Kiss Me with Lies (Twin Lies Duet Book 1)

by S. M. Soto

  I’m truly jealous of this woman because she’s been able to attain someone as elusive as Baz. I’ve had to change everything about myself; yet, it’s obvious he’s going to choose her over me. So I’m removing myself before I let that happen. Before I can feel any more idiotic than I already do.

  Sucking in a lungful of air for strength, I pad my damp feet across the floor. I hold my head high, my nude body on full display the entire way. Even though I feel their eyes on me, I do everything within my power to ignore them.

  “She’s not the usual, but she’s not bad,” the woman says as I pass her, her gaze trailing up and down my body. My hands curl into fists, and my stomach clenches with anger.

  I bypass her, snatching a towel off the warmer and shoot a quick glance back at Baz over my shoulder. I’m not the least bit surprised to see he’s still in the water. I’d feel a little better if he looked dumbstruck or upset by me leaving so abruptly, but I couldn’t be more wrong. Much as he was earlier, with that infuriating calm, aloof mask on his face, Baz is leaning against the ledge of the Jacuzzi, his arms slung out at his sides as he watches me.

  He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even bat a fucking eye.

  And neither do I.

  With that infuriating tightness in my chest, I snatch my dress and heels and hightail it out of there before I lose my composure.

  It’s been two days. Two whole fucking days and still no word from Baz. I mean, I know I was the one who ran away because I was pissed off, but hell, you’d think he would at least have the decency to check in with me after what happened.

  He knows where my room is. He knows how long I’ll be here. There’s only one reason I can think of as to why he’d ignore me. It’s because of this.

  Dealing with these idiotic, angst-filled emotions aren’t his forte. And I don’t blame him. I hate the fact I’ve waited around for his call. I hate myself for caring about anything other than finding justice for my sister.

  I don’t have the right to be angry that a woman he’s probably known for a very long time—seeing as when I googled him, he’s almost never in a picture with the same woman twice—walked into his penthouse. Generally, when he is photographed with the same women, they’re labeled as his girlfriend. Everyone else is just the flavor of the month. They’re replaceable. But the girls he’s been pictured with more times than not apparently have something that makes him want to keep them around.

  Obviously, yesterday, while I was pouting and feeling angry after what happened, I started googling, mainly for research. All the new information I learned about Baz and the rest of the guys was added to my doc. It’s growing. The details, my overall knowledge. I’m getting somewhere.

  And what I learned? Baz is a selective playboy. They all are, but Baz takes it to another level. He doesn’t just sleep with anyone. And when he is pictured with someone, it isn’t just for a simple date or booty call. He chooses the women he’s seen with in public very carefully.

  As a notorious playboy, through and through, he’s all about maintaining his image.

  Instead of wasting my whole day pouting, like I did yesterday, I decide to be useful. I came here for a reason, and I won’t let the other night ruin that for me. So what if Baz isn’t my in with the rest of the Savages? I’m here in his space, in his resort, so there has to be something here I can use to my benefit. I just have to find it. That’s all.

  Grabbing my phone, I scroll through my recent call list and tap the number I’m looking for. The line picks up on the first ring, the deep voice spiking my adrenaline.

  “Have you found anything?”

  “Not exactly. I have someone gathering the court files and proceedings for us now. I handled your name situation, too. You should be okay in case he searches your “new” name in any database.”

  I blow out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Jack. What about security? Have you found anything useful?”

  “You know, Kenzie, this favor of yours is turning out to be a real pain in the ass,” Jack grumbles into the phone.

  I met Jack a few years ago in New York while I was working at a temp agency. He was this geeky computer hacker who was smart as shit and into expensive drugs. One day at the agency, he was almost caught with a pouch full of cocaine until I tossed it. I don’t know why I did it. It was stupid and incredibly reckless, but it felt good to have someone owe me something for once.

