NOTICE
This book was formerly published as Monster Love and contains new and revised content.
One lie. One crazy, dark, dirty lie turned my world upside down. It dug its claws into my life, altered my future, and clouded my past.
I thought I was over him. The one who lied. I thought I’d moved on with a successful career, a fat bank account, and a sexy boyfriend.
All that changes when Owen Henry walks back into my life. He’s out on parole, standing on my front porch, looking sexier than ever. I want to hate him for what he’s done, but all I can do is think about how great his lips felt on mine the last time we kissed.
I’m so screwed.
*This book was formerly released as Monster Love and contains new content.
Lies We Tell
Jeana E. Mann
Ishkadiddle Publishing, LLC
Contents
1. Stella
2. Owen
3. Stella
4. Owen
5. Stella
6. Owen
7. Stella
8. Owen
9. Stella
10. Owen
11. Stella
12. Owen
13. Stella
14. Owen
15. Stella
16. Stella
17. Owen
18. Stella
19. Stella
20. Owen
21. Stella
22. Stella
23. Stella
24. Stella
25. Stella
26. Stella
27. Stella
28. Owen
29. Stella
30. Stella
31. Epilogue - Stella
Also by Jeana E. Mann
About the Author
One
Stella
Present Day
Through the peephole of my front door, the broad width of Owen Henry’s chest and the sharp, chiseled lines of his jaw appeared. I leaned against the door, my heart banging into my ribs, and weighed my options. If I opened the door, it would be like unlocking the vault containing all of my dirty, sordid secrets. If I ignored him, he might go away, but I couldn’t ignore how memories of him had made me touch myself in the dark, quiet hours of the night for the past eighteen years.
“Hello?” The door vibrated under his second, harsher knock. I jumped back. His voice was deeper than I remembered, like he’d just tumbled out of bed after a sleepless night. “Ms. Valentine?”
I rested my forehead on the door and placed a palm on the barrier between us. “Crap,” I hated myself for cowering in the foyer, hated him for knocking on my door.
The doorbell rang. “Ms. Valentine? Hello?” These words came from an unfamiliar voice. Someone different. I peered through the peephole and blinked. A stocky, middle-aged man stood in the weak light of daybreak. My nightmare/fantasy guy was nowhere in sight. Had I imagined him? Maybe it had only been someone who looked like Owen. I opened the door an inch and peered at the man’s ruddy face and pleasant smile. His silver hair and bushy eyebrows reminded me of Santa Claus.
“Hi. I’m George Sherman, your general contractor. We spoke on the phone yesterday.” He scanned my wet hair, bathrobe, and bare legs. An anxious frown creased his forehead. “I’m a little early, but we did say seven-thirty, right?”
“Yes, we did, and please call me Stella.” Behind him, lavender and pink light stretched across the horizon. If I hadn’t been so rattled, I’d have run for my camera to capture the skyscape. Instead, I skimmed the yard and driveway, trying not to look panicked, searching for signs of Owen. Maybe lack of sleep had made me hallucinate. I touched the towel on my head. “Sorry. The hot water stopped in the middle of my shower.” If I’d been tired before, the icy stream had left me in a state of invigorated exhaustion. “Let me run upstairs and change. Why don’t you come in?”
“That’s okay. I don’t want to get your floors dirty.” His gaze dropped to his work boots, dusty from the trek across the overgrown yard. I followed his glance then studied the worn floor. If my estimate was correct, it hadn’t seen a mop in over a decade. He tapped a pen on his clipboard. “I’ll get my crew started on the roof, like we talked about. You and I can do a walk-through of the house when you’re ready. And I’ll have one of the boys take a look at your water heater. Does that sound okay?”
“Perfect. I’m eager to get moving on this.” One of my foster parents, in a strange twist, had left the house to me in his will. In my memories, this place had been in much better condition. After a lifetime of wandering, this house offered the opportunity to put down roots. I wasn’t sure, however, that I could overlook the past, and if he was here—Owen—my doubts doubled.
“Call me Dad. Everyone does.” George’s weathered skin crinkled around his eyes. He turned and bellowed to the crew in the driveway, “All right, boys. Let’s get this party started.”
Owen rounded the corner of the house. I sucked my lower lip between my teeth and bit down hard. He was the kind of guy who made a woman look twice. Scruffy stubble on his square jaw, sandy hair streaked by the sun, and biceps worthy of a prizefighter. I gaped, wondering if the world had shifted into some kind of alternate universe. My body shook like a leaf in the wind.
The memory of Owen’s lips gliding over my bare breasts blasted through my head. I crossed my arms over my chest to hide the sting of arousal in my nipples. The wind stilled, leaving the air thick and stagnant. Even the birds, who’d been twittering, halted their morning song. Owen’s eyes met mine. The color drained from his sunburned face. His wide chest lifted with a sharp intake of breath. Yep, he was definitely my ex-boyfriend. The murderer. And he was as shocked to see me as I was to see him.
