Liar Liar

by Donna Alam

  And then it’s not so hard to breathe anymore because the room begins to go dark.

  Pain follows darkness immediately. My throat feels crushed and I’m gasping, swallowing, desperately trying to inhale, desperately trying to breathe.

  Just breathe.

  Just breathe.

  Just breathe.

  Slowly, my focus begins to shift away from the pain in my chest and neck and my head, my lungs expanding, my body working as it should. But this shift brings me to another terror as I become aware of his fingers at the button of my pants. Something digging into my spine. The popping of buttons, another fierce squeeze. But I have bigger issues than his groping hands. Like staying alive.

  ‘I warned you,’ he hisses, spittle hitting my face. His mouth is wet and unwanted, the front of my blouse rending, the waistband of my pants digging into my hips. ‘I warned you.’

  I push ineffectually as he lowers his head again, his excitement a hot breath at my ear, a grasping between my legs.

  A bang, loud and clear, resounds through the space, my ears beginning to ring.

  And then my hands are hitting nothing but air, the weight of him no longer there.

  I roll into a ball, tears changing direction as they roll across my cheeks, fat and wet. Scuffles. Yells. Curses. I roll again, this time onto my hands and my knees as dirt flicks up my arm.

  My attention turns to the light spilling from the open doorway—not daylight—an electric light, flickering across a beast on the floor. A beast that roars and pounds. As it beats a man’s head into the ground.

  ‘For fuck sakes, Remy.’ The silhouette in the doorway sounds like Rhett. I cough out a very, very grateful laugh. One I’ll remember not to tell him about later.

  He pulls at the beast, still yelling. ‘He’s not worth the fucking paperwork.’

  The beast rolls and roars, and then I’m in his arms.

  He smells like bergamot and spice.

  And copper and dirt.

  He feels like home.

  Epilogue

  Remy

  The baby reaches out, catching Rose’s finger between five fat little digits.

  ‘You’re a natural.’ My voice breaks the connection between their gazes; a mutual appreciation society that isn’t taking applications for new memberships. But that’s okay. Rose and I have our own kind of club. One where I’ve promised her my undying devotion and truth above all else.

  I promised her truth and yet, still I lie.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she muses. The smile she sends my way is a burst of happiness to my heart that I will always try to deserve. ‘This baby looked very much at home in your arms earlier.’

  ‘Beginners luck,’ I answer, tipping back my head as though to study the precision in the weaving of the grass roof. We’re on the island of Sumba in Indonesia, on a resort I’d helped build with my own hands a few years ago, before Wolf Industries fell to me.

  ‘I don’t believe that. You’ll be a good dad,’ she answers. ‘I can tell.’

  But how can she, given the hand I was dealt?

  Few sons are like their father. Few are better. Many are worse.

  I thought I came into the last category. That I was worse than my father. I wish I could say I take comfort in the discovery that I’m not. With all my heart I wish I could say that my sins outstrip his because then Rose’s mother would never have suffered as she did.

  I hope the bastard is rotting in hell. I know Hayes the older rots from the inside out now that his grandson has distanced himself. He isn’t cut from the same cloth as the elder. A fact I’d begun to realise in the course of our dealings, dealings where he’d also expressed an interest in helping Rose raise funds for her own charity foundation. In a strange turn of events, Rose and my mother have become firm friends in the course of the venture.

  ‘Do you want to hold her?’ Rose asks, bouncing the tot in her arms.

  I shake my head. ‘The view from here is too beautiful to spoil.’

  She rests in a chair framed by the window; the wooden shutters open to the view beyond. Blue skies. Coconut palm swaying in the breeze. Bougainvillea winding its way around the pergola, brilliant pink against a wash of blue sky. The ocean laps at the sand a few short metres away, and the sun hangs like a brilliant jewel in the sky. And that’s not even the best part of this view.

  Rose is.

  She wears a gauzy white cover over a jade coloured bikini. Her skin berry-brown and her hair piled haphazardly on top of her head. She is Venus. Juno. Made of hills and valleys and curves as abundant as the love that pours from her heart.

