Текст книги "Lie to You"

Автор книги: J. C. Valentine

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

THREE

I brush my hands down the dress I borrowed from Annie as I step out of the car. It’s a gorgeous baby doll style, black and white floral that hugs my upper torso and floats away, starting from the waist down. On Annie, the dress would graze her shins. On me, however, the length is daring, falling just shy of my knees. It’s the curse of being tall. Well, taller than her. But thankfully, the scoop neck keeps it modest enough to meet the parents.

My nerves are shot, and as I stare up at the sizeable Tudor-style mansion, I’m questioning why I agreed to do this. It’s something I’ve been agonizing over since Ransom conned me into being his date last night. I almost backed out numerous times. He still hasn’t provided me with his number, but I have Rebel’s. Unfortunately, every time I took out the business card that he left me and picked up the phone to call, I chickened out. So, here I am.

The Scott estate is stunning. Two stories with a large peaked roof, deep front porch decorated with colorful hanging baskets, and white wooden rocking chairs. Rich hunter green shutters surround every window on this stately house that appears warm and inviting.

It sits on River Road, a location known for its historic—and pricey—homes. The neighborhood is comprised primarily of lawyers, doctors, business owners, and the like. In other words, this is where the wealthy dwell.

I came alone, unwilling to get trapped here if I find a need to make a speedy exit. It’s the best decision I’ve made yet. As I walk up the flagstone path, Ransom steps out onto the porch. His smile is wide as he takes me in, and I paste on a friendly smile of my own, though barely.

I’ve never met anyone’s parents before. Keeping my relationships superficial has afforded me the ability to maintain a certain level of distance from people. Annie is different, though. Like me, she’s alone in the world, though hers is a self-imposed solidarity.

This situation is entirely new to me, and highly uncomfortable. I’ve gone through great pains putting myself together today in order to look the part of a nice, wholesome woman instead of a girl who takes her clothes off for a living. Thankfully, with school being nearly over, I won’t have to worry about that much longer.

I realize that Ransom knows none of this as I climb the two steps onto the porch and lean in to allow him to graze his lips over mine.

“You look fantastic.” Ransom beams as he takes hold of my hand and guides me to turn in a full circle. “If dinner wasn’t moments from being done, I’d give you a tour of my old bedroom growing up.”

There’s that sly smile again. I bite my lip, holding back a laugh. Ransom certainly knows how to make me smile. “What’s for dinner?”

“My favorite.” He doesn’t elaborate.

Keeping hold of my hand, he leads me inside. My gaze flits around, trying to take in my surroundings as we cut a quick path from the entry straight through to the kitchen located at the back of the house.

From what I glimpsed, the home boasts an open floor plan with a receiving and dining room at the head of the house, and a large staircase separating the rooms. The décor is rich, done up in mostly creams and gold, but it’s not overdone. It’s to the style of the house, which I can appreciate. I’m sure everything here is valuable, but I didn’t see any Renoir or Rembrandts hanging on the walls.

My overall assessment: It feels livable.

A woman with blue-black hair, a few shades darker than my own and pulled back in a severe knot, moves around the kitchen, her back to us as she checks the stove and stirs pots. She’s on the short side, is slim and is dressed in a pristine white cocktail dress beneath her pink ruffled apron.

This must be Mrs. Scott.

As Ransom tugs me over to the substantial island to make introductions, my gaze is drawn to the large bank of windows that line the entire rear wall and allow in copious amounts of natural light. Beyond a sprawling red cedar deck lays a short track of green lawn that spills into the calm waves of the Maumee River. Sailboats coast along in the distance and a little ways down, along the rocky shore, stands a couple of men in wading boots fishing.

I am transfixed by the serenity of the moment. In all my life, I’ve never experienced such a thing and I find myself fantasizing about a life where I wake up to scenes like this. I’d spend the weekends sipping hot tea in one of the Adirondack chairs, wrapped in a cozy blanket, with a book to keep me company.

