Liar Liar

‘You can’t leave.’

‘Pretty sure that’s what I’m doing,’ I mutter, sweeping down the long corridor to the elevator.

‘Tell me what I’m supposed to have done,’ he roars after me, bringing my feet to an immediate stop. I swing around.

‘You lied to me again. You were with her in the penthouse. Drinking wine, half undressed, her in her fucking underwear!’ My fists pound his chest, and I wonder how I got here—got to be in front of him when he was behind me just a moment ago.

One giant leap for Rose.

One angry blow for Remy.

One aching heart.

‘When are you going to stop hiding things from me?’

46

Remy

My fingers loop her wrists as she stares up at me, her eyes bright with recriminations and tears. I want to wrap her in my arms and squeeze my love into her. Make her understand this is who I am. That I don’t know how to be other. That I will always seek to protect her. That I’ll do anything in my power not to hurt her, even if that includes hiding things.

Motorcycles, yachts, helicopters. Money, motivations, inheritance. Where would I even begin to explain? Tell of the secrets I keep? And how could I describe to her the magnitude of my dread when I’d returned to the table to find she was missing. And then to see her sitting with Carson Hayes; a man whose legacy I have ruined?

She could never understand. Not in a million years.

‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should’ve told you, but I didn’t see what that would achieve.’

‘It might’ve stopped me from feeling like shit.’ Her voice is husky with emotion, laced with pain. ‘She sent me a video, Remy. She was in your bedroom.’ Her fists unfold, her forehead and fingers pressed to my chest as though she’s not sure if she’d like to hold me tighter or disappear.

I underestimated Amélie’s level of cunning. I should’ve known a revenge fuck wasn’t on her agenda. Just revenge.

‘There was nothing to show. I didn’t touch her.’ Surely any recording would reveal just that? My mind flits back to that evening. Lingerie. Wine glasses. My shirt already open. I can see how it might’ve looked, but the evidence is hardly damning.

‘It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.’ Her words are muffled against my chest and though I long to wrap her in my arms, it feels safer to keep her manacled.

‘She wasn’t there by invitation, and nothing happened, I swear it. It happened the day I asked you to bring me my fencing kit. I got home that evening and she was there. A few words passed between us. I told her to get dressed and get out, yet I left first.’

Her gaze rises to mine. ‘You just left her there?’

‘It seemed easier. I haven’t been back to the place since. She was the reason I was staying on the yacht.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this?’

‘I didn’t see how it would be helpful. What it would achieve. I have no interest in Amélie Pastor.’

‘What about me. Do you have any feelings for me?’

‘I love you.’ My reply is instant and vehement. ‘I would do anything for you, you know that.’

‘Then you have to start telling me the truth.’

‘Come with me.’ Without letting go of her wrists, I move her in the direction of the elevator. The doors open. We step inside, and I swipe my card against the sensor, keying in the number of the top floor.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To somewhere I can show you my truth.’

‘I sense that’s a euphemism.’ She huffs unhappily, unfolding her purse from where it’s pressed between her ribs and the inside of her arm. The action pulls my attention to the angry rise and fall of her breasts. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks as I take the tiny purse from her hands, slipping it to my jacket pocket.

‘How could you think for one minute I would want anyone but you.’ My gaze drinks her in, bold and possessive

‘That’s not why I’m angry.’ She angles her chin, her gaze burning defiantly.

‘Isn’t it? Not even for a minute?’ I step closer, my hand pressed against her ribs, just as her purse was. She feels so delicate here, her ribs the fine lines of an artist’s brushstroke. And I should know because I’ve catalogued every dip and curve of her.

Her chest expands but I don’t give in to the temptation, keeping my eyes on her face. ‘When I saw you with Carson Hayes, I would’ve happily ripped off his arms for touching you. Tell me you don’t feel the same way about Amélie.’

‘This is about you keeping things from me.’

‘Everyone has secrets, Rose. We even hide the truth from ourselves. But this, this is something else.’

‘It isn’t jealousy, Remy.’

‘Isn’t it? Not even a little bit? Because, right now, I myself am feeling very covetous,’ I whisper as I trace the slope of her shoulder, my finger sweeping down her bare arm. She shivers as I reach her hand, her breath hitching a little as I press it between us to where I’m rock hard. ‘He touched you, and you’re mine. I want you to feel that possession, Rose. I want to obliterate his touch with mine.’