  She is a prize I won’t ever deserve.

  But she’s mine anyway.

  That terrible day, when we’d arrived at a building that wasn’t the shack we’d anticipated, but a modest house at the end of a long track no one would ever happen across by accident, I knew I wasn’t afraid to die, should it come to that. I was only afraid of living a life without her.

  The windows were boarded up, the heavy doors locked. Everything about the place screamed abandoned. We found Ben’s car stowed out of sight in a nearby outbuilding, Rose’s suitcase in the back, a length of rope and a hunting knife in the trunk. The sight sent a shiver down my spine. That she might leave me tore me in two. That she may have been forced to leave, that she may have been murdered because of me, left me in a purgatory filled with helplessness and rage.

  Would I ever hold her again?

  Steal a kiss from her at the bottom of the staircase?

  And then, the sight of her on the dirt floor.

  Her voice no more than a pained whisper as she fought.

  Fought him off. I had a gun in my hand—I’d used it to break the lock—but I didn’t think to use it because I’d wanted to kill him with my bear hands.

  He was going to keep her there, she told the police, for reasons that made no sense. For revenge, for madness? I don’t think a sane person would ever understand—could ever understand. That’s not to say Ben is insane, though his legal team have begun to prepare this as a possible defence. As I understand, his premeditation will prevent any chance of this. We’ve told to expect he’ll go to prison for a very long time.

  However long, it won’t be enough.

  Some days I regret not killing him with my bare hands.

  Other days . . . well, I regret it those days, too.

  ‘Remy.’ I look up at the sound of my name. ‘Don’t look back, remember? We’re not going that way.’

  But how can I not dwell there when I will bear her grief forever? I’ll bear it because I can’t bring myself to tell her what happened to Noorah, to her mother, because it would only serve to break her heart. It isn’t about the money or business; it’s about protecting her from the impotent pain of not being able to change the past.

  She had little recollection of the photographs and documents Ben showed her that afternoon. Benzodiazepine has the nasty habit of not only rendering a person unconscious, given enough, but it also robs the memory. Which is why it’s often the date-rape drug of choice. Ben himself had little interest in the information the safe contained, except as a red-herring to serve her disappearance. He thought he’d learned all he needed to know.

  Then later, far from being abhorred by my lies, Rose listened as I’d explained how I’d looked for her in San Francisco—the misunderstanding that we can now look upon as fate. She understood how I’d needed to know the truth of who she was and how she came to be inheriting. It was never about the money, and she understood that. Her inheritance was never going to affect mine.

  The fact is, my father raised me to mistrust everyone and everything around me.

  Then he died and left me a secret of his own.

  I became obsessed with knowing the truth. Obsessed until I met her, when my obsession took the path to love. I was able to truthfully say to her that, by the time the final package arrived from the investigator, I didn’t care where she’d come from. I proposed, she accepted, and I’d planned to tell he
r about her inheritance following our wedding night, when I’d also tell her my wealth was now hers. Had she chosen to discover the truth, we could’ve faced it together. opened the package together.

  Instead, after all that had happened, after I’d discovered the horror of it, I’d told her a half-truth. I said that our parents were romantically involved a long time ago. That Emile left her shares in Wolf Industries because of that connection. I then set out to make sure those who knew the truth would never tell. I trust Rhett with my life. Carson Hayes III carries his grandfather’s shame. He has pledged to support Rose as she directs her inheritance to the benefit of others. To fight discrimination, homelessness, and poverty. All matters close to her heart.

  Going forward, I’ll carry this alone. I’ll make it up to her the only way I can.

  By pledging her my eternal love.

  ‘You’ve changed your mind?’ she asks as I stand and take the chubby babe from her arms. ‘See, no one can resist the charms of baby Beryl.’

  I press my lips to the top of my fiancée’s head. ‘I’m returning Ruby to her parents because you and I have plans.’

  ‘That sounds ominous,’ she says, her words ending in a playful curl.

