Private Lies
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Wendy Etherington
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1
ROXANNE LEWIS’S HEART lurched. “It can’t be.”
Antoinette St. Clair—Toni to all who intended to stay on her good side—lifted her gaze from her plate of salmon. Her eyes filled with regret. “I’m sorry, Rox, but Gage was in the Quarter last night.”
“He’s supposed to be in Chicago.”
“He’s not.”
Tucked in the corner booth of her favorite French Quarter restaurant, away from the curious eyes of the other diners, Roxanne pushed away her nearly untouched crab Louis salad. No one ever accused Toni of being flighty—without acquiring bruises anyway. If she said she saw Gage in New Orleans, she did.
Roxanne fought against the panic fluttering in her stomach, recalling last Saturday night, when she and Gage had eaten a late dinner, when he’d slid his hand along her thigh during dessert…
“Doing what?” she asked quickly, banishing the erotic thoughts.
“Leaning against the wall outside a bar.”
Maybe he’d just come back a day early. Maybe he’d had a late business meeting. He’d had a lot of those lately. “Was he with anyone?”
“No, but he studied the crowd a lot and kept glancing at his watch.” Toni gestured with her fork. “Like he was waiting for someone.”
Someone. Not her. How many times had she wondered what he saw in her? He’d chosen her. He’d proposed to her. And, yet, insecurity lingered. There were parts of Gage he didn’t share with her. She’d tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. He showered her with affection, devotion…loyalty. Just because he was sexy as hell, smart and rich didn’t mean every woman in New Orleans was chasing him.
Only the ones between twenty and sixty.
Roxanne sipped her water and tried to pretend a lump wasn’t blocking her throat. “Do you think he could have been meeting a woman?”
“Maybe. God knows I’ve been tempted.”
Roxanne’s gaze jumped to Toni’s. “To cheat?”
Her friend grinned. “No, to jump Gage Dabon’s bones.”
“Be serious.”
The smile wiped from her face, Toni angled her head. “I am. I’m seriously pissed. Why aren’t you?”
“I am.” No, you’re not, Roxanne. You’re scared. Bone-deep scared. You knew you’d never hold him.
“Stop.” Toni tugged a strand of Roxanne’s long, corkscrew-curly red hair. “You’re quite a catch yourself, Foxy Roxy.”
Roxanne didn’t bother to deny Toni had guessed the direction of her thoughts. They’d been friends too long. “He’d be better off with someone like you,” Roxanne said. “Someone more outgoing.”
“Hell, Rox, we haven’t had near enough wine for a pity party.” She frowned at her water glass. “We haven’t had any wine.” Shrugging, Toni polished off the last bite of her salmon, then handed her plate to a passing waiter. “And, no offense, but Gage’s too tame for me. Hunky, yes. But banks, blue suits and dark ties? No, thanks.”
You haven’t seen that body without the suits. Then the implication of Toni’s words sunk in. “I like tame. There’s nothing wrong with tame.”
“That’s because you grew up with excitement, not Miss Manners lessons twenty-four hours a day.”
Roxanne didn’t want to go anywhere near the subject of Toni’s intimidating, uptight mother. Talk about scary.
Thankfully, Toni tucked a strand of her shaggy blond hair behind her ear and rolled on. “And, speaking of annoying relatives, you have to remember the way Gage stood up under your family’s scrutiny. Any man who’d do that has to want you pretty badly.”
“True.” Roxanne’s father, brother and sister were all cops. Nobel, brave and strong. They stood for the weak and defenseless; they worked tirelessly so other families could be spared the kind of tragedy that Roxanne’s had suffered—her mother dying at the hands of a paroled murderer, who’d sought to punish Roxanne’s father for sending him to prison.
Roxanne had felt abandoned without her mother and had no desire to run into the kind of people who had killed her. Accounting, not law enforcement was her calling. Numbers didn’t lie, numbers made sense…numbers didn’t die.
Wimpy, her sister had once accused. Practical, Roxanne had argued back. Of course, practicality was obviously missing from every Lewis’s genetic makeup except hers.
“So, what’s the plan?” Toni asked, leaning forward, her blue eyes twinkling with anticipation.