“Shit,” I muttered. Why, why, why? Why now? Why here? Before I’d accepted the inheritance, I’d done a Google search on his whereabouts. When I’d come up with nothing, I’d assumed he’d moved away from the scene of the crime that ripped us apart. I shook my head at my gullibility. His family still lived here. This was his home. Of course, he hadn’t left.
“Are you okay? Ms. Valentine?” Dad gripped my elbow as the world spun. “Stella?”
“Yes. I just—I need to sit down for a minute.” No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t draw in a full breath. My lungs burned.
“Let me help you.” The warm concern in Dad’s voice eased a bit of my anxiety. He led me to the folding chair in the living room, my only piece of furniture, and held my arm while I lowered into the seat. “Can I get you anything? Some water?”
“What’s going on?” The voice of Michael, my sort-of-kind-of-but-not-really boyfriend, floated up the front steps. The storm door banged shut behind him. Dad would have to fix that too. “What happened?”
“I think I’m having a panic attack. Let me sit for a second. I’ll be fine.” The room continued to swim, the colors melting into a blurred mess. Michael kneeled at my side, dropping two takeout bags at my feet. The minute his hand found mine, my heartbeat steadied. He had that kind of effect on people, an innate strength that clung to men in positions of power, men like him. I cleared my throat. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought breakfast. A housewarming gift.” The paper bag rustled as he dug inside and withdrew an orange juice. “Here. Drink, sweetie.” Over the rim of the bottle, my eyes met his brown ones. Short, bristly black lashes surrounded his chocolate irises, giving his angular features a deceptively sweet air. The squeeze of his hand on my knee corralled my attention. “Better?”
“Yes. Better.” I nodded and gave him a sheepish smile, but my stomach churned with concern. Somewhere, outside, Owen awaited. How was I going to face him? Or answer the questions Michael would ask when he learned of our connection?
“Don’t scare me like that. Ma
ybe next time you’ll listen to me when I say you should eat regular meals.”
“Probably not.” As always, he was right. I hadn’t eaten since leaving Cleveland yesterday—too nervous about my new home, about returning to Indiana, about the ghosts of my past, to think of mundane things like food. Arguing with Michael did no good. As the county’s district attorney and a potential senate candidate, he took pride in winning every debate, whether personal or professional.
“Of course, what was I thinking? Stella Valentine doesn’t listen to anyone.” Despite his rebuke, a smile brightened his handsome face. With gentle fingertips, he brushed back the hair from my forehead. “Stubborn mule.”
“You worry too much.” I had to look away from his trusting gaze, afraid he’d see the darkness lurking in my soul, the secrets threatening to spill out.
“You don’t worry enough, in my opinion.” He chucked me under the chin, stood, and held out a hand to Dad. “You must be the contractor. I’m Michael Ludlow.”
“I know who you are, Mr. Ludlow. It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I voted for you in the last election.” They shook hands. “You can call me Dad.”
“Thanks for the support. I appreciate it.” Michael studied him for a beat. “Stella tells me you come highly recommended. I trust you’ll take care of her.”
“Absolutely,” Dad said.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to see your plans and the bid.” Michael straightened the knot in his tie, using his best business stare. Dad glanced in my direction for permission.
“I mind,” I said, finding my strength and voice at the same time. “Stop worrying. I’ve got everything under control.”
“Stubborn and independent.” Michael winked at Dad. “You’d better watch out for this one.”
“There’s a lot to be said for a woman who knows her mind,” Dad replied quietly. His statement made me like him even more. “And, if it eases your worries, she’s an excellent negotiator. I probably won’t make a dime on this project.” His eyes crinkled again. I gave him a grateful nod. “If you’re good, Stella, I’ll get to work.”
“Thank you.” Although my words were confident, my smile wavered. How would I make it through these renovations with Owen on his crew? Maybe I should cancel the whole thing and look for another contractor. I dismissed the idea as overly dramatic and straightened my backbone.
As soon as the door closed behind Dad, Michael grabbed my elbow and gave me a gentle push toward the stairs. “Are you crazy? Opening the door in your bathrobe? In front of all those men?”
“Well, someone had to do it.” Sometimes, like now, his ultra-conservativism got on my nerves. We were miles apart in every way—upbringing, social class, personalities—but because he made me feel safe, I chose to overlook our differences. To avoid an argument, I changed the subject. “So why are you really here? I’m not exactly on your way to work.”
“I’m going to New York on personal business. I wanted to see you before I left. Is that okay?”
Butterflies skittered in my stomach. I pulled back to search his face. We’d been living in different states, commuting on weekends, since we’d met three months ago. With my hectic schedule as a freelance photographer and his job as a prosecutor, we barely saw each other. When Stan had willed his house to me, it had given me the opportunity to move closer to Michael. Maybe I’d jumped the gun, but I really liked him and wanted this to work.
Following a tender kiss, he chucked me beneath the chin. “Discussion over. Now, run upstairs and put on some clothes. Then you can give me a tour of your new money pit.”
“Okay.” My friends in Cleveland thought I was crazy to uproot my life and move to Indiana after such a short relationship, but they didn’t know Michael the way I did. He was smart and handsome and successful, everything I’d ever wanted in a man, and he truly cared about me.