I’m so lost in my fantasy that I miss Ransom’s attempt to gain my attention. When his face enters my line of vision, I blink out of my daze. Looking up, I find that he and the woman are both staring at me in amusement. She is stunning. Her dark hair paired with those sharp, midnight eyes are an exact match for Ransom’s and I can see plainly where he and Rebel got their looks from.

I realize I still haven’t said anything.

“Excuse me,” I say, laughing nervously as I hurry to get my brain up to speed. “This place is amazing. You have a lovely home.”

Holding out her hand, Mrs. Scott shakes mine. “Thank you. My husband, Vincent, had it built for me. I love it.”

“With a view like that, how can you not?” We both laugh at this. Hers is a tinkling, musical laugh lacking any pretense or falsehoods. I wasn’t expecting that.

“Josephine, this is my mother, Seraphim. Mom, this is my girlfriend, Joe.” Ransom’s chest expands. He looks proud.

I like that. It’s a good feeling, having someone be proud to be with me. I find myself beaming back at him. “It’s very nice to meet you, Seraphim.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” she replies. “My son failed to tell me he found himself such a catch though.” Her dark eyes scan my form, though not maliciously. The way she does it is appreciative. It reminds me of my tendency to people watch, studying others and judging how well all their parts match up. There’s nothing but abject curiosity burning behind those eyes.

“Mom,” Ransom complains, though he’s still smiling, which tells me he’s enjoying this. “Don’t run this one off. She’s skittish.” I give him a sharp look and he winks at me.

The oven timer goes off, saving me from a potentially uncomfortable exchange and Seraphim whirls back into motion. When she opens the oven door, the smell of cinnamon fills the room and I inhale deeply.

“Mmm, what smells so wonderful?” I ask.

Turning, Seraphim’s mitted hands set down a bubbling dish. Inside, I see slivers of fruit that have been caramelized in their own juices, and a crumbled topping.

“I made Summer Cobbler for dessert,” she declares. “It contains a medley of peaches, nectarines, and plums I found at the farmer’s market down the road.”

“Mom makes the best dessert,” Ransom states as he draws her into a one-armed hug and kisses the top of her head.

“I can’t wait to taste it.”

After assuring that the dessert will go perfectly with what she’s planned for dinner, Seraphim directs me and Ransom to set the dinner table.

We get to work laying out the fine China. The herringbone pattern is yet another thing that catches my eye and I admire the dishes as I place them just right around the oblong table.

“You never told me what we’re having for dinner,” I say to break the silence.

“Braised pork chops. They’re Mom’s specialty.” Ransom says this with a soft smile that reveals the depth of his love for his mother.

“You said it’s your favorite?”

“My whole life. Every birthday, Mom would ask me what I wanted her to make for dinner, and I always chose that.”

“It sounds like you had a happy childhood.” As I gaze at him from the opposite end of the table, I feel an ache form inside my chest for the family I no longer have. Mom got sick early on, so I don’t recall any family dinners. Just sickness, a lot of crying, and then the silence that followed. Dad was never the same after that, and then he passed, ensuring I wouldn’t be either. I doubt anyone under this roof knows the kind of loss I’ve experienced, and I envy them that.

Ransom must see the sadness in my eyes. Tilting his head, he passes me a curious look. “What was yours like? Were you happy?”

“It was…it was good.” From what little I can remember before my mom got sick, it was really good, but that was a long time ago. I look away, the back of my throat burning. Avoiding his eyes, I get back to work setting the table.

“My mom loves you,” Ransom says softly as we cross paths. He’s in charge of the silverware since he knows what fork goes on what side of the plate.

I chuckle, shaking my head in denial as I begin arranging the stemware. “She knows nothing about me.”

“She’s a good judge of character.”

I refuse to touch that. He is so sure of himself. Of me. I wonder how he’ll react when the time comes for me to tell him how I earn my paychecks.

“I can’t wait for my dad to meet you. I know he’ll love you, too.”

I open my mouth, prepared to tell him there’s no way for him to know that, either, when the front door opens. With the dining room positioned at the front of the house, I have a direct line of sight into the entry.

