Dirty Lies

by Lush, Tamara

  Skylar's touch, how she made me come with only her soft hands, had stirred an intensity inside me I'd never experienced before. So much so, concentration on anything else was impossible. The memory of how she slowly rubbed her finger over the tip of my cock made me hard even now.

  I sighed out loud. And what about her request? Her rule. Of course I wouldn't seek out anyone else. Why would I want to, when she was willing to tease and torment me in the most delicious ways possible?

  The way the pain fogged her eyes when she talked about her ex-boyfriend made my heart pound uncomfortably against my chest, and hearing about how the guy pushed her had nearly taken my breath away in anger.

  It was only now I realized why. I'd covered some nasty domestic violence stories while at the paper in Italy, and had never forgotten interviewing one woman in particular. Her husband had beat her severely, and her tears and pain had imprinted on my twenty-two-year-old brain. I'd felt helpless, knowing my article was probably meaningless. My words wouldn't stop her husband's fists.

  The idea of a man putting his hands on a woman in that way sickened me. And for someone to touch Skylar in anger…

  I tossed the pens on the desk.

  It was irrational, and impossible, but I wished I'd been able to protect Skylar from James's abuse.

  The only thing I could do now, though, was to not hurt her in any way.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  More Kisses

  SKYLAR

  I walked into the newsroom on Tuesday morning to find a box on my chair, making me frown.

  What had I bought? Why had the package slipped my mind? I'd been forgetful lately because of Luca and work. It wouldn't be surprising if I'd ordered something and totally spaced out.

  Slicing open the tape on the box edges with a pair of scissors, I discovered another box nestled inside, wrapped in gold paper and tied with a gold ribbon. I carefully unfolded the attached note card and tilted my head in curiosity.

  Più baci per te.

  —Luca

  I laughed out loud. I'd Google the Italian words after I opened the gift.

  Sliding my finger under the thick wrapping paper, I extracted a midnight blue box. Baci, it said, in light blue cursive letters on the front. Grinning, I lifted the lid to find twenty-eight chocolates wrapped in sparkling silver foil.

  He'd remembered.

  I looked around, anticipating my coworkers would cluster around to tease me—or, more likely, to beg for candy. No one was nearby, thankfully. This was a moment to enjoy alone.

  Plucking a chocolate from the box and unwrapping it, I bit into the sweet and closed my eyes. It was dark and delicious. As the chocolate melted on my tongue, I sank into the chair and went to an online translator to type in the words of Luca's message.

  My heart soared when I read the translation.

  More kisses for you.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Revelation

  LUCA

  I tugged at my shirt collar as I settled back into the tan leather seat of my uncle's private jet. Federico had invited me to Miami, suggesting a change of scenery for a couple nights. After pacing the mansion for two days, thinking only of Skylar, I couldn't argue with my uncle's logic.

  Of course, I had first sent Skylar chocolates, and she'd sounded so happy when she called to thank me, I wanted to stay on the island and invite her over. But I needed to slow my roll with her.

  That's why I didn't tell her where I was going. It still felt odd to reveal my plans to anyone, even her.

  So, I'd put on a real button-down shirt and pants and a jacket, recalling with a smile how Skylar would probably love to see me like this. I carried a smart-looking, black leather overnight bag, as if I were any young professional on a business trip, then left the house. I felt like an impostor, since I'd gotten so used to the beach-bum attire of shorts and a T-shirt.

  I'd parked my uncle's Mercedes at the island's executive airport, tipping the security guard an extra few hundred to keep it safe.

  After a quick flight across the state, a limo whisked me to my uncle's downtown Miami penthouse. He grinned when I walked in, because as tropically ostentatious as the beach house was, the penthouse was something out of a sleek Miami dream. Like stepping into a cliché. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. Everything—the furniture, the walls, the floors—was decorated in white. What wasn't white was clear glass, as shiny and tranquil as the ocean just beyond the windows.

  "I didn't take you for a minimalist," I laughed, clapping my uncle on the back as we hugged.

  Federico shrugged. "It helps me think. Let's have a drink." He led me over to a chair—white, of course—and then stood at the bar. "Scotch?"

  "Absolutely." Federico had great taste in booze.

  Federico handed me a drink and then sank into a matching white sofa. We made small talk, and I was surprised how comfortable I felt. This was good, getting to know my only living relative.

  I rattled the ice in the glass. "Zio, I meant to tell you, the workers came to fix the fence. Thanks for calling about that. If Skylar opened it so easily that day, who knows who else could come in?"

  "Excellent. And, speaking of that, how is the reporter girl? She did a pretty decent story on me, actually."

  I grinned. "She's good."

  "So, you've seen her again?"

  I nodded.

  Federico leaned back into the sofa and took a sip. "Does she know about the book?"

  I shook my head. "No. I've thought about telling her, though."

  "Might not be a bad idea, you're not in too much danger anymore. And whatever danger you're in, you've got it under control with my help. You seem to like this girl—a lot."

  "Who says I like her?" I shrugged.

  "I know the look of a man who is totally captivated. Trust me. I've been in your shoes, and I've regretted making some wrong decisions."