  I called in my favor from Jack before coming to LA. I knew he was good with computers, and I needed his help to keep Baz off my trail. I couldn’t just give him a fake name and hope he wouldn’t do anything with the information. I needed to give him enough to go on that if he ever decided to look me up, everything he found would look as real as possible. Jack has also been helping me gather information from the trial and the documents from my sister’s death.

  I roll my eyes. “Shut up. You owe me.”

  “Christ. I should’ve let them haul my ass to jail.”

  “Jack!”

  “All right, fine. Yes, I took care of everything. I haven’t been able to find anything useful regarding the security at the resort, so you’ll have to figure it out yourself. I’ll give you a call later, once my guy has all the files you need.”

  My grip tightens on the phone, and a heaviness settles in my chest. “Thanks, Jack. I mean it.”

  “Just stay out of trouble, Kenzie. And quit leaving me stupid voicemails talking in code. I don’t understand it.”

  The line clicks off, and despite my shit mood, a grin tugs at the corners of my mouth. Poor Jack.

  Since I have some recon to do, I rifle through the drawers in the suite until I find something to slip into. If I can’t get info through Baz, I’ll use other means. Dressed in tight, revealing workout gear, I throw my hair into a sleek pony and grab a small backpack that I had sitting at the bottom of my luggage. Inside, I toss one of the water bottles from the fridge, my phone, and the hotel key, then I’m out the door, headed to the resort gym.

  Two birds, one stone.

  I can squeeze in my daily workout while scoping out the resort. If I can find the security hub on the main level, maybe I can figure out how to bypass the cameras and get onto his penthouse floor unseen.

  On the way to the gym, I stop in the lobby and pause to people-watch. There are couples wearing their vacation clothes, men dressed in suits, and others in casual attire, ready to begin their activities for the day. I take note of the employees behind the concierge desk and the reception desk. They’re the only two employees milling around that I can see. Discreetly, I shift the band of my backpack on my shoulder, and I glance up, trying to find cameras. If they’re there, I can’t see them, and I don’t want to look too suspicious. So instead, I look away and head toward the gym.

  When I swipe my card to enter, I find only a handful of people in here using the equipment. Two out of the seven being women.

  I take in the large space, my brows rising at how well put together everything is. I knew Baz’s resort was great, but this gym? It’s better than the one I paid for back in New York. It’s classy yet sophisticated with high-tech equipment. I didn’t expect to see this much equipment in here, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Baz doesn’t strike me as a man who ever does anything half-assed.

  Flat screens along the upper walls each play something different: the news, an early morning talk show, an HBO program, etc.

  I clear my dry throat, forcing my feet to move when I realize I’ve been frozen over the threshold, gawking. Keeping to my usual routine, I head for the treadmill for a light inclined jog, then I move on to the StairMaster. I almost fist pump when I realize there’s a Pilates machine, making my next workout a whole hell of a lot easier.

  While I move from the treadmill to the StairMaster, the gym occupants slowly start to trickle out, leaving me with the place to myself. I wait between rests to see if anyone of interest comes in, anyone I could question and get insight on the resort and staff, but no one has.

  While pulling the weighted cables back
, I exhale a deep breath and inhale when my legs push in. I repeat the process. The burn in my legs, arms, and abs is so insane, I almost don’t notice the shift in the air.

  Almost.

  Even with my head down and my eyes squeezed shut as I rep through another set, I feel his arrival. My arms and legs continue moving in fluid strokes, my feet pushing off the base, and my arms working the cable weights. Through it all, my body—every inch of my exposed skin in my sports bra and yoga pants—prickles with awareness. I am no longer alone. That much is obvious.

  When I finish my final set, I’m out of breath and sweating profusely. Instead of stopping and calling it a day as I normally would, I push off the machine, and without looking toward the source of my anger and now my discomfort, I turn my back on him and head toward the weights. I choose something light because anything over eight pounds would be dangerous in the presence of this man. After how things ended the other night, one wrong word from him, and I can’t promise I won’t aim the weight at his head and kill him. So yes, it’s best to stick to the lighter weights.