My heart stalls for a moment, pausing for dramatic effect as I witness Rebel stride in. He’s dressed to kill. Me. He’s dressed to kill me. I’ve gotten so used to the idea of seeing him in a business suit and tie that I’ve begun to associate the two with each other.

Rebel is wearing a black and white checkered button-down that clings to his well-muscled physique, sleeves rolled up to his elbows showing off sexy toned forearms, and tucked into a pair of black jeans that hug his powerful thighs. His dark hair is slicked back off his forehead, and I lose the ability to think clearly from just the sight of him.

It’s instant, burning attraction. Once again, I am reminded of why I chose him in the first place. Rebel’s head swivels in our direction, and when he sees me, he smirks. It’s a slow tilt of his lips, filled with arrogance and raw sexuality. Instantly, my heart rate kicks into high gear, hammering against my ribcage.

Ransom doesn’t miss the exchange.

“Glad to see you could make it,” Ransom greets him. I half expect him to be upset, but he’s not. If anything, he appears happy to see his brother.

In two long, heavy strides Rebel crosses into the dining room, his shoulders rolling with each step. He looks dangerous. The kind of guy a girl would steer clear of if she saw him on the street, but the kind of guy she’d look for if she was in the market for a little hot and sweaty fun.

Standing between these two men, I am keenly aware of their differences. Ransom, dressed in a sensible pair of blue jeans and t-shirt, is relaxed and easygoing. His outside appearance speaks for itself. Confidence pours off him in buckets, but instead of being obnoxious, it gives him an easy grace that is incredibly attractive. He’s charming and alluring and there’s just something about him that screams family man.

Rebel holds that same confidence, but with a deeper, darker edge. It’s as if he knows he can have anything and anyone he wants, and he’ll exploit it in a snap. He’s the kind of guy that will knock you down and fuck you, and then he’ll walk out of your life without explanation or apology. He’s the kind of man you have fun with, but that’s all.

Despite being identical twins, these two couldn’t be any more opposite. I’m reminded of the ancient myth regarding King Solomon. It’s as if someone took a baby and split it down the middle, creating two halves of a whole—the good and evil twin. It’s not hard for me to figure out which one is which.

To my surprise, Rebel picks up a stack of cloth napkins and begins neatly folding them. I pause to watch him, stunned that someone so tough can do such delicate work. Within minutes, he’s laid out five perfectly folded napkins that look like they belong tucked inside a men’s suit breast pocket.

“You’re really good at that,” I tell him.

His black gaze flies up to meet mine. My insides ripple with a touch of fear and arousal and it disturbs me how quickly I respond to him. “I’m good at a lot of other things, too.”

His words are so suggestive, and so out of place for where we are, that I blush. He notices that too, his gaze dipping to my neck where the heat is most concentrated.

I clear my throat and try to act unaffected as I address both men. “So, how do we do this? Ransom already claimed me as his girlfriend,” I say, flashing him a hard look. Rebel doesn’t look too pleased about this either, but he remains tight-lipped. For now.

“We’re going to do exactly what I told you,” Ransom states, making his way over to me and slipping a casual arm around my waist. “We’re going to have a nice dinner and take the opportunity to get to know one another a little better.”

I don’t know how this is going to work exactly. How do I ask everything I want to ask without it looking suspicious? The three of us know virtually nothing about each other. That’ll work fine for Rebel and me, but as Ransom’s “girlfriend,” there are a lot of bases that should have already been covered.

I consider getting a few of those questions out of the way now, but Seraphim chooses that exact moment to stroll into the room. Her hands are full, and I watch as her sons rush over to unload her of the burden.

“Thank you, boys. Now be dears and bring out the rest of the dishes for me.” They do as she bids.

Everything moves quickly from there. At six sharp, a grandfather clock located somewhere on the first floor chimes. Vincent Scott arrives home, hanging his jacket on the coat rack by the front door, and then joins us in the dining room still dressed in his work attire. He reminds me of Ransom and Rebel, too—tall, handsome, and refined—though his age is revealed in the touches of gray dusting his temples and the fine lines wrinkling the corners of his eyes.