  I let that sink in, and it reminded me of something else that had been on my mind since coming to Florida. "You know, Zio, I've been wanting to ask you a few things. What happened between you and my father? And why did you never get married?"

  He sighed and looked down at his feet. "Changing the subject. Okay. Well, I knew you'd ask that eventually. And the answer to both of those questions has to do with the same reason, which is why I asked you here."

  I jiggled my leg nervously. Something about Federico's tense face was unsettling.

  "I hesitated on whether to tell you this, but I think it's time," Federico continued in a quiet voice.

  "Time? For what?"

  Federico sat back and sprawled an arm over the back of the sofa. "I knew your mother before your father did. We were in love. I don't know if your parents ever told you, but we all grew up in the same neighborhood."

  What the hell?

  Federico remained silent. I knew they'd all went to the same school, but Mom and Federico?

  "Your mother and I talked about marriage. I came to the U.S. for law school and she stayed behind in Italy. When I returned, she was dating Cristiano, your father. It was…awkward." Federico released a heavy sigh.

  I reminded myself to take a breath. I'd never considered that my mother might be with anyone but my father, much less dated Federico. "I had no idea."

  Federico shook his head. "Of course you wouldn't. Cristiano and I stopped talking to each other. You and I never got to know each other."

  "Well, it was thirty years ago, right? I guess things like that weren't uncommon." I smiled tightly.

  "No. Not uncommon. For many years, I beat myself up for losing her. I loved your mother, Luca. Never stopped loving her. Still love her."

  I bent my head and tears pricked at my eyes. Federico's connection to my mother made me feel a bit closer to the old man, and I was grateful for it. "I miss her."

  "I know. I miss her too—or miss who she was all those years ago."

  "Her death was my fault."

  Federico took a deep breath. "You say that, but Cristiano played a part,
Luca. Don't kid yourself. He was a prosecutor. You know he tried lots of criminals and Mafia bosses. And he encouraged you to write your book, you said so yourself. So did your mother. They were both hardheaded about doing the right thing and never backing down."

  I nodded and drained my Scotch. Federico was right. "Pigheaded" was what the papers called my father when he'd tried a famous Camorra boss when I was only seven. I remembered that summer as the one where me and Mom went to live on my grandfather's citrus farm—and I didn't see my father for months.

  "Cristiano sought justice. Always. Almost to a fault. Everything was black and white with him."

  I nodded again. "When was the last time you saw my mother?"

  Federico stood and paced the room before standing at the window, gazing at the fading daylight. My mouth went dry as the minutes silently ticked past.

  Federico turned. "A month before your parents were married. And nine months before you were born."

  The words hit me like a swift kick to the stomach. "I'm sorry. What are you trying to say?"

  Federico came to the sofa next to my chair and sat facing me. "I flew to Italy before her wedding to Cristiano. I wanted to try one last time to convince her to marry me. She was confused, and one night, we…we were intimate. She told me that she hadn't yet been with your father, that he thought she was a virgin…"

  I winced. Oh God. No. I stared at the gleaming white floor.

  "Then she went ahead and married your father. But I got her pregnant. She later sent me a letter telling me that that she was having morning sickness the day of the wedding and knew the baby was mine."

  "So. You're my…father?" I whispered. "That's insane. Why…why didn't anyone tell me? Why wouldn't my mother have said something?"

  Federico exploded. "She didn't want to leave her family behind to come to America, which is what I wanted. And she thought she wanted your father. Maybe she saw him as a better prospect, someone more noble. I was going to be an ambulance chaser, a personal injury lawyer in Miami. But I wasn't going to destroy my brother and tell him his son—the apple of his eye, the love of his life—wasn't really his."

  I froze, unable to move. No. No. No. This couldn't be happening. Not after everything I'd been through.

  "And I knew your father loved you more than anything and would take care of you. Probably better than I would. Hell, I screwed up with your mom. I left her behind. I was stubborn and refused to return to Italy. I didn't think I'd be a better father. But that's why I was so happy you called me when you were in Argentina. I could finally help you. My son."

  "I don't believe you." My voice was hoarse. When my eyes met Federico's, though, I knew the man wasn't lying. His eyes were the same color as my own.

  "I'm sorry, Luca."

  I sank back in my chair, winded, gaping at Federico warily. After a few minutes, he tipped a pour of liquor into his glass.

  I spoke, but my voice sounded like it was coming from someone else. Detached. Confused. How could this be happening?

  "Is this why my parents fought all the time?"

  Federico, standing at the window, turned. "Maybe. I'm not sure. Your mother sent me an email about three years ago, apologizing. She told me about you, and how proud she was that you were a reporter. She said that she and Cristiano had a loveless marriage and she wished she'd made different decisions."

  I exhaled long, pushing the air through my lips. The whole conversation had left me reeling. Exhausted, I stood up, unable to look at Federico and shook my head vigorously as if to remove the memory of the past half hour.

  "Where am I sleeping?"

  With a sigh, Federico rose and walked down an all-white hall. I followed until Federico pointed.

  Opening the door to a guest bedroom, I glanced at my uncle. "I don't know what to say. What to call you. What to think."

  He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. "Let's just take things as they come, okay?"

