body becomes rigid. My head also appears to be level with his junk.

  ‘Ton toucher n’aide . . . You touch doesn’t help my hard-on either.’ He catches my hands, stilling them by pressing them against the flat planes of his stomach. ‘Would you like to come up here?’ His smile turns mischievous. ‘Bien sûr . . . of course, you’re also welcome to go in the opposite direction.’

  I don’t know what he said. I only know it sounded sexual. Again. But it’s the nature of the French language. ‘You could make something as ordinary as ordering a baguette sounds sexy.’

  ‘Baguette?’ Along with his curious tone, Remy quirks a brow.

  Guess where my eyes go.

  Yep.

  Down.

  And he’s hard—through the hem of this God-awful shirt, the man has a little French stick action. Little? He probably needs planning permission for an erection that size.

  And yes, my eyes are still glued to his crotch. I’m likely drooling, looking at him like I’d slather his baguette in butter and lick it clean. But in less crazy news, I slide my hands from under his, then straighten and pull away.

  ‘I almost got down on my knees. Like praise the Lord, I’ve been saved!’ I find myself waving my hands in the air like a Baptist on Sunday, acting about as crazy as I feel. It defuses the heat of the moment as Remy begins to chuckle. But Lord, even the deep sound of his laughter is sexy. I’m totally having a moment here as the sun streams through the kitchen window and bathes this god of a man in a golden light.

  ‘Si tu étasi . . . If you were on your knees, it wouldn’t be God I’d be praising.’ So damn sexy as, with a gruff chuckle, his fingers move to the hem of his shirt. ‘Ce n'est pas . . . This isn’t an invitation, by the way.’ He flicks a button loose.

  And another.

  And another.

  And all the while, I’m watching. And also torturing the dish towel in my hand.

  ‘À moins . . . Unless you want it to be.’ His tone is low and husky, and then because God is loving and benevolent, and probably thinks I deserve reward for my ridiculousness, Remy slips the shirt from his shoulders, balling the monstrosity in one fist.

  ‘C’est trop mouillé . . . It’s too wet.’ His murmur is accompanied by an apologetic shrug.

  I feel like I should tell him there’s no need to apologise, not on my part, but my mouth doesn’t seem to be working. Be still my beating heart, the man looks like he should be on the cover of a magazine. I’m thinking maybe Men’s Health or something like that, though if there’s a magazine out there called Virile and Manly, Remy could be their poster boy. Or maybe it could be a tattoo magazine, if they do them, because the man is inked. Swirls of black and blood red roses, patterns and whirls cover his upper chest, cresting his shoulders and traversing halfway down both arms. He is a study in deliciousness, his body made of strong lines and ridges, and those muscles that look like handles at his hips. Well, they were sure made for handling.

  He was easy on the eyes fully dressed, but now? This is like being offered a cake with a cookie inside. I can’t seem to stop looking at him. But as his fist tightens around his shirt, I find my manners again.

  ‘Your . . . your shirt. Of course! Here I am, watching you like a starving man staring at a sandwich, when you’re probably worried you’ll catch a chill! Here, let me put it in the washing machine.’ I step forward, grabbing the balled-up shirt from his hand when he dips his head, his lips suddenly just a breath away from my ear.

  ‘Es-tu mouillé aussi? Are you wet, too?’

  I shiver as I straighten, something hot and heady suddenly coursing through my veins. ‘I’m sorry,’ I find myself whispering as I tip my head to look at him. Like a moth around a flame, I’m unable to pull away. ‘Mouillé. I think you said that twice. But I still don’t understand.’

  ‘Demandez-moi . . . Ask me if I’d like to find out. I must’ve hit my head very hard, Rose. I’m not normally so forth
right. Or honest.’

  ‘I wish I knew what you were saying.’ I hear the longing in my own voice and immediately feel embarrassed. But not for long, not as he reaches out to take a lock of my hair between his fingers.

  ‘J’aimerais . . . I wish I could tell you. God knows, you are tempting.’

  ‘Well, it’s been a long night,’ I begin, stepping away as I remind myself the side of this conversation I don’t get might not be as inviting as it sounds. Maybe he’s complaining. Maybe he’s unimpressed. I suppose there’s only one way to find out. ‘In a few hours, I’ll be able to call my friend, Amber. She speaks French. I was thinking she might translate for us.’