He and Seraphim could be siblings, for as similar as they look.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Vincent tells me. He gives my proffered hand two hard pumps, and then he is off to take his place at his wife’s side, pulling out her chair and tucking her back in once she’s seated. Rather than take the chair positioned at the helm, Vincent takes the one directly beside her instead. The whole thing is kind of amazing to watch and it occurs to me, I want that. Is either of these men capable of giving it to me? Or am I just wasting my time?

“You’re with me,” Ransom says into my ear, his hand pressing into the small of my back as he guides me to one side of the table.

There are three chairs positioned opposite his parents, and Ransom holds out the one directly in the middle. I ease into it, smoothing my dress beneath my legs as I sit, and Ransom performs the same gentlemanly treatment as his father.

When Ransom and Rebel drop down beside me, pinning me between them, something niggles at the base of my brain. A warning perhaps. I cast the undeveloped thought aside, getting caught up in answering questions Mr. and Mrs. Scott throw at me and passing dishes around the table.

I am taking a drink of peach flavored tea when I feel it. Hands. One on each of my knees, and I know…

This isn’t going to be an ordinary dinner.

FOUR

“How did you and my son meet?” Vincent is very laid back as he works on his meal, but the way he looks at me is shrewd and assessing. I get the distinct impression that not much gets by him.

I wonder if he can tell what his boys are doing beneath the tablecloth, just out of view. Ransom’s gentle caress is distracting, as is Rebel’s climbing fingers. His intentions are clear, and I jerk my leg to try and shake him loose, but he proves to be unshakeable.

I clear my throat, considering Vincent’s question. My immediate reaction is to ask which son he’s referring to, but they don’t know about the nature of our relationship, and I’d like to keep it that way.

“I met Ransom at the university.”

Seraphim’s eyes light up. “Oh? Do you teach?”

Crap. This was what I wanted to avoid, the whole teacher/student affair topic. I look to Ransom for help, and he gives my knee a reassuring squeeze.

“She’s one of my students, actually. An art major.”

I stare down at my plate, trying to ignore the hands touching me, and focus on not freaking the fuck out. I can feel their eyes on me. I can practically hear their thoughts. They think I’m taking advantage of Ransom. That I’m sleeping my way to good grades. None of that could be farther from the truth. I’ve never asked him for a thing.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts it takes me by surprise when I hear Vincent say, “Well, it sounds like you two have much in common then. Obviously, you already know Ransom was an art major.” He’s looking directly at me, and I see no judgment in his eyes. “Do you have any career ideas in mind for after you graduate?”

“Oh, um, I’m not really sure.” The conversation takes a different turn than I expected, and I have to mentally shake myself before I can formulate a real answer. “There’s a lot I can do with my degree, but I was thinking maybe something in graphic design.”

Vincent nods. “Computer technology is a good field to get into.”

“My thoughts as well.”

“Rebel is in technology, as well.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say with genuine interest. There’s not much I do know about him, so I file it away.

Vincent nods. “He’s always enjoyed computers. Between you and me, I never took to them, but as long as he’s happy.”

“It pays the bills,” Rebel grunts.

Ransom’s hand begins a slow, sensual glide up my leg, his fingers kneading my flesh. On my other side, Rebel’s persistence has paid off. He’s now fingering my panty line, the tips of his fingers dipping beneath the elastic. The heat of embarrassment and unwanted arousal suffuses my cheeks, making it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the conversation. I can’t believe they are doing this to me, right in front of their parents!

From beneath my lashes, I cast quick, furtive glances at both men. They’re eating as though they’re not inches away from my crotch. As if they’re not making sexual advances at the dining table.

Rebel’s dark gaze slides to mine and his slow, creeping smirk is enough to set my whole body on fire. His fingers are fully inside my panties, the tips grazing over my swollen flesh. My pulse beats in my head like a frantic drumbeat, and I struggle to maintain my composure. I want to be angry with him, but it’s hard when he’s making me feel so good.

