Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series)

by Stephie Smith

  I was worried now because Little Boy had a bad habit of spraying around my door and Mr. Carlson was standing in what Little Boy considered his personal territory. Heaven only knew what Carlson would do if he was sprayed by a cat on my stoop.

  Little Boy had no intention of stopping to spray Mr. Carlson though. He whisked right by and through the open door with a wriggling present hanging from his mouth.

  “Eeeeeek,” I shrieked. “A snake!”

  I like to pretend Sue is the only one scared of critters, but Sue has nothing on me when it comes to reptiles. “Catch it!” I screamed just as Little Boy dropped the snake at the place where my feet had been. They weren’t there now because I had jumped out the door and into Mr. Carlson’s arms.

  Mr. Carlson was not moved by my fear. Well, he was somewhat moved because I almost knocked him down trying to climb up his body to sit on his head. I figured the higher I got, the less likely it was that the snake would get me. Mr. Carlson quickly recovered from his shock, though, and shoved me off.

  “I’m not catching a damned snake for you.” His growl came out of a scrunched-up face. “It serves you right. That’s what you get for living the way you do. I have a mind to charge you with assault. I could have been injured the way you came barreling at me!”

  He brushed furiously at the front of his coat, cursing loudly now. His anger would have seemed out of proportion to what had just transpired—if it hadn’t been for all the little brown sticky beggarweed pods I had generously gifted him with.

  “Trouble, Ms. Jansen?” asked a non-threatening, non-yelling voice. I cut my eyes from Carlson to the owner of the voice.

  Oh my God. The young, good-looking doctor. And I looked like this. Didn’t anyone bother using a phone?

  *****

  Dr. Bryan Rossi had come bearing gifts. The first gift was that he knew how to catch a snake. In between my yelps of terror as he went after it, he laughingly explained that it was just a Florida ringneck snake with a mouth so small it couldn’t bite anyone if it tried. He caught it and took it outside.

  The second gift was the way he looked. That would have been the first gift if I hadn’t been so nervous about the snake. He wore faded blue jeans, a navy blue T-shirt that hugged his chest, and white Nike running shoes. I had the sudden urge to jump into his arms. Just do it, I thought.

  His dark hair was thick and wavy, a little shorter on the sides but curling down onto his neck in the back, and his eyes were a silvery gray. If I didn’t know he was a doctor, I’d have taken him for the lead singer of a rock band. A very successful rock band, considering the Cartier watch and the diamond-studded Harvard class ring I noticed when he was showing me the snake. As he turned to shut the door behind him, I got a good look at the part of him that had been hidden by his doctor’s coat at our previous meeting. Yum.

  I forced myself to quit staring in order to lessen the drool production thing I had going, so I took a gander at the two boxes he’d dropped onto the coffee table before going after the snake. One appeared to be a flower box and the other …

  He picked up the shoebox, slipped off the bow, opened it, and held out a new sandal exactly like the one I’d lost in the debacle at the gynecologist’s office. I could tell he was going for drama when he got down on one knee and gazed up at me. “Shall I slip it on you to see if it fits?” he asked in a husky voice.

  Well, sure, I was thinking, if you want me to die of embarrassment. Oh, wait. Too late. He was already looking down at my feet. They were covered in dried muck, and an ugly clump of mud, complete with sprouting grass, was plastered to the top of my big toe

  He tried to swallow his laugh, but it escaped as a snort. Then his body began to shake with silent mirth, and that was all it took for me. I keeled over laughing and once I started, I couldn’t stop. I guess I was releasing stress. Heaven knows it wasn’t getting released any other way.

  “That wasn’t part of my fantasy,” he admitted with a chuckle, and I started laughing again so hard that I collapsed onto the sofa.

  “I’d go wash my feet,” I said between gulps of air, “but I’m guessing the moment has passed.”

  When I got myself under control, I asked, “Where’d you get the shoes anyway? As much as I’ve tried to block out the experience, I think I’d remember if I lost both shoes and a shoe box up on that roof.”