  ‘Almost as ominous as marrying me in the morning.’

  ‘There’s still time for me to escape,’ she teases, chuckling as I reach the door when Ruby grabs my bottom lip, cooing delightedly.

  ‘Not for you,’ I murmur, though the words don’t quite come out that way as I peel baby fingers from my lip. ‘These lips belong to Tante Rose.’ I press a kiss to Ruby’s chubby fist. ‘She’s going to need them later when I tie her to the bed.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Her voice is pitched lightly, though I’m conscious of the way her eyes flare. Of how she presses her thighs together as she stretches out in the chair.

  ‘It’s a promise. There’s no escape, ma Rose.’

  ‘As if I’d even try. Don’t let Byron pour you a drink. Hurry back.’

  ‘I’ll be gone only long enough for you to make a list.’

  ‘A list of what?’ she asks, a little bemused now.

  ‘A list of all the things you want me to do to you between now and tomorrow morning.’

  ‘You mean between now and our wedding ceremony?’

  ‘Exactly. The way I look at it, the next fifteen hours will be the only time in your life you get to be fucked by someone other than your husband.’

  ‘Are you trying to manage my expectations, Remy Durrand? I don’t believe I’m looking forward to a lifetime of missionary with the lights off.’

  ‘Who knows what will happen after tomorrow. ‘Except that I will love her always. That she will always be my home. ‘We should put the next fifteen hours to good use. The kind of use that encourages unrestrained debauchery.’

  ‘Then what are you waiting for?’ she asks with a smirk. ‘Get baby Beryl back to where she belongs. It’s time we started baby making on our own.’

  ‘Ma Rose, I would like that very much.’

  THE END

  WANT A LITTLE MORE REMY & ROSE?

  Jump into the ahead and take a glimpse of their fabulous future in this

  extended epilogue

  In the following pages you can also check out a sneaky snippet of Amber’s story as she tries not to fall in love with a hot Aussie single dad in Down Under

  Acknowledgement

  To the usual cast of wonderful characters, my mahoosive thanks, but especially to Elizabeth (the keeper of the rear) who was at the beginning, the middle, and the end of this one.

  Thanks to Lisa for her encouragement and medical skillz, and to Michelle, the Bo-Peep of the Lambs, and excellent cheerleader.

  To Michelle C & Annette (good cop and also good cop) for trying to get my bum in some kind of order. I’m a work in progress.

  Thank you to the Lambs for hanging out in my corner of Romancelandia. You rock my socks! Also, thank you to you lovely people who pick up this book, the girlies who read my stuff religiously and those giving a Donna Alam book their first whirl. You both amaze and humble me. I just don’t possess the words to say exactly how much.

  Also, thanks to COVID and 2020 for giving me serious brain drain, along with a new “colleague” in the form of my daughter. How come it’s my office yet I have to make the coffee?

  Down Under Sneak Peek

  AMBER

  ‘Birthday sex.’

  ‘Sorry, sweetie. Repeat that, would you? I think the line dropped out.’

  ‘Birthday sex,’ I repeat into my phone, a little louder this time. Maybe a little too loud for these thickly carpeted and stylishly wallpapered hallways.

  ‘You’ve checked into a swanky hotel because you want to have . . . birthday sex? It’s barely five minutes after midnight. Have you already begun drinking?’

  ‘Emma, it’s after seven in the evening here. My birthday is almost over.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Right. Stupid time zones,’ she mumbles through a yawn as I’m overtaken by a sudden burst of warmth that she stayed awake long enough to call. As someone who also used to spend her day wrangling five-year-olds, I appreciate she’s probably beat.

  ‘I really miss your judgmental ass.’ I really do. ‘Are you gonna visit me soon?’

  ‘Just as soon as my credit card recovers from visiting you in Paris, Miss International Jetsetter.’

  ‘I’m not sure living out of a backpack and staying in hostels falls under jet-setting, Emma.’