“What plan? I’ll ask him what he was doing in the Quarter last night and why he didn’t bother to call me. Or come home.”
Toni tapped her long, acrylic nails—currently painted hot pink with green palm trees and bright yellow suns on each one in anticipation of the busy summer-tourist season—against the table. “Uh-huh. You? Miss Nonconfrontation. You’re going to ask Gage why he lied, who he was meeting.”
“Yes.” She banged her fist against the table, knowing she needed this pep talk to urge her on. “Do you think I should act angry and demand an answer, or be sly and attempt to catch him lying?”
“You’ve already caught him in a lie, and I think you should be angry.”
“I am.”
“Then why are your hands shaking?”
Sighing, Roxanne immediately linked her fingers. “I can’t help it. I won’t know what to say.”
“Where the hell were you last night, you lying bastard? works for me.”
“Be reasonable, Toni.”
“Why?”
Roxanne rubbed her temples, unable to come up with a reasonable argument at the moment. She’d no doubt think of something hours from now, but the impact would be lost. How did people train themselves to think on their feet? After a lifetime of friendship with Toni, shouldn’t some of her sass have rubbed off?
“Since you don’t have a plan, mine is perfect.”
Roxanne instinctively shook her head. Oh, no. Toni’s past plans had included everything from giving the dog the keys to her mother’s brand-new Mercedes—which he’d promptly buried in the backyard—to sawing off the legs of Sister Margaretta’s desk in the seventh grade, to disguising the two of them in black wigs and red lipstick to sneak into fraternity parties at Tulane.
As usual, Toni ignored Roxanne’s protest. “I think we should follow him.”
“No.” If Toni was surprised by her direct, one-word refusal, she didn’t show it. And, dang it, she’d been practicing.
“You have a right to know what’s going on,” Toni continued.
“I will. I’ll ask.”
“And if he denies it?”
“I’ll—” She stopped, breaking her friend’s direct glare. Gage was smooth, sometimes almost too smooth. Roxanne had no doubt the man could say he’d been called into New Orleans for an hour, then directed back to Mars, and somehow effectively convince her that was the absolute and complete truth.
“Come on, Rox. We’ll disguise ourselves. It’ll be just like college. I’ve got the perfect disguise picked out at the shop already.”
The shop—aka the Tacky Diva. When she’d attended the splashy opening of Toni’s store, Roxanne was sure Toni had used her trust fund to open the lingerie, costume and party-clothes store just to piss off her conservative family. But her friend’s shop had survived for nearly ten years and was now courted by the trust-fund babies for ammunition in catching the perfect husband, then those same women shopped for their wedding trousseaux.
Roxanne often wondered how many seasoned trust-fund lawyers blanched at the Visa charges from the Tacky Diva, instead of Saks.
“No disguises,” she said firmly—she’d been practicing that tone. “No following. No videotaping. No tracking devices. No bugs.”
“Why the hell not? You have a right to the truth.”
“A sentiment undoubtedly not shared by Sister Katherine after you bugged her office phone, then told our tenth-grade English class she’d been dialing 1–900–HUNKMAN in her spare time.”
“I can get a bug so small it’ll slide alongside the battery of his cell phone.”
Roxanne’s stomach rolled. This morning she’d been blissfully happy, planning her wedding, and now she was contemplating bugging her fiancé’s cell phone? “No. And isn’t bugging someone’s property without their knowledge, or a court order, illegal?”
“Why in the world would you bug someone with their knowledge?”
“I—” That girl was nearly as slick as Gage. Roxanne fought hard against the urge to run back to her office and hide under the desk until this whole storm passed. She didn’t want to spy on her lover. She didn’t want to confront him. She wanted…
To be a fool.
“Just think about my idea,” Toni said, her usually animated face dead serious. “Remember, with my plan you can avoid confronting him for the moment. You can find out the truth.” She squeezed Roxanne’s hand in a gesture of complete fidelity and understanding. “You deserve the truth.”
“I know, but—”
“Speak of the devil.” Toni leaned back against the red, leather-covered booth. Her face relaxed, but her eyes narrowed at a spot over Roxanne’s shoulder.
