Liar Liar

by Donna Alam

  ‘And why did you call him petite loup?’ I ask, trying to keep up with her as she darts along the hallway as though escaping the police. ‘Loup is wolf, right?’ Remy wasn’t predatory, not as I recall. It can’t have been a cute name for his dick, not the size of that thing. Unless she means it ironically. I glance her way, and I decide she has no knowledge of Remy Durrand’s mighty baguette because if she did, she wouldn’t be looking so disconcerted.

  ‘His father was the wolf; he is the wolf cub. He is, la ruse . . . what is the word in English?’ she muses as we turn a corner. ‘Cunning! Le petite loup, the young wolf is cunning.’

  Was it charm or cunning that led him to my bed?

  I know which I’d like to think it was. I’m also not sure I’d be right, not after this morning.

  We enter an airy reception, a verbal exchange taking place between Alice and a woman acting as sentry behind an imposing industrial design desk. With the hauteur of a queen, she gestures us to a butter-soft leather sofa where we wait. And wait.

  An older man is admitted to the double doors, exiting a few minutes later without the paperwork he’d carried in. Another man leaves, but not before perching his ass on the corner of the older administrator’s desk and beginning to speak to her in French—French with a clearly British accent. A one-sided conversation too, as the woman just swats his arm with a folder, turning her attention back to her computer screen.

  ‘We won’t be long here, will we?’ I whisper to Alice.

  ‘Have you got somewhere to be?’ the man asks, amused.

  My cheeks begin to sting, and I begin to stammer an answer as the older woman seems to take pity on me, gesturing us toward the imposing double doors.

  One quick rap and Alice gingerly pushes the door open.

  ‘Entre,’ comes the commanding reply in a voice I still seem to summon in my dreams.

  She pushes the door wider as I consider her earlier words about his bark being worse than his bite. If that’s the case, why does she look like she’s entering the wolf’s den and worried she’s about to have her head bitten off? Whatever, she might be the appetiser, but something tells me I’m about to be his entrée.

  And not in the fun, sexy kind of way, either.

  Remy Durrand not Durrant. Not so hard to confuse.

  Maybe if I’d have paid more attention, I’d have googled him more successfully. And then I would’ve learned the job I’d been offered was working for the man I’d had the sexy times with.

  What I still don’t understand is how he looked so surprised.

  And so pissed.

  And why the heck did he storm off instead of looking pleased his nefarious plan had come together?

  Has jet lag made me lose my mind?

  The first thing I notice is the size of the room. It’s huge, double height, and filled with light thanks to the wall of glass providing breathtaking views over a marina filled with million-dollar yachts and farther to the Mediterranean Sea. Would these be multimillion-dollar or billion-dollar views?

  A dark table dominates one side of the room, a dozen classic white Swan chairs clustered around it. Blue marbled panels stand sentry behind an imposing modernist-era desk; the chair behind it unoccupied. The same for the black leather and chrome Le Corbusier lounge setting placed in the middle of the room. Despite the light and space, the room is decidedly masculine. Not least of which is the man standing on the far side of it, his broad shoulders framed by a sea of blue.

  ‘You asked to see me?’ Alice’s voice wavers ever so slightly. I find I’m almost surprised she’d spoken in English, considering how in the elevator on the way up she’d mumbled in nothing but French. And let me tell you, none of it had sounded complimentary. It wasn’t just her tone which made me think I was in trouble because I’d also spent two hours in an office where the people around me murmured frantically while trying—and failing—not to send their troubled glances my way. I gather my employment is an issue. That no one knows what to do with me. That no one seems to know why I’m here.

  I also gather Alice doesn’t intend on taking the blame.

  Oh, I’ve been treated well enough, and I was even taken to the staff restaurant for lunch, which was pretty swanky. But I haven’t been issued a desk or a locker and not once has anyone mentioned my job.

  Like the lanyard hanging around my neck, I feel like a visiteur.

  ‘Laisse nous.’

  I don’t need to understand French to know he just issued a dismissal, confirmed as Alice darts from the room.