  I nodded and stumbled into the bedroom, flopping down onto the white modern platform bed. I took my phone from my pocket and brought up Skylar's contact. My finger hovered over the screen. I wanted to call her, to hear her voice, to tell her about what I'd just learned.

  But it was too much too soon. If I did that, I'd have to explain everything else about my life.

  I wasn't ready for that.

  Chapter Thirty

  Stalking

  ANNALISA

  At least the American reporter girl drove an Italian car. She had that going for her. Otherwise, I was growing more annoyed with Skylar by the moment.

  I watched her walk out of the newspaper building and into a café down the street. The girl's style was all wrong. Black high heels were for nighttime, not hot summer days. Her dress was too plain, and she needed better jewelry. I sniffed with distaste as I saw her emerge from the café with a big plastic cup.

  When the girl pulled out of her parking space in front of the newsroom, I followed in my rental car at a safe distance.

  She drove into a parking lot, and I hung back and watched her get out of the car and walk toward the adjacent building, pausing near a giant plant to take a call. I watched her grin and laugh flirtatiously while chatting, and I wondered if it was Luca on the other end.

  Probably, since she twirled her hair with her finger and looked upwards, coyly.

  Making matters worse, Skylar had great hair. Long, thick, and effortlessly wavy. This made me hate her more.

  Bile rose in my throat as I watched her grin. Her cheeks flushed pink, as if she was giddy.

  This was not good.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  A Surprise Visit

  SKYLAR

  My phone rang just as I was about to walk inside the island community center to cover a municipal meeting for the paper, and my mood soared. It was Luca.

  I hadn't heard from him in a couple days, and the edges of panic were setting in, which was silly since he'd sent me the chocolates. Still, I had to wonder why he hadn't called or texted in two days.

  "Buonasera, what are you doing tonight?"

  "Luca. Heyyyy. Nice hearing from you.” I didn't want to seem clingy, but I did want him to know I was a little annoyed he'd disappeared on me.

  "Tesoro. I apologize for not calling. I was in Miami, visiting my…uncle."

  I was about to ask whether Miami had phone and text service, but then thought better of it. Something in his tone made me not want to get too scrappy with him. And it wasn't like he owed me a phone call every day.

  We weren't officially dating.

  My eyes went to a large tropical plant with foliage almost as big as me. I reached out with my free hand and ran my finger over the veins of a giant green leaf. I then twisted a strand of her hair around my finger, recalling how Luca liked to do that. "I have an exciting night planned. I'm writing a story on bridge tolls. Woo-hoo.”

  Luca chuckled. "Well, I can't stop thinking about you. What are you doing later tonight? The rest of the week?"

  I turned toward the giant leaf and beamed. "Umm, tonight around nine, I'm joining some people from the newsroom at a wine bar on Main Street…"

  "Oh? Which bar?" He didn't sound jealous, just curious.

  "It's called Bacchus. It's right near the paper. Just down the street."

  "Hmm. And Thursday? On Friday, you're mine for the weekend, no?"

  His words made me unsteady with desire. "I'm yours for the weekend. On Thursday I have yoga. There's a new studio I'd like to check out. Do you wanna come with me?"

  There was a pause. I totally didn't expect him to go to yoga. Most guys didn't do yoga.

  "Yeah. Yoga. I'd love to. What time and where?"

  I all but did a little dance. I couldn't wait to tell Emily.

  After we hung up, it was a lot easier for me to concentrate on the assignment. As a department of transportation official turned down the lights for a PowerPoint presentation, I zoned out and remembered of all of the places Luca had kissed the previous weekend. My neck. The inside of my
wrists. Just above my bellybutton. When the lights in the community center came up, I was uncomfortably wet between my legs, and I pulled the hem of my black sheath dress toward my knees.

  An hour later, after filing an article for the paper, I bounced into Bacchus to meet my friends. A giant glass of sangria called my name as a reward for a long day.

  It was crowded for midweek in August due to a seashell collectors' convention on the island. Weaving through the crowded bar, I found my friends sitting at a table in the middle of the room. Kira, the editorial assistant, Rebecca, an advertising salesperson, and Megan, who was a news reporter like me, were all there. Emily said she'd try to join us later after covering a high school football game.

  With a faux fresco mural of the Parthenon on one wall and paintings of nude people frolicking amongst vineyards, the place had a slightly tacky yet pleasant ambiance. Usually a bad Jimmy Buffet cover singer crooned in the corner, but I noted with relief there was no live music that evening.

  In my three months in Florida, I'd gotten so sick of that "Margaritaville" song.

  Bacchus also wasn't outrageously overpriced, which the cash-poor newspaper employees appreciated. The bar drew a mix of locals and tourists, and the women from the paper liked to scope out the potential single vacationers on the island. Although I had never actually met a tourist that I wanted to hang out with, I liked checking out the guys too.

  Now that I'd met Luca, the charm of ogling random men was gone.

  I greeted the girls and considered telling them about Luca but decided against it. It was one thing to tell Emily, but it was another to tell every woman in the newsroom who lived on the same tiny island. Maybe if we were still together in a month. Then I'd tell them.