He traces my clit, applying just enough pressure to send a jolt of electricity through me. I grip my fork tighter, moving food around my plate as I pretend I’m not well on my way toward an orgasm.

Rubbing lower, he finds the wetness he’s caused and I hear the subtle intake of breath. Knowing he’s growing excited, too, heightens my desire. I want him to put those fingers inside me, and when I tilt my hips a fraction in a bid for more, he listens. His fingers plunge deep. A moan surges up from my chest, and I scramble to recover, shifting it into a different sound.

I about die when I realize everyone is looking at me. I smile wanly. My voice strained I say, “This dinner is delicious, Mrs. Scott. Would it be possible to get the recipe?”

She gives me bright look. “Of course, dear. I’m so glad you like it. It’s Vincent’s mother’s recipe.”

“She must have been a great cook,” I say, catching Ransom’s eye.

His brows are pulled down over his midnight eyes, and I realize he hasn’t been paying any attention to the conversation. In fact, his gaze keeps dropping to my lap, and from his angle, I know he can plainly see Rebel’s thick hand cupping me.

Immediately, my hand disappears beneath the table, covering Rebel’s in another plea to stop. Predictably, he doesn’t. He continues thrusting his fingers slowly into me and no matter how hard I clamp onto his hand, he just keeps going.

My heart is racing, the blood rushing through my veins so fast I feel lightheaded. Ransom’s grip on my thigh turned near-painful long ago, but instead of helping me keep my wits, it’s only added fuel to the fire that’s consuming me.

The orgasm slams into me, and I screw my eyes shut so tight I see stars. It takes me a moment to recover from the waves of dizzying pleasure, and when I do, I want to die.

“Are you alright, Josephine?” Seraphim and Victor are watching me with concern. “You look a little flushed.”

“You moaned. Is your stomach upset?” Victor asks. “Sometimes eating too many vegetables gets to me, too. We have some medicine for that if you’d like?”

“No, no. I was just…just uh…” Oh, God. I’m so humiliated. Climaxing in front of the parents has got to be a new low for me.

“She was just sighing over how good the dinner was,” Ransom cuts in, saving me from deeper mortification. If I thought I could get away with it, I’d kiss him and punch Rebel right in the throat.

My ire is further piqued when Rebel covertly smears my leg with my own wetness. Lifting his hand from beneath the table, he uses it to reach for his glass of tea. The faint glimmer of my juices is still visible on the backs of two of his fingers, and my eyes bug out. I reach for my own glass, gulping it down.

“Did you put extra sugar in this, Mom?” Rebel asks as he takes a drink. “It smells sweeter than usual.” His dark, smug gaze flicks up to mine.

I know it’s childish, but I kick him in the foot.

“I don’t think I put more in it than normal,” Seraphim says slowly. Her forehead wrinkles with worry as if the prospect of a little more sugar might ruin dinner. “It’s not too sweet, is it?”

“I think it tastes great,” I reply, and she smiles with relief.

Beside me, Rebel hums thoughtfully. I look over and am horrified to see him swirling his finger—the one that was just inside me—in his glass. He brings the digit to his mouth and makes a show of sucking it dry. “Nope, not too sweet at all. In fact, it’s perfect.”

“Oh good,” Seraphim says, returning to her perky self. “Is anyone up for cobbler?”

Rebel’s hand finds its way to my thigh again, squeezing gently. “It’s like you read my mind, Mom. I was just thinking about how much I would love to sink my teeth into something sweet.”

“Perfect. I’ll go get the plates.” Popping up from the table, Seraphim begins gathering the dinner dishes.

Seeing my opportunity to escape, I push my chair back. “I’ll help you clear the table.”

“Oh, nonsense! You’re our guest. I wouldn’t dream of putting you to work until the second dinner.” Smiling broadly, Seraphim sets her eyes on Rebel. “Honey, be a dear and give me a hand.”

“Sure, Mom.” His reply is so casual I can’t tell if he’s pissed or genuinely happy to help. Rebel can be so hard to read sometimes, but he stands and gets right to work. I think I might finally be able to take a full breath when he pauses on his way out of the room. “Hey, Josephine, what is it you said you do for a living?”