  “I found your shoe on the drive after a couple of cars had run over it. It was beyond fixing, but my receptionist said she knew where to get another pair.”

  Now, why did it irk me that he’d sent his receptionist to buy my shoes? Probably because I figured it irked her. It would irk me if my boss had me do it. “Well, that was so nice of your receptionist, but she didn’t have to go to all that trouble.”

  “She did if I wanted an excuse to see you again. It’s for little things like this that I pay her the big bucks.”

  “Do you? Do you pay her big bucks?”

  “I do. Out of my own pocket.”

  He looked as if he meant it, so I felt better. Getting paid big bucks to go shoe shopping, even if for someone else, wasn’t so terrible, and when she returned, she got to stare at him. I’d probably work for free if I could look at that all day. He was that handsome. And a young, rich, good-looking doctor … women were probably flying in from all over the world to stare at him.

  So what was he doing at my house?

  He fished something out of his back pocket and for a second or two, I had a weird fantasy that it was a ring. Until he waved a little white bag in front of my face.

  I pulled out a tube of cream.

  “It’s for your contact dermatitis.” His eyes held a mischievous glint.

  My jaw dropped in shock, but then I remembered what an unattractive look that was on me, so I snapped my mouth shut again. “Dr. Forester should be disbarred or whatever they call it.”

  “We’re partners—I’m taking over his practice—so his files are my files and vice versa. But if it makes you feel any better, I also heard about your problem from fifteen other people, and they heard it from fifteen other people, who heard it from—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it,” I said. The gossip didn’t make me feel any better. Neither did the fact that Dr. Bryan Rossi was, evidently, a gynecologist.

  I eyed the cream. I really wanted it, but I wasn’t even sure if contact dermatitis was what I had.

  “It’s not herpes, he’s sure, and he would have given you this sample if you hadn’t sneaked out the window.”

  “I wouldn’t have had to sneak out the window if he hadn’t shouted out my name to his entire waiting room! As bad as today’s headline was, I prefer it to one with my name and the word herpes in it!”

  Bryan tipped his head back and laughed. It was a full-bodied, happy laugh. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “He forgets that everyone else can hear. But I thought the headline was a good one. I liked the picture that went with it too.”

  Yeah, and he had seen the real picture, without the giant black dot. Who was luckier than him? I toyed with the idea of asking if he’d brought something for my jock itch. That would surely make his day.

  “So, tell me,” he asked, “what was it? The toilet paper with the lotion?”

  “Wow. You’re good.”

  “It keeps me in business. It gets everybody once. There’s something about their claim of softening that skin that makes it irresistible to women. But I can guarantee that skin is soft enough already. That’s why it’s so sensitive to the lotion … and everything else.”

  Oh my God. His eyes had gone black and liquid, and so was I. Liquid, that is. Not black. Well, my eyes were probably black, at least as black as his. In romance novels the hero’s eyes always go black during the love scene because his pupils dilate to the size of nickels. For some reason no one ever mentions the heroine’s eyes going black, but hey, women are people too.

  When I found my voice, I thanked him for the flowers, the sandals, and the cream. As it turned out, those weren’t the only reasons he
’d come over.

  “What?” I asked, sure I’d heard wrong.

  “A date,” he said, smiling with those white, white teeth.

  He must have had a full set of veneers put on because no one had a real smile like that. I switched my gaze to his eyes. They were twinkling with humor again.

  “You know, boy asks out girl, girl accepts, boy takes girl to a nice dinner and show … a date.”

  “Well, um, dinner and a movie sounds nice but—”

  “Not a movie—a show. Or concert, rather. Seal. He’ll be in Atlanta the weekend after next. We could fly up, take in dinner and the show, spend the night, and fly back on Sunday.”

  Holy crap. At any other time in my life I’d be thinking I hit the jackpot. A young, rich, good-looking doctor and a Seal concert. Not to mention the possibility of what might happen during that overnight time, assuming my dermatitis was gone. But my life was no longer about having a good time. It was about saving my house, and every single day counted in my effort.