  ‘Bonne chance.’ Her gaze darts my way as she passes, shooting me a brief grimace of a smile. The door then closes with an ominous clunk.

  I don’t move, at a loss what to think or say. Why am I here? Why in the world would he set up such an elaborate second meeting? This isn’t about sex, that much is clear. Not the way he looked at me earlier in the hallway. Not the way he’s looking at me right now.

  My goodness, the man is like an artisan chocolate; mouth-wateringly tasty and wrapped to appeal, but with hidden layers of delicious his outer coating doesn’t reveal. I wish I could say the same for my outfit as I twist the belt on my dress, silently cursing its resemblance to a sack as, without officially acknowledging my presence, Remy strolls to his desk. With his back facing me, he begins sifting through a folder.

  ‘Róisín Ryan,’ he announces without turning. Points to him for making my name sound less like raisin than Alice did. Also, minus points for the low rumble of his voice that reminds me of that night. Like I need that kind of aural memory.

  ‘Born June twenty-ninth,’ he continues in that delectable accent of his. Despicable; I definitely meant despicable. ‘1994, in Knoxville, Tennessee, to the late Nora Ryan, nee Awad. That’s an Arabic surname, right?’ With the question, he turns his head over his shoulder, glancing briefly my way.

  Okay, handsome. So we’ve established my ancestry is a little hodgepodge; a little Irish and a little something else. And while I don’t know what I was expecting, I’m certain it wasn’t this.

  ‘Do you investigate every girl you’ve slept with?’ I fold my arms across my chest, my hip seeming to cock with an attitude all on its own. ‘Send them weird gifts afterwards, too?’

  ‘Weird?’ He turns to face me then, negligently arranging himself on the desk, one leg bent, the other out straight. If you can’t man-spread in your own office, where can you? But this isn’t about his comfort. This is a declaration of strength, of dominance. He’s the big cat in the room. Or wolf, as the case may be.

  Got it.

  Loud and clear.

  But, be warned, this little mouse also has sharp teeth.

  ‘A coffee machine?’ I reply derisively, fingers fluttering in the air, matching the inconsequence of my words, as though I’m used to receiving much more suitable gifts from my hordes of admirers. In truth, I appreciated every one of the things he sent, including the coffee machine, which I sold to help make my rent. ‘And now the weirdest of all, a job.’

  I hope to high heavens that I’m not right about this.

  I deserve a break. I need the money!

  ‘Am I to surmise you liked your previous position waitressing?’ He says “position” like it’s something dirty, and my spine stiffens instantly. His eyes dip from my face to my chest, and just as I think he’s about to twist the knife by making some comment about my boobs, he adds, ‘I much prefer your hair that way.’

  What way? Like in one braid instead of two?’ Or could he be talking about my blonde wig? The wig I wasn’t wearing the night I met him. Could he have visited the Pussy Cat? I push aside the unpleasant thought. He can’t have, I know. I’d have noticed someone like him in there, and if he’d called on one of my nights off, it would’ve been marked on the board in the dressing room. There are always customers to be wary of, and the dancers in the Pink Cat would make sure everyone knew who to be cautious around. Often, the board would mention other customers of note.

  Brad Pit lookalike. Handsy. Stingy. Not w
orth the time.

  To be avoided at all costs.

  Harold. Looks like a hobo, tips like a king.

  Smart to show the man a little attention.

  I try not to think what the board would say about Remy, mustering a reply instead.

  ‘Whether I liked waitressing or not doesn’t matter.’ My heels click angrily against the highly polished floor. ‘Because I lost my job the night I decided to play nurse to you.’

  Why did I move closer? I could’ve pointed my finger at him from the other side of the room. Maybe because I wouldn’t be standing this close to him, remembering how good he smells or noticing the tiny scar through his eyebrow. I don’t need to be this close unless I really intend on slapping him, which isn’t me at all. I don’t let men get under my skin, not the cute ones and definitely not the expensive and dangerous ones. All I know is none of this reality makes sense, yet I draw closer still. From slapping distance to the almost kissing kind.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ he answers, sounding almost sincere. Almost.

