Liar Liar

‘Yet his mother was American. Albert.’

‘More and more, it sounds like you want to get me in trouble.’

‘Ha! The authorities would take one look at my google history before deciding I framed you.’

I tilted my head. ‘You’ve been googling me?’

‘Hmph. Here, let me help you scratch that big head of yours,’ she retorted, her words dripping with faux irritation as her fingers wiggled in the air at least a foot from my head. ‘It was an article about you in the local newspaper, if you must know. I was trying to better my language skills. I hate not understanding what people are saying around me.’

‘Hmm. That is a shame. Especially as you missed what I said when you did that thing with your tongue. I could translate, I suppose. All in the interests of educating you.’

‘I think you’ve educated me plenty.’

‘I do what I can,’ I replied, rolling her underneath me once again. ‘It’s time for a little woodwork again . . .’

With memories like these, who would fault me for agreeing we need total privacy. Can I be blamed that privacy also provides me a shield? I want her more than I’ve wanted any other woman, but I’m still cognisant of the fact that I still don’t know how she comes to be in my life. Or why.

Digging into someone’s past takes time. Meanwhile, Rose and I don’t dine out, and we don’t attend public functions, which means there is neither sight nor sound of our relationship beyond the four walls of our respective apartments. A state of affair that suits both our purposes. But that’s not to say we haven’t had fun. What we have is more than just sex.

We might not have dined out, but we’ve dined in our meals prepared by some of the leading chefs in the region. We’ve watched movies and gotten a taste for the other’s likes and dislikes, and it turns out we’re both a fan of thrillers. Rose loves a jump-scare, and I enjoy how they result in her almost always crawling onto my knee. We’ve indulged in cocktails out by the pool and champagne under the stars, talking about everything and nothing. I know she worries about our differences in station, and the fact that I’m her boss. I know she has little more than a few hundred dollars in her checking account without her ever saying so. She worries she’s walking a fine line between affluence and poverty; if only she knew the truth. I suppose I should feel some form of guilt for not telling her she’ll one day be a wealthy woman in her own right. But I can’t allow myself to feel those sentiments because if I do, if I tell her before I’m ready, then this will be the end of things between us.

When we’re together, there is nothing else but us.

It’s when she’s not around that my mind begins to wander.

Who is she? What is the damn connection? It’s like a puzzle I cannot fix.

She told me once she has trust issues. If only she knew what that really feels like.

‘No news from the investigator yet?’

I’m pulled sharply back into the present, to murmuring voices, the delicate chime of glasses, and to a voice that isn’t hers.

‘You’re here on your own tonight?’ I turn to the sound of Gunnar’s voice, my mind a step behind his question, occupied by other things.

‘I’m his plus one tonight,’ Rhett says, beating me to an answer as he holds out his hand for the other man to shake. ‘All the gorgeous women in Monaco and he has my ugly mug trailing him around.’

‘He must’ve been wicked in a past life.’ Gunnar’s eyes gleam over the rim of his glass.

‘Past life?’ Rhett scoffs. ‘He’s a bastard now.’

‘I know just the thing to redeem him,’ the other man says, reaching out for a glass from the tray of a passing waitress. ‘Merci.’

‘I suppose that would be a donation to your charity,’ I interject, mentally increasing the size of my contribution. Manners cost nothing, yet the rich don’t often use them.

‘It couldn’t harm.’ Gunnar grins widely. ‘It’s for the kids.’ His accent is a mixture of Latin lover and London lad, according to Everett, as a result of learning to speak English while playing in the English football league. Hence the name; Gunnar for the club he captained all the way to the top. The Gunners, not Gunnars, but who am I to comment?

‘Jesus, don’t let him drag out his evangelical soapbox. You know who you’re like?’ Everett asks with a vague wave of his finger. ‘Fucking Fagin. Well, except for the whole pickpocketing thing.’

‘You’ve met Everett, I see.’

Gunnar nods. ‘We play five-a-side soccer on Sunday.’

‘Football,’ my companion corrects. ‘Soccer is for the uninitiated. He’s French,’ he adds, directing his thumb my way, ‘no need to explain it to him.’