Roxanne didn’t have to glance back to know who’d entered the restaurant, but she did anyway, unable to resist the temptation of simply watching Gage Dabon move.
She turned in time to see the maître d’ pointing out her table. Gage’s broad shoulders and trim physique were encased in an expensive-looking dark blue suit. His gorgeous, sculpted face and his confident, almost arrogant manner—no doubt delivered to him via his Creole ancestors—caused more than a few heads to turn. His thick, slightly wavy hair gleamed blue-black under the crystal chandeliers, as if an enhancing spotlight followed every step he took, every muscle he flexed. He moved with purpose, with an almost predatory gait. Nothing would sway him from his path. Deny him what he sought.
What the hell was he doing with her? she wondered, and not for the first time.
“Oh, God,” she said in a low tone to Toni. “I’m not ready to face him.”
“Be strong. I’m here. Ask him where he went to dinner last night.”
“Afternoon, babe.”
Roxanne reached deep for some Lewis nerves and lifted her face for Gage’s light kiss. His lips lingered just a bit on hers, longer than was really appropriate for lunchtime affection. But then they hadn’t seen each other in four days, and their reunions weren’t usually so public.
She craved him with a hunger that had everything to do with sexual need, and yet she knew there was so much more.
“I missed you,” he said against her lips.
As always, the wonder of his touch and his voice exploded in her stomach, rolled through her blood, making her glad she was sitting, as her knees would never hold her weight. He stroked her jaw with his thumb, his silvery gaze meeting hers. “You look tired. Not sleeping well without me?”
Lack of sleep was the least of her troubles. Her stomach clenched. “I’m fine.”
He continued to stare at her for the space of two heartbeats, as if deciding whether or not to accept her answer, but obviously choosing not to push. He glanced across the table. “Hello, Toni. I’m pleased to see someone can convince her to take time for lunch.”
He’s so cool, Roxanne thought, watching him unbutton his suit coat and slide into the booth next to her. Was he cool enough to lie to her? And why? Would he really betray her with another woman?
Her heart raced. Nervous, she fiddled with a napkin rolled up in a place setting, finally pushing it and her plate in front of Gage. “Have you eaten?”
He regarded the plate, then her. “No, and you haven’t either.”
“You have it.”
“Fine. We’ll share.” He dropped the napkin on his lap then forked up a bite of crab, holding it in front of her lips.
Knowing it never did any good to argue with Gage, Roxanne took the bite. His thigh brushed hers, and their intimate position reminded her of other nudges and sighs, erotic moments, familiar touches. She swallowed crab she didn’t taste, forcing it down with the tears clogging her chest.
“How’s business, Toni?”
“Busy. Everybody’s gearing up for summer.”
“I see more withdrawals than deposits. Not you, though?”
Toni fiddled with the stem of her water glass. “Clients are in the buying mood. In fact, I met with one last night.” She paused, her blue eyes cold. “In the Quarter.”
Roxanne could have sworn Gage flinched.
Then, a second later, slick as spit, he casually held another bite of salad against her lips. Her heart hammering, her mind buzzing with the answer he might give, she shook her head and leaned back.
One dark eyebrow quirked at the distance she formed between them, and she held her breath for his answer.
His gaze flicked to Toni. “I’ll bet things are wild down there.”
Roxanne gripped the table in an effort to interrupt, to accuse him of knowing exactly how the Quarter was last night. But she held her tongue.
Maybe because Toni had stamped on her foot.
“I keep my distance at night usually. Though Rox and I like that new restaurant on St. Ann. Maybe we’ll go next week.” His gaze, full of sincere invitation, locked with hers. “Want to, Rox?”
Roxanne’s body ceased beating, moving, or thumping. He’d lied. He’d just lied to her face.
A hollow sense of betrayal invaded her.
The waiter set café au lait in front of them, and Roxanne sipped, though she tasted nothing.
Under the table, Toni kicked her. Her friend had, no doubt, sensed the way of the wind. “How was Chicago?” she forced herself to ask.
Gage smiled, his even white teeth flashing beneath the antique lamplights in the restaurant. “Cold as hell. Guess they don’t realize it’s May up there.”
“But no delays,” Toni asked, her smile tight as Roxanne’s heart restarted and threatened to jump from her chest. “You were able to take off this morning?”
