Liar Liar

‘Look, she wasn’t in the country when this happened,’ he asserts, beginning to tap off the points using the fingers of one hand. ‘She hasn’t got the kind of upper body strength to inflict that kind of damage.’

‘Ah, so you do think his wound isn’t consistent with a fall.’

‘Like a rabid poodle with a bone,’ he mutters. ‘Look, she has nothing to gain from killing him.’

‘But she has motive. Jealousy. And she could’ve hired an accomplice.’

‘You know who else has motive, and means, and all the other shit? Ben.’

My shoulders slump. He could have a point. ‘Except Ben was the one who explained the whole Amélie situation to me.’

‘So?’

‘So, if he wanted to hurt Remy, he could’ve helped drive me away. Okay, so not physical pain, but the emotional stuff.’

‘Look, the fact of the matter is, Ben is at the end of a very long list of people who’d like nothing more than to see Remy at the bottom of the marina.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Shit above my pay grade,’ he snarks. ‘That’s business out here. It’s dog eat dog, and well, wolf eats everything.’

‘You’re saying Remy has enemies?’

‘I’m saying get in the car.’

‘Sure, dad,’ I snark folding my arms across my chest and not going anywhere. Ass.

‘Look, you leave the investigating to the big boys and just get him well.’

‘Do I look like a nurse to you?’

‘I’m not the one looking forward to a sponge bath. By the way,’ he adds, his eyes dropping to my feet. ‘Your knickers are showing.’

My gaze drops to my waist. Nothing. But then a flash of yellow at my feet causes panic to flare as I take in the cotton and lace of yesterday’s panties, which appear to be peeking from the ankle of my jeans. Jeans that were both taken off and shoved back on in a hurry.

Rhett’s chuckle follows him to the driver’s side of the car.

‘You think you’re so hardcore,’ I whisper-shout after him, whipping the offending panties out from my ankle before shoving them in my pocket. ‘You’re not even apple core.’

Urgh!

* * *

‘How about a bath?’

Rhett brought us to the house, my house, as Remy called it. The honeysuckle house. It’d seemed like a good idea at the time. Out of the city, the air is fresh and the pace less hectic. and more importantly, his office isn’t at the end of an elevator ride. I agreed it might be the best place for him to rest. But I guess it shows what I know as he barely looks up from his laptop. We’re camped out in the den—at least, that’s what I’m calling it when I pretend this house is really mine—for the fourth day since his discharge. He can’t seem to settle anywhere. The light is too bright in the kitchen and for some (stubborn) reason, he doesn’t want the drapes closed in any of the other rooms. He sniffed at my suggestion we sit in the shade of the pergola and snarled when I said Rhett might bring him his sunglasses and a hat next time he visited.

Basically, I’m living with a monosyllabic teenager. I guess I wouldn’t be fun to be around after what he’s just been through. But if I thought he was hard to understand before, right now, he’s downright baffling.

I put down the magazine I’m reading and flop to the opposite end of the grey sectional sofa to face him directly. Elbow bent, I rest my cheek on my hand. ‘You know you’re not supposed to use electronics for any length of time for the first week.’ So the doctor said, though I won’t invoke his name because we all know he’s just a charlatan . . .

He probably got his medical license in a Paris flea market, right?

‘I’m just dealing with emails. A business doesn’t run itself.’ He doesn’t once look my way. Not even a glance.

‘So, that was no to the bath then?’

This time, our eyes connect over his open laptop. ‘It depends where your motivation is coming from.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Is it a desire to get me naked, or a need to look after me?’

‘Do you care either way if I get a little handsy?’

‘I’m not sure I’d recognise the difference.’

‘Well, ouch.’ This isn’t a slight on my nursing skills but rather something else. Something we’ve probably been dancing around.

‘Remy.’ Since when have I begun to say his name so carefully? ‘You’re recovering from a second concussion—a second mild traumatic brain injury the doctor called it. You—we’ve—got to be careful.’

‘That’s exactly what I mean.’ His mouth firms, his eyes almost burning a hole in his screen.

‘I can see you’re in pain.’ I find myself chewing on the inside of my lip, but I can’t keep myself from speaking. ‘And you’re taking the pills, so I know your head still aches. The doctor said it would take up to two weeks. You need to rest your brain and your body, avoid driving, strenuous mental activities’—I point at this laptop—‘and physical activities, too.’