  ‘I might’ve been born at night, but it wasn’t last night.’

  His eyes narrow, verdant green turning almost black. ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘Put yourself in my place. And you’d better believe I wouldn’t be standing here if I’d known from the start this was some kind of game.’

  ‘I play no game.’ Annoyance flickers to life in his expression, fading just as fast.

  ‘I find that hard to believe. But what do I know? I thought you only spoke French.’

  ‘An assumption.’ His lips quirk in something that isn’t quite a smile. ‘After all, you never asked.’

  ‘I was told by the hospital staff!’ I try to temper my response without much success. ‘Hospital staff you lied to.’

  Ah! This is why I needed to be close—so I could poke him in the chest. His broad, firm chest that I know to be the colour of caramel and covered in dramatic swirls of ink.

  In an echo of that first night, Remy catches my finger, pressing my hand to the centre of his chest, and covering it with his own. Ridiculously, I wonder if Alice knows what’s lying under his shirt. How warm his skin is. How beautiful he is.

  ‘You’ll remember I had suffered a blow to the head. I probably came around speaking French. It is, after all, my mother tongue.’

  The mention of his tongue in that stupid accent of his makes my blush deepen.

  And yes, it is a stupid accent.

  Stupid sexy.

  ‘I did not lie. You, on the other hand . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shall we start with your name?’

  ‘You are unbelievable,’ I mutter, pushing my hand solidly against his chest as my cheeks begin to prickle with annoyance.

  ‘Unlike you, who even made the doctor blush.’

  ‘It was necessary at that point.’ I glower back at him, his own gaze dancing merrily in response.

  ‘It was a nice touch to the story,’ he purrs, ‘but what reason would you have to embellish? To lie? Then to go along with it afterwards?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’ There’s no way I’m admitting I felt sorry for him being all alone in a foreign country. Or that I just wasn’t ready to let him go. Because that’s just hilarious, right? ‘You could’ve mentioned at a later point that you spoke English. You know, when you remembered,’ I retort snarkily.

  ‘Perhaps I was saving your blushes. Do you make it a habit of confessing your innermost thoughts to complete strangers?’

  It’s clear he’s not saving my blushes right now as I open my mouth to respond, finding no words within reach.

  ‘What was it you said? You hadn’t had the pleasure for over a year? Was that true?’

  Sweet mother-of-pearl, the man is as hot as he is annoying. And the fact that he is annoying is the reason I won’t mention that, up until just now, I was sure the sex we’d had back then would be enough to tide me over for another year.

  Now, standing this close to him, I’m not so sure.

  ‘I’m not sure I mentioned sex,’ I reply evasively.

  ‘I’m pretty sure the only thing we spoke of was sex.’ His tone is even, but there’s a glint of provocation in his gaze.

  I find myself inhaling audibly as he reaches out, drawing his forefinger lightly down my cheek. Heat blooms deep inside me at the touch.

  ‘That’s not fair.’ I’m not sure if I mean his words or his touch. I wet my lips, telling myself that my voice is suddenly husky because my throat is dry, and that it has nothing to do with thirsting for him. ‘You deliberately kept me in the dark.’

  ‘It was for your own good.’

  ‘No man gets to decide what’s right for me. If there’s one thing my mother taught me, it was that.’ Even if I came by that lesson watching her mistakes.

  Whether my mulish reply is responsible for the change in his demeanour, or the mention of my mother, I’m not sure. He might not physically withdraw, but it’s almost as though a barrier has fallen between us. But if I’m sure of one thing it’s that the man in front of me isn’t the light-hearted tourist I found on my doorstep that night. The real Remy seems calculating, mercurial even, as his attention moves to the manila folder to the side of him.

  He flips it open, sifting through the sheets of paper inside.

  ‘Your mother, Nora?’ His eyes are shrewd as they meet mine.

  Her name was Noorah, but he hasn’t earned the right to that information.

  ‘What of her?’ I draw myself to the full extent of my five-foot-seven height in heels, determined not to be caught off guard by his change of pace.

  ‘On your medical insurance application, it states your blood type is AB positive. Is that correct?’