“Smooth takeoff, for which I was glad. I was anxious to get back to Roxanne.”
Roxanne noticed he didn’t deny taking off this morning. Nor did he exactly confirm. The vagueness bothered her, and she fought to remember other trips and itineraries he might have vaguely mentioned. He’d gone to New York a couple of weeks ago, said he’d be there for two days and wound up staying for four. Had there been other trips she’d blown off as insignificant business meetings and delays? How deep did this go? How long has the lying been going on?
Nauseous, she realized Toni had been right. She deserved the truth. She had to find out what was happening.
Gage angled his body toward her. “Unfortunately, we’re going to have to change our plans for tonight. An unexpected meeting has come up.”
Another lie? What is he really doing? And with whom?
“Really?” she asked, working for curious innocence—her usual mentality, so surely she’d pulled it off. “You just got back. I really wanted to share this new restaurant with you. It’s a client of mine’s first leap into the business. He needs the support.”
“I know it was important.” His voice deepened with concern, and he moved closer, angling his body toward hers, effectively boxing her between the wall and his broad chest. His spicy scent invaded her. She fought the urge to touch him. He had a great body. A responsive body.
“I’ll make it up to you next week, I promise,” he said. “This meeting couldn’t be avoided. I’ll be in town, but I have to stay over at the hotel.”
“Mmm.” She glanced at Toni, who sipped her coffee as if she didn’t have every molecule directed at their conversation. “Which hotel?”
“The Sheraton.”
“Good choice. They have a view of the river, you know. It’s—”
“Are you planning to surprise me and show up in my room—” he paused, his grin blooming with devilish enthusiasm, his voice lowering “—naked, perhaps?”
Startled, she raised her head.
He leaned forward, pressing a light kiss on her jaw, sending heat soaring through her veins. “As much as I would enjoy it, you would, no doubt, shock the accounts manager I’m rooming with right out of his Jockey shorts.”
She fought desperately against his allure—the spicy, male smell of him, his warm breath against her skin—reminding herself he’d never roomed with anyone before. A very smooth and flattering response to keep her from showing up unexpectedly at his hotel? She never would have considered interrupting his business meetings before today. Before he’d lied.
Her head ached from the unanswered questions, but she swallowed her fear and anger for the moment. She needed time to figure out what to do, how to confront him.
“I promise not to stay more than two nights,” he continued, “and I’ll have my cell phone if you need me.” His hand slid up her leg, encountering bare flesh at the edge of her thigh-high hose. “God, do you know how sexy these things are?” He whispered. “How am I going to concentrate on stock portfolios now?”
With his clever fingers dancing their way to her crotch, Roxanne drew a deep breath. Damp heat flooded her panties. The tip of his finger brushed the satin, and she squirmed on the seat, wondering how she could discreetly press his hand harder against her. Four nights without him, and she was panting. It was crazy. It was exhilarating.
The pleasure he always brought her was so intense, so powerful, she couldn’t doubt his feelings for her, his love for her. Though he rarely said the words out loud. And the concentration and attention he lavished on her had led to security, to trust. Until now. Until doubt and fear and suspicion had reared their ugly heads.
“This is a great chance for a girls’ night out. Right, Rox?”
Toni’s cheerful but tight voice broke through Roxanne’s sexual fantasy. Caught somewhere between wanting, fulfillment, and disappointment at her own needs, she yanked her navy jacket straight and prayed Gage would find that coolness of his, so as not to betray what was actually going on beneath the linen tablecloth.
She need not have worried.
Gage glided his hand from between her thighs to the small of her back. “I’m glad you’ll have Toni to distract you.”
“Oh, yeah. We can always troll the bars in the Quarter,” Toni said sharply.
Gage’s silver eyes flashed with humor. He grinned as his gaze slid from Toni to Roxanne. “Just remember who you belong to, babe,” he said lightly.
I remember. Do you? She searched his face for signs of insincerity, for slyness or an outright lie. She saw nothing but warmth and hunger. Directed at her. Gage had that power. He made her feel as if no other woman existed. No man had ever given her that, even her father. Maybe she was addicted to that feeling. Maybe that feeling had led her to believe she was in love. But how could she love a man she didn’t really know?