He knows I didn’t say anything. The topic I had feared the most hadn’t come up…until now. It seems that, thanks to his big mouth, I have no choice. I have to tell the truth, and he knows it. I shoot him what I hope is a threatening look, but I am so overcome with a sudden bout of nerves I doubt it’s conveyed properly.

Whether he is just unmoved or too cocky for his own good, I’ll never know for certain, but Rebel’s look is synonymous with his name. After detonating his bomb, he leaves me to deal with the fallout.

Vincent and Ransom assume the part of expectant audience. Acid burns in my belly, and I smooth my dress over my legs, swallowing down the knot in my throat. “I’m a dancer,” I say softly. I’m purposely vague, hoping Lady Luck is on my side tonight and they don’t decide to probe any deeper.

But she’s not.

“An art major and a dancer,” Vincent says appreciatively.

“I didn’t know you dance,” Ransom says, and I hear the same note in his voice.

“Yep, I do.”

“For how long?”

“Since I was eighteen.”

“Eighteen?” Vincent asks. “Isn’t that a little late in the game? I was under the impression most individuals who participate in the performing arts get started early in life.”

“I think you’re thinking of ballet,” Ransom corrects him.

“Do you study ballet?” Seraphim breezes into the room carrying a freshly baked aromatic cobbler and jumps seamlessly into the conversation. “I’ve always loved watching ballerinas dance, but Victor’s schedule is so hectic, we don’t get to take in shows as often as I’d like.”

Rebel returns from his trip to the kitchen and leans into the doorframe, watching the drama unfold.

In an effort to avoid looking at him, I clear my throat and scratch my right eyebrow. “Um, no.” Can we please just have dessert and forget dancing? I plead inside my head. “It’s not that kind of dancing.”

“Well, what kind is it? Alternative? Free style? Hip hop?” Ransom’s smile is encouraging. It’s almost a mirror image of the one Rebel’s wearing, except his is also filled with malevolence. He is enjoying my humiliation far too much tonight. Well, I refuse to be his victim. I’ve always played the cards I’m dealt, and tonight will be no different.

He wants me to expose myself, so I will, and I’ll do it with a damn smile. Holding his gaze, I bite out a reply. “Exotic. I’m an exotic dancer.”

Total. Silence. The room grows deathly still, so quiet I can hear the sound of my own heartbeat in my ears. Rebel looks a little shocked by my admission, but I think I glimpse a little bit of pride, too. Is he proud of me for being honest? Did he expect me not to be?

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I heard you right.” Ransom laughs humorlessly, sticking his finger in his ear and wiggling it. “Okay, run that by me again.”

Tearing my gaze from Rebel’s, I glance at his mother and father before stopping with Ransom. His eyes hold a mixture of disbelief at what I said and hope that what I say next will be different.

It won’t be.

“I said I’m an exotic dancer.”

Silence reigns once more before Seraphim bravely speaks up. “You mean like a belly dancer, right? Or one of those Hawaiian girls?”

“No, I mean I’m a stripper,” I say firmly, and I witness the exact moment disgust enters Ransom’s mind. He looks like he just smelled something foul. Just to drive the point home, to make sure he’s really getting what I’m saying, I add, “Men pay me to take my clothes off.”

Seraphim releases a scandalized gasp. Ransom’s looking at me as if I’ve sprouted a second head.

“Well, I need a drink,” Vincent declares and leaves the table.

I officially feel like an outcast. This is the exact same scenario I always envisioned happening if I ever told my friends who I really am. They’d behave just as the Scotts were now. I’d watch their view of me shift before my eyes as they realized how unworthy I was of their friendship, and then they’d turn their backs on me. I’m just glad my parents are no longer around to see what I’ve become. Then again, if they were still alive, I’d probably be traveling a different path altogether.

My eyes burn and I feel like I might hyperventilate. As calmly as possible, I push my chair out and stand. “Excuse me. I need some fresh air.”

What I really mean to say is goodbye, because I have zero intention of coming back.