  ‘Last time I checked,’ I answer facetiously as he reaches out and grasps a silver Mont Blanc pen. He turns the page and begins jotting notes. ‘Just like my personality. A be positive person.’

  It’s a dumb joke, as well as a stretch right now, but as he doesn’t acknowledge my answer, it definitely falls flat.

  ‘Do you happen to know what blood type your mother was?’

  ‘I do.’

  His pen poised over the page, he turns his head, his eyes flaring angrily, his words staccato. ‘This is important.’

  ‘Jeez, chill out. Fine.’ I’m pleased my response sounds so unaffected. It’s so jarring to feel like I know him when I don’t really know him at all.

  ‘Well?’ His expression is unchanging.

  ‘I guess your parents deserve a refund from that charm school of yours. My mother was the same as me. AB positive. What’s this about, anyway?’

  ‘You’re sure?’ His eyes appear suddenly darker, and there’s an intensity in his gaze that’s a little unnerving. This isn’t the playful or languid gaze of the man who crept from my bed while I slept. And I’m sorry to say that it doesn’t make me want him any less.

  There, I admit it. At least I kept it to myself this time, English or otherwise.

  ‘How sure are you?’

  Can you simultaneously want to wrap yourself around a man while also wanting to wrap your hands around his neck?

  ‘I spent two years of my childhood caring for her while cancer ate her from the inside out. I’m pretty sure I know her blood type.’

  There is so much of this time marked indelibly on the walls of my brain. Her diagnosis, our tears, our denials. Clinic visits. Chemotherapy. Radiotherapy. The way she cried in my arms as the so-called love of her life bailed on her following her diagnosis, but not before he’d emptied the little she had in her bank account. The last in a line of men who promised her the earth and delivered nothing but dirt.

  The death of a parent is the natural order of things, so they say. But no kid needs to see their mother wasting away.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His words are delivered with a softness that contradicts his firm expression. ‘I don’t mean to be unfeeling, but this is important.’

  ‘I don’t see how. I also don’t understand why I�
��m here.’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ he murmurs, turning away and jotting something down.

  I can’t have heard that right, can I?

  ‘What are you doing?’ I try to get a glimpse of the notes he’s jotting down when he suddenly flicks the folder closed.

  ‘What I’m doing is thinking.’ He drops the pen to the desk, his head suddenly bowed. His hands grasp the edge of his desk, his knuckles so pronounced I wouldn’t be surprised to see the glossy wood snap.

  ‘It looked like you were doodling to me,’ I find myself babbling. ‘Are you one of those people who draws little hearts and stars in margins while you’re thinking?’ I know I am, though I’m more a flower-doodling girl. ‘Or maybe you’re nervous about something?’

  ‘No,’ he answers, laughter lightening his voice. ‘Why, should I be?’

  And oh, my God, for the first time since I walked into his office, I get a glimpse of the man I found on my doorstep that night. A flash of white teeth. The playful grin.

  ‘What I am,’ he says as he begins to loosen his shirt at the cuff, ‘is relieved.’ A silver cuff link drops to the desktop, and he begins to fold the brilliant white fabric back. I feel like I’m watching something intimate; something that should only be available by pay per view.

  ‘Is that supposed to be reassuring?’ My voice lacks conviction and strength, and I’m not sure if I mean his verbal statement or the shirt folding one, or even the way he’s looking at me like I already belong to him. My gaze falls to the watch on his wrist; the same one he wore that night. The weathered leather strap, the masculine face. It’s at odds with the rest of his appearance, yet it’s somehow completely him.

  ‘Oh, sh—sugar!’ I find myself grabbing his forearm in both of my hands, holding it between us. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  Before I can pull away, he captures my hand, his fingers looping around my wrist to draw me closer to him. ‘We are not done.’

  ‘Aren’t we?’ I pull against his hold. ‘I’ll miss the staff bus if I don’t get there in five minutes.’ And it’ll probably take me all of those five minutes to find my way out of this labyrinth of a building. Shit! Fee said the staff drivers are ruthless when it comes to the timetabled pickup times.