  ‘Let me amend my previous statement. Just as soon as I’ve paid off my credit card, and you find somewhere else to stay. And speaking of beds, run that idea past me again, would you?’

  ‘You mean, the idea where I’m spending the night in a fancy hotel?’

  ‘No, the part where you said you planned to get laid.’

  ‘Well, Mom sent me some money. She said to get something nice, so I thought I’d get myself—’

  ‘A man.’ Emma’s flat tone borders disbelief. ‘That does not sound like you.’

  ‘It’s not every day you have a special birthday.’ The big 3-0.

  ‘True, but—’

  ‘And, well, I’ve recently realised that along with cake and candles, gifts and birthday drinks, every year since I turned twenty, I’ve always had sex on my birthday. So I decided a lack of boyfriend wasn’t going to make a difference this year.’

  ‘Okay . . . ’ Her chuckle rumbles down the line before morphing into another yawn.

  ‘I just decided to treat myself to a night in a nice hotel.’

  ‘And a man,’ she repeats.

  ‘Because sex in a backpacker’s hostel is not my idea of fun. I’ll be damned if my birthday celebrations are reduced to a quick drunken fumble under a sleeping bag in a communal sleeping space.’

  ‘Speaking from experience, are we?’

  ‘After the past month in Thailand, I have enough experience as the audience. Let me tell you, millennials literally give no fucks who might be watching when they fuck.’

  ‘So Thailand turned you into a voyeur?’

  ‘Quite the opposite.’ A shiver of distaste ripples down my spine, and I’m almost certain I heard the ping of elevator doors closing. I’m heading in the right direction, then.

  ‘Birthday sex,’ she mutters. ‘Seems to me you have a bit of a wild side. All this time, you’ve been holding out on me.’

  ‘Hardly. I’m like the Diet Coke of wild—wild-lite.’

  ‘Mildly wild,’ she adds with a snort.

  But I get where she’s coming from. If there truly is that kind of a girl, she’s not me. And my previous accommodations aren’t the only reason for my celibacy. I love sex and am a big fan of men in general, but sex is linked to intimacy for me. And intimacy equals a connection and, invariably, a relationship. And I’m far too busy for this kind of thing right now.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Emma decrees.

  ‘Crazy horny, maybe.’

  And therein lies the problem—yep, that’s totally what she said. She bein
g me. And she being sex deprived and super horny. Besides, I’ve been telling myself I’m all about experiences outside my comfort zone this year.

  ‘Okay, suddenly nympho, what else have you got planned for your first visit Down Under? You know, apart from finding someone to visit your down under?’

  ‘Never say that again. But I’m gonna do all the things!’ I begin to animatedly tick my bucket list items off the fingers of my left hand. ‘Walk across the Harbour Bridge, cuddle a koala—kiss a kangaroo!’

  ‘I wouldn’t try that one,’ Emma says. ‘Haven’t you heard of boxing marsupials? Plus, I heard they kinda smell.’

  ‘Visit the Opera House,’ I continue undeterred, ‘sun myself on Bondi Beach, and absolutely drink gallons upon gallons of fabulous Aussie wines. But first comes—’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Obviously,’ I reply with a snigger. ‘And hopefully, not just once. Then tomorrow, I’m going to eat my weight in macarons because ohmygod, I found this place on the web where the pastries are reported to be as good as Pierre Hermé.’

  ‘Amber, don’t taunt me,’ she half moans.

  ‘Emma, don’t make sex noises at me,’ I playfully moan back. Pierre Hermé is a patisserie in Paris with the best macaron ever. We’d gorged on them together when Emma had used some of her vacation time to visit me while I was living there, working as an au pair. ‘Anyhoo, I’m going to visit tomorrow, and I intend to eat my body weight in macarons while drinking coffee strong enough to stand a spoon in.’

  Because after that, I have to try to earn a little money. My plan is to travel around Australia for the next few months, taking in the sights while picking up a little work here and there. But for now, I’m just trying to find the elevator in this damn hotel. Where the hell have they hidden them?