  “Are you applying for the Husband Wanted job?” I asked.

  His eyes widened for a split second, and then he blinked. Was that fear lurking behind those baby grays?

  “No!” he said. “I mean, no, not really.” He was smiling again, but it was a shadow of the smile he’d worn before. “I just thought you might enjoy dinner and a show.”

  I told him I would under normal circumstances, but right now my life wasn’t normal. For some weird reason which I’d need to examine later, my mouth told him that in two weeks I might be engaged, and if not, I’d still be looking for a husband. Either way, every minute of my time would be involved with getting my property into conformance.

  He said he was sorry, that he wished things could be different, and I believed him because I felt that way too.

  Chapter 7

  My work schedule varied since I was part-time, but it was Wednesday, and I had to work the rest of the week. Although I liked my job just fine, it was difficult to force myself back after being off for several days. There were so many chores I needed to do at home that I actually thought about calling in sick.

  Oh, who was I kidding? This wasn’t about chores at home; I was embarrassed to face my boss, Henry Phipps. His learning of my past as a historical romance writer with a rock and roll boyfriend was bad enough, but worse was that business of my butt on display for the world to see.

  Yes, the whole world, according to my sister Marci, whose voice had trilled with excitement when she’d called to let me know it was all over the Internet and without the black dot.

  Since our business was software technology and my boss was always online, there was no chance he would have missed my little—or I should say big—humiliation.

  I got into the office early, hoping to settle into my work before anyone else showed up. Maybe they wouldn’t know I was already there but even if they did, at least the awkward morning greetings as I passed them in the hall wouldn’t happen.

  When ten o’clock came and went without anyone saying boo, I worried that I was being shunned. But then my boss arrived, acting completely normal, and he didn’t say a word about the article. I took a deep breath. Relaxing, finally, I got to work.

  As the only administrative assistant in the small company, I was in charge of every admin task. Correspondence, filing, customer mailings, press releases, scheduling, company events … Today I needed to wrap up dinner plans for the board members and key personnel. I’d received RSVPs from everyone except my boss’s wife. When the deadline passed and I hadn’t heard, I shot off a quick email to my boss asking if his wife planned to attend. He would either know the answer or would give his wife a call. Minutes later I received his response.

  No, she replied, tears streaming over high cheekbones like a river over boulders, convinced in her heart of hearts that she would never see him at a company dinner again …

  What the heck? It took a few seconds for the words to sink in. Was he laughing at me? Maybe he thought he was laughing with me. Except I wasn’t laughing.

  I clicked on Reply and started to ask him to clarify, but then typed, “Did you see the article?” instead. I didn’t say which article. I was still hoping he hadn’t seen my butt.

  With great trepidation I clicked Send. His reply came back in seconds; he must have had it written and was just waiting for the chance to send it.

  Yes! Congrats … he said, his rippling, sweat-drenched torso heaving like a blacksmith’s billowing bellows …

  Oh brother. In parentheses he’d written, “You can use that if you want, and you don’t even have to give me credit.”

  Was he serious or joking? I wasn’t sure. I shook myself out of my dumbfoundedness when I realized he had sneaked up and was lounging against one side of the doorframe, his tall, lanky body somewhat awkwardly placed. His straight dark hair fell over his forehead and his round eyeglasses, which he was constantly pushing up, had slid to the bottom of his nose. I had the feeling he would push them up now, if it wouldn’t spoil his pose. I stared, speechless, as he crossed his arms negligently over his chest. I’d never seen him in such a stance.

  “You didn’t tell us you’re a famous writer,” he said with a big smile.

  A flush started creeping up my neck. Heck, it wasn’t creeping, it was sweeping. My entire face was suddenly hot. “I’m not famous. There wasn’t any reason to tell you about it.”

  “Oh, but there is. My wife loves romance novels. I’ve ordered all your books, and I want you to autograph them.”