  ‘J’espère que votre . . . I hope your friend is broadminded.’

  ‘Again, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It’s not like you understand. Which is maybe just as well, or I might be about to say something completely inappropriate. Something like, I think this is where I get you into bed.’

  His response is as slow and as sweet as spilled honey, and I’d be tempted to sell a kidney just to understand what he’s says as he answers.

  ‘C’est probablement la meilleure offer j’ai eue toute l’année.’

  5

  Rose

  ‘When you smile like that, it doesn’t matter what language you speak. I probably wouldn’t hear the words anyway.’

  ‘Pour mémoire . . . For the record, I said that’s probably the best offer I’ve had all year. So show me the way to this bed, and I will show you anything you like because I liked how you looked at my cock earlier. Did you know you almost licked your lip when you saw how hard I was? I don’t like to be boastful, but it’s worth taking a look at. In fact, the only thing to make it look better would be to see it wrapped in those pretty lips of yours.’

  ‘That was a whole lot of sexy. You know, you talk, and it hits me right in the feels. And when I say feels, I mean . . . well, you don’t need to know where I mean.’

  ‘Dans la chatte?’

  Wait, doesn’t chatte mean cat in French? Does he think I’m talking about a cat? Or, ohmygod, could chatte also mean pussy? And if so, is he piecing this together somehow? I take a deep, cleansing breath and push my mind on to more sensible things.

  ‘I think we both need some rest, but you especially. With Amber’s help, we can talk about, well, everything, but later.’ But not about pussies or dildos. Never those. ‘When we’re not feeling so . . .’

  ‘Corné?’

  ‘Did you just say horny, or am I losing my ever-loving mind? You know what?’ I press both hands to my head as I turn from him, then close my eyes and take a deep breath. ‘Don’t answer that.’ Then as fast as my tired legs will carry me, I leave the room, his deep chuckle following me. ‘This way,’ I call over my shoulder. Then add in an undertone, ‘There’s no sense in being ridiculous without an audience.’

  ‘Il est verrouillé? It’s locked?’

  It doesn’t take a French speaker to guess what he’s asking me as I rattle Sarah’s bedroom door.

  ‘What a bitch,’ I grumble, swinging around and giving the door a kick with my heel. ‘She put a lock on her door and didn’t even ask.’

  ‘Un colocataire? A roommate? Ah, that makes sense.’

  ‘It’s my security deposit that’ll pay for that,’ I complain. ‘Why’d she need a lock on there anyway? It’s not like she could’ve anticipated I’d be letting a strange Frenchman sleep in her bed tonight, is it?

  ‘J'ai vu . . . I’ve seen your sofa. No one over three-foot-tall could get any rest there.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll take the sofa. I shouldn’t sleep anyway. Not if I’ve got to check on you every two hours.’

  ‘Tu ferais ça . . .You’d do that for me?’ Remy reaches out, his thumb smoothing the crease between my brows. ‘I didn’t think there were people like you in the world anymore.’ His hand cups my face, those unusually green eyes of his suddenly so intense. ‘You take me to the hospital. You stay with me. You bring me home like a lost puppy. And now you want to give me your bed? Non, chérie.’

  His words pitched low, and the cadence of his voice is so soft and so sweet sounding, it’s all I can do not to lean in to him. Instead, I sort of force my butt along the wall, sliding in the direction of my bedroom.

  My bedroom.

  Virgin man-territory.

  The room. And me, I suppose, since I moved into it. Revirginized, anyway

  But then, as we pass the bathroom, a thought occurs to me.

  ‘Douche?’

  ‘J’espère sincèrement . . . I sincerely hope you don’t mean that in the American way.’

  Judging by his expression, maybe that was the wrong word.

  ‘Gel douche? That’s shower gel,’ I murmur to myself. ‘The word for shower is in there somewhere.’

  ‘Vous êtes adorable . . . You’re adorable when you’re concentrating, do you know that? You do this thing where you roll your bottom lip inwards, which is not only cute but also very sexy. I think you probably pull the same face when you’re touching yourself.’

  I stumble backwards a little, my insides pounding to the beat between my ears as it appears as though he’s about to caress my lip. Clutching the doorframe with my hand, I slip into the tiny bathroom, immediately grabbing a fresh towel from the shelf. I drop it over the edge of the tiny tub. ‘It’s the one thing this apartment is missing. A tub I mean. Well, not the one thing. But it’s the one thing I miss. Prendre un douche!’ I announce, the words somehow slotting together in my head.