She forced a smile to her lips. “You, of course.”
“I need to get going.” Gage slid one hand around Roxanne’s neck and drew her close. “Think of me.”
He pressed his lips briefly to hers, glided out of the booth, then left.
Roxanne sank her teeth into her bottom lip. She wanted him to wrap her in his strong arms almost as much as she wanted to strangle the man.
“So,” Toni began, peeking slyly over her coffee cup. “You want to meet me at the shop at three?”
“Definitely.”
GAGE DABON STRODE into the Bayou Palace’s lobby bar. Checking his Rolex, he sat on a stool and ordered Jack Daniel’s—Black Label. He retrieved a sterling-silver case from inside his jacket pocket and, lighting a cigarette, settled back with his drink to wait.
Image was everything in his business, as he’d learned a thousand times over. Image and guts. They kept the deal together. They kept you alive.
As he discreetly scanned the lobby for his quarry, he tried to force his thoughts away from Roxanne. But regret fought its way in.
He hated lying to her, hated it more every day, and the deception made him all the more conscious of how long he’d been at the game and how easy leaving would be. But he couldn’t let her discover the truth yet—for her own safety and his. He didn’t think she would appreciate the irony of her being engaged to the one kind of man she always said she could never live with—a cop.
Not just any beat cop, either. A Secret Service undercover agent for the United States Treasury Department.
He smiled grimly. No, he’d lose her. And that was unacceptable.
It had begun with an addiction to their favorite restaurant, and now, was he addicted to her as well? Her smile, her touch?
The fact that he’d actually proposed should tell him he’d lost his mind as well as his edge. A wife and a family made you vulnerable, prevented your heart from turning to steel, forced you think about going too far. But he desperately wanted that life with Roxanne.
Her sweetness and purity were like a balm to a man who’d lived among, then tracked and captured, the worst of society for nearly ten years. She made him feel clean when he was so damn tired of being dirty.
Every day he thought more about retiring. Every time he had to leave her. Every time he had to lie. If he could get through this case…
He shook aside the thought and swallowed another sip of liquor, the drink burning down his throat. He frankly hated the stuff, but the image required it. He had to focus on now. Today. This moment. For now, their engagement bound her to him. He’d find a way to explain things to her soon.
Finally, he spotted his target. And the ridiculous idiocy of criminals struck him anew. The kid—turning twenty-two next month—was a brilliant computer engineer. MIT graduate. Affluent upbringing. All-American good looks—though he really should get to know Calvin Klein and ditch the pocket protector.
Our young “hero” could have his pick of jobs, own a nice house in the suburbs, but instead Clark Mettles had decided to use his varied talents to counterfeit United States currency.
Ah, youth.
Gage shook his head in disgust, even as he raised his index finger to signal the kid.
Briefcase in hand, Mettles made a beeline for the bar stool next to Gage.
“M-Mr. Angelini?”
Sighing inwardly at the tremble in the kid’s voice, Gage tapped the bar. “Drink?”
“Uh—” his gaze darted to Gage’s glass “—whatever you’re having.”
Great. Now the kid would cough all through the meeting.
Gage gave the bartender the order, knowing his cover—Italian-mob-type Gage Angelini—would never talk a fellow criminal into a light beer.
With his dark coloring, it was easy to slip from his native French Creole, to Italian, Black Irish or Hispanic. Different clothes, accents, hairpieces, colored contacts, and presto, a spy is born.
“I brought samples,” Mettles said, reaching into his briefcase.
“Not here,” Gage said through his teeth.
The documents disappeared into the case.
Though Gage would have been thrilled to get the counterfeit plates and sample bills, hand over the payment and slap on the cuffs, he knew the kid was just a middleman. Mettles didn’t put a deal this slick together.
Gage wanted the kid’s boss—Joseph Stephano, if the undercover research was accurate. The Treasury Department had been after him for fifteen years, the FBI even longer.
The bartender delivered the drink, and Mettles threw back a healthy gulp, then gasped and coughed for a full minute before choking out, “Water.”
Gage ordered water and another drink for himself. It was going to be a long afternoon.