  Working my arms, I focus on the burn in my triceps, not wanting to let on that I know he’s here. I need the control that it will give me. I need the control in this situation. And for some reason, denying his presence, makes me feel big. It makes me feel like I’ve gained all the power and hold all the cards between us.

  I do my best to focus on Madison, remembering she’s the reason I’m here doing everything I’m doing. It makes concentrating a hell of a lot easier. The guys don’t hold any power over me, not if I don’t let them. And I won’t.

  When my arms start burning, and I’m sure I can’t lift another weight out of fear they’ll fall off, I gently set them back in place. The awareness of his proximity begins to win the battle with my attention.

  I hold the cards. Remember that.

  I expected him to be closer to the entrance, likely leaning against something with that cold, detached expression he always wears, but much to my surprise, he isn’t doing that. Instead, he’s sitting on the curl bench, dressed in a tailored suit, with his ankle crossed lazily over his knee. The vision of casual. The only thing I got right was his expression.

  Aloof. Cold. Unaffected.

  He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than sitting there, watching me. I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking why he’s here if he’s going to look so bored by my presence. His face—chiseled and serious with just the right amount of scruff—makes it almost impossible to look away from him.

  Instead of shying away like I want to, and avoiding what happens next, I refuse to do that. I bite the bullet.

  Wiping the back of my hand across my forehead to rid myself of the excess sweat, I reach for my backpack, pulling out the now almost empty water bottle, and take a healthy swig.

  “Didn’t see you there,” I observe, taking another large gulp and nearly draining the contents. “Nice workout clothes, by the way.”

  With his elbow propped on the leg bar of the bench, his thumb and index finger frame the side of his face as he bores into me, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as if he finds me amusing. The act in and of itself is sexy. He’s sexy.

  I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. Trying to remind myself of the other night and what I’m here for.

  Be different. Be the prize. Play hard to get, and most of all, never forget who he is.

  Multibillionaire luxury resort owner.

  Legendary bad boy.

  Possible murderer.

  “Good workout, I presume?” he asks, his gaze following my curves, lingering on my sweat-slicked skin. His stare, the way with which he’s regarding me, has a texture I can feel on my skin.

  “It wasn’t bad. Had a few good convos beforehand with some guests.”

  I don’t even know what possesses me to say that. All he would have to do is replay his security cameras to know it wasn’t true. But would he even care? I don’t think so. Yet a part of me wants to get under his skin the same way he gets under mine.

  Baz raises a brow, and that smirk he’s been fighting finally makes its appearance as if I’m a well of entertainment for him. The bastard.

  “Did you now, Ms. Williams?” he teases.

  “Yup.” I make sure to pop the “p” while saying it. “So,” I start, changing the subject. “Did you decide you wanted to be around other people today? I mean, isn’t that why you have your own gym?”

  Finally pushing up to his feet, Baz takes a step toward me, and as much as I want to back away and keep my distance because I’m still outraged by the events of the other night, I hold my ground. I keep my expression passive, trying to keep the aura surrounding me light and easy.

  The lack of reproach on my face isn’t an easy feat. If I didn’t know any better, I’d castigate him right here, rip into him, and display all the emotions I’m doing my damnedest to hide.

  “Not so much. I thought I’d check in on you.”

  I raise a single brow. “You keeping tabs on me now, Baz?” I recycle the same words he used on me the other night. The contempt that drips from my tone is unmistakable. He must realize it because his eyes gleam with pleasure as though he’s enjoying the back and forth. As if he’s enjoying the challenge I’m throwing his way.

  Taking another step toward me, Baz’s intimidating form towers over me. He lifts my ponytail that’s hanging over my breast and gently flips it back over my shoulder, giving himself unobstructed access to my neck. With a feather-light touch that is a contradiction to everything this man is, he lightly trails the pads of his fingers down the damp, sticky skin of my neck.