  ‘Était-ce une invitation . . . That seemed more like a demand than an invitation to shower. Is there room for two? Will you’ll scrub my back for me?’

  ‘That seemed like a lot of questions.’ I sigh. ‘I don’t know what the answers are, but I know you can’t get your stitches wet.’ Pushing up onto my tiptoes, I turn and I grab Sarah’s shower cap from where she’s stashed it before pushing it into his hands. ‘Here, you can use this.’

  ‘Trés attrayant . . . very attractive.’ He quirks a brow, his expression painting a thousand words.

  ‘It’s not a fashion show. No one is going to see.’

  ‘Il ne doit pas y avoir . . . There’s to be no back scrubbing, then?’ He stares at the cap in his hand as though alien.

  ‘I’m just gonna . . . leave you to it,’ I say, sliding between Remy and the basin, then closing the door behind me.

  I blow out a breath, long and hard, as I rest my back against the wrong side of the bathroom door. I’m not straining to hear, well, not much, but I swear I hear the sound of his zipper shortly followed by the thud of his boots—one, two—hitting the floor. His belt buckle clangs against the tile and, oh, my, I have a naked man in my bathroom. Naked but for a floral shower cap. But naked—butt naked!!

  I slap a hand across my mouth to smother a near hysterical snigger as the shower curtain screeches once, twice, the shower squeaking in protest as he turns it on. The next sound is the one that propels me along the hall long after I should’ve already left. A low groan of appreciation sounds as the water hits him, the tenor almost pornographic.

  ‘I’m not thinking about him,’ I mutter, pulling open the hall closet and throwing his awful shirt into the washing machine. I briefly consider slipping into the bathroom to grab the rest of his clothes—and not because I’m thinking about him, all slick and sudsy in the steamy room. Much. ‘I’m also not thinking about spying on him. I’m just what you might call a considerate host.’

  I decide against the laundry dash, mostly because I’m a chickenshit. Powering on the machine, I exhale a harsh, ‘Shit!’ at the same time as Remy’s yell sounds from along the hall.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ The washing machine and the shower do not exist in any form of symbiotic harmony. Quite the opposite, because if the washing machine is switched on when the shower is running, the water feels like it’s being pumped from the Arctic.

  I hurry along the hallway to shout my apologies when a loud thud sounds from the other si
de of the bathroom door.

  Oh my God. He might’ve slipped and fallen with the shock—please not a concussion on top of a concussion. I’m supposed to be looking after him, for God’s sake!

  ‘Remy?’ I call, hammering the side of my fist against the door. ‘Remy!’ I twist the handle, too worried to wait when the door springs wide, and I stumble against an expanse of toned and tan chest. Under my fingertips, his skin is warm and smooth and so very firm.

  ‘Rose?’ Did you know you can actually hear someone smile?

  I don’t look up, and I’m not sure my reluctance stems purely from embarrassment.

  ‘I thought you might have fallen.’

  Some nurse I am. I tell myself that I’m just checking on him—that I shouldn’t be surprised to see my fingers widen against his pectoral because I’m just making sure he’s okay. The motion disturbs a bead of water, my eyes tracking the rivulet with the care of a cartographer as it rolls down the landscape of his broad chest. Though not a very diligent cartographer as I become distracted by the trail of downy hair under his navel to where it disappears into the towel tucked low on his waist.

  I realise I’m staring—staring like I’m wearing X-ray specs.

  Unfortunately, I’m not wearing them. And I’m happy he can’t read my thoughts as Remy’s hand suddenly cups my chin, raising my gaze to his almost moss green and languid ones. Honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d still been wearing Sarah’s shower cap because his level of attractiveness trumps any kind of ridiculous headgear. The shade of his eyes seem to almost change with his mood.

  One hand on my face becomes two as he leans in to press his lips to my left cheek, then my right. His whispered words, though French, are nothing short of perfect.

  ‘Merci . . . Thank you for worrying about me.’

  I pull away with a sense of reluctance I feel deep in my bones. But this isn’t about me and what I want. This is about taking care of the man who’s been attacked. A man with a head injury.