From a suitcase on the floor, I drew out a pair of slouchy jeans and a T-shirt and got dressed. I was used to living on the road, roughing it. The dented plaster and peeling ceilings didn’t bother me. Overhead, footsteps thumped across the roof. Thoughts of Michael evaporated. Through the window, I watched the workers unload bags of shingles onto the driveway. The rumble of rough voices and male laughter floated on a steamy breeze.
I closed my eyes and conjured the memory of a face that had haunted my dreams since my sophomore year in high school. Wide blue eyes with lashes longer than mine. A square jaw peppered with stubble and a mouth meant for kisses—long, slow, panty-melting kisses. Even though eighteen years had passed, not a day went by that I didn’t think of Owen Henry, the way I’d loved him, or the horrible thing he’d done because of me.
“I can’t work here.” The emphatic words floated up from the driveway. My eyes flew open. Owen stood next to the truck, tool belt and car keys in hand. I couldn’t see his face, but his shoulders tensed. “I’m sorry, Dad. It’s just not possible.”
Dad said something too soft for my ears to catch across the distance, but Owen’s posture relaxed. After a few seconds, he nodded and glanced up at me. I shrank back, hiding behind the curtain. The memories I’d locked away flooded into my head, insistent and unrelenting. Apparently, a leaky roof and faulty plumbing were the least of my problems.
Two
Owen
Eighteen Years Ago
The first time I saw her, she was outside the principal’s office before third period English. I tried not to gawk at her bruised lip and black eye. The girls I knew wore identical brand name jeans with rhinestone pockets; she wore camouflage cargo pants. They wore frosted lipstick; she had studs in her nose and eyebrows and multiple piercings in her ears. While they talked about boys and clung together in ridiculous groups, this girl slouched in a chair beside Principal Dougan’s door, a place reserved for delinquents and hoodlums. The toes of her combat boots extended into the hall, blocking my path. When she didn’t move, I stepped over her feet. She tilted her head up, making the bleached ends of her jet-black hair skim the tops of her shoulders. Kohl-rimmed eyes shifted to meet mine. She lifted her chin, a singular act of defiance, daring me to comment.
“Nice shiner,” I said.
“You should see the other guy,” she replied.
I kept walking, but I didn’t stop thinking about her.
On the first warm fall evening, the local kids met at the covered bridge. Farmland stretched for miles in every direction. The historic bridge, sheltered by a curve in the road and a copse of tall trees, provided the perfect location for a night of fun in a community devoid of movie theaters and nightclubs. I usually shied away from these kinds of rebellious parties, but my mom had asked me to keep an eye on my brother Chris. He’d been in and out of trouble for most of his life and had to repeat eighth grade, which put us in the same graduating class.
In a town where everyone knew everything about everybody, it wasn’t hard to find out the girl’s name. Estelle Strunk. She stood alone by a boulder on the bank of the river. I’d asked around about her and had learned she was a foster kid staying with Stan and Marianne Hudgens. They were good people, even if Stan loved his beer a little too much, and took in foster kids on a regular basis. The children stayed for a month or two before moving on, but this girl had been with them for close to six months. She shoved her hands deeper into the pockets of her leather jacket and scowled at me. I looked quickly away, embarrassed to have been caught staring. A few minutes later, my gaze found hers again. Gathering my nerve, I grabbed an extra beer from the cooler and headed toward her.
“No,” she said when I came within an arm’s length.
“I didn’t ask you anything.”
“But you’re going to, and the answer is no.” Despite her tough persona, the top of her head barely reached the center of my chest. Her pint-sized spunk amused me.
“How could you tell?”
She sighed, a weary gust that ruffled her bangs. “Because I’ve seen that same look on a dozen different guys at a dozen different schools. They’re always fascinated by
someone new and shiny. So, the answers are no, I won’t go out with you, and no, I’m not easy.”
“I was going to ask your name and offer you a beer.” I picked up a rock and skipped it across the water. My pride smarted from her semi-accurate assessment. “But not with that attitude.”
“I’m Estelle, and you’re Owen.” A reluctant smile twitched the corners of her mouth, and her shoulders lowered. “I don’t drink, but thanks anyway.” I shrugged, intending to leave with my tail between my legs, but she rested a hand on my sleeve. Her touch awakened every nerve ending in my body. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just, I hate being the new kid all the time. I can never let my guard down.”
The wistfulness in her voice halted my exit. I knew how it felt to stand out, to have people judge me. At six-foot-four, I towered over most adults and all of my classmates. My size, coupled with my family history, led to epic assumptions about my character—most of them wrong. “Where are you from?”
“Nowhere. Everywhere.” She dropped her hand from my arm, leaving a curious sense of loss from her touch. “I was born in Fort Wayne. I’ve moved around a lot since then. For now, I’m staying with the Hudgens.”
“I mow their yard.” Sometimes Mrs. Hudgens invited me inside for lunch and, eager to avoid my dysfunctional home, I accepted. The job suddenly became much more appealing if Estelle might be there.
Lies We Tell Page 1