  “Not me, no,” he rasps, stepping in closer. My eyes are growing heavy lidded just from his light touch and his proximity. Everything about him screws with my head. “That’s what I have other people for. Makes keeping an eye on things, and people, a lot easier.”

  I swallow. “Makes sense.”

  A lengthy pause ensues.

  “Have dinner with me tonight.” His fingers are still tracing distracting patterns across my skin. I lick my dry lips.

  “Last time we had dinner, it didn’t end so well,” I quip.

  “And why is that?” he challenges, his gaze following the movement of his fingers. It’s perfect timing because the wall, that hard exterior I’ve built up, cracks, and I want to be the old Mackenzie again. I want to whine about how much seeing that other woman in his space hurt, or how the fact he went MIA hurt even more. That small reprieve from his fiery gaze is enough for me to gather my wits and get ahold of myself.

  “I think you know why,” I whisper. My answer prompts him to look down at me, searching my gaze. For a second, I think he’s going to apologize. I can practically see the words materialize on his lips, but it never comes.

  Instead, he avoids the topic of the other night, just as I knew he would. He pulls his hand back, and I almost whimper at the loss, but his next words have a thrill coursing down my spine.

  “Be ready by four,” he says, backing away, his gaze still eating up my sweating form.

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I never said yes.”

  Baz laughs. It’s dark, and there’s an eerie tone to it. “It wasn’t a question. Meet me in the lobby.”

  My brows dip as his quick response throws me off-kilter. “At four? Why so early?”

  Baz shrugs. “I want to show you some things.”

  Panic slams into me. I try to mask it, but he must sense some of my wariness because he says, “You’ve never had a tour of LA until you’ve been with me. And wear whatever you want.”

  With those as his parting words, he slips out of the gym, leaving me alone and wide-eyed.

  So much for holding all the cards.

  At four on the dot, I’m in the lobby, waiting for Mackenzie to arrive. The first five minutes I’m left waiting, I chalk it up to her being fashionably late. The women I’ve gone out with prior have done it, though I never would’ve taken Mackenzie for that type. But when ten minu
tes turns into fifteen with still no sign of her, I start to grow agitated because, now, I’m beginning to realize she never had any intention of showing up tonight.

  I get it. Hell, I deserve it after the other night.

  But it wasn’t at all what she thought it was.

  I didn’t plan on my former assistant showing up at my penthouse in the middle of the night while I was with another woman. Especially not since I let her go only a few days prior when I found out she slept with Trent. I prided myself on being a professional and running a business that was clean of any clichés or stereotypes, like a man in charge fucking his assistant or loaning her out to his friends. On paper, Patricia was the perfect assistant, but in real life? That wasn’t the case. She was more worried about her appearance and what working for Kings Resorts would do for her in the long run than focusing on the tasks at hand. Her biggest failure was fucking one of my friends instead of being the professional I paid her to be.

  As my assistant, I’d given her access to the penthouse level, where she could come and go from my office freely. Once I let her go, I gave her specific instructions to leave the fob card with Dan, but is that what she did? Of course not. Instead, she took it upon herself to let herself inside my penthouse and then had the nerve to ask if I’d pass her number on to Trent. I didn’t have the patience to tell her that he never dipped his dick twice. He is a hit-it-and-quit-it kind of guy, and if she hasn’t heard from him after their last romp, chances are she never will.

  Digging my cell out, I dial Dan, who’s been head of security and my driver since I racked up my first million years ago. He picks up on the first ring, his no-nonsense tone echoing in my ear.

  “Any sign of her?”

  There’s a silent pause before, “She hasn’t left her suite, Mr. King.”

  “Fucking Christ.” I hang up, raking an agitated hand through my hair. Mackenzie, Scarlett, whoever the fuck she wants to be, is driving me nuts. She has been since she stepped foot in my resort and turned my entire world upside down.

  I’m a lot like the rest of the guys. I don’t normally fuck twice. I don’t have the time or the patience for relationships, which is why