  Please God, just shoot me now. I would absolutely die if my boss read any of my books. The sensuality level was hot. And I mean hot. What would he think when my hero fell to his knees in front of his naked, virginal wife, and did … that? What would he think when the heroine of the next book did that to the hero? Just knowing the word nipple was in my book was more than enough to send me into an anxiety attack. I knew my face was bright red; the heat radiating from it was enough to start a fire.

  “You know what? I’d really rather you didn’t get my books,” I said, hoping my face didn’t melt into a puddle.

  “Too late! They’re on their way. Coming from Amazon. Overnight! I read the excerpts online, and they were pretty good.” His simmering excitement ignited, and he pushed away from the doorframe, propelling himself to the front of my desk, eyes bright, face lit up, his whole body quivering as though he could barely stand still. Any minute I expected him to break out in song.

  “I’ve been thinking about this all weekend,” he said, pacing now with such enthusiasm that he appeared to be skipping. “I can help you write another book. I’m a pretty good writer myself, so I’ll just send you little snippets every now and then that you can use. Really, you don’t have to give me any credit. Well, naming a character after me would be nice. But you don’t have to.”

  He’d stopped skipping and had put both hands on my desk, leaning toward me until his face was mere inches from mine. His blue eyes gleamed with anticipation.

  Oh God. Now I was wishing I was a puddle so that I could evaporate, never to be seen again.

  *****

  “Jane? Jane, are you there? This is your mother. Pick up the phone!”

  I reached for the phone on my nightstand, getting a glimpse of the readout on the clock. Six in the morning? What the hell? Mom never called this early.

  I picked up the handset and held it to my ear while I tried to wake myself up. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

  “Jane! Thank goodness you’re there!”

  I wanted to say, “Where else would I be?” but I was still asleep so I thought it instead.

  “I just got the paper,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. I am so relieved—and happy for you.”

  “What? Tell you what? Relieved about what?” Good grief, what was in the paper now?

  “Dr. Bryan Rossi, that’s what!”

  I was awake now. And scrambling out of bed. My foot caught on the covers, and I tumbled out hea
dfirst. Dang. Not the way I liked to wake up.

  I could hear a frantic, “Jane, Jane, are you there?” I groped in the direction of the noise until I found the handset. I took a deep breath and put the phone back to my ear.

  “What are you talking about? What about Dr. Rossi?”

  “That he is interested in you. Wooing you! A doctor! You may not put me in the grave after all.”

  Okay, at this point I felt like hanging up. Mainly because I was just trying to live my life, and I was getting sick and tired of remarks like this one. Putting my mother in her grave, my ass. She would outlive us all.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “The newspaper, Jane. The newspaper. There’s a picture of Bryan Rossi getting out of his white Jaguar convertible at your house, carrying gifts! Oh, I knew there was a reason you were so pretty.”

  Pretty? Me? This was coming from the woman who had made it her life’s work to drill into me that I was nothing special, starting with my birth when she’d decided—no doubt with a smirk—to name me Jane to go with Dough? Maybe she had dementia. Then my mind processed the word Jaguar. Jaguar? I loved Jaguars. How did I not notice his Jaguar? Oh yeah. I was too busy booting him out the door.

  I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “Mom, start over. There’s an article in the paper about Dr. Rossi …”

  “About you and Dr. Rossi. It says Bryan Rossi woos romance writer. According to Katherine, the Associated Press has picked up the story and it’s everywhere, so it must be true!”

  Well, sure. If it was everywhere, it must be true.

  My first thought was how incredible that Katherine and Mom had already been talking, before six a.m. My second thought was, Bryan Rossi woos romance writer? Not Local doctor woos romance writer or Young, handsome doctor woos romance writer? Who the hell was Bryan Rossi that a headline would have his name in it, when I, the subject of these stories, was just romance writer?

  “Is Bryan Rossi someone special? Aside from the fact that he’s a doctor, of course.” I had to clarify because the doctor part was all the “special” he would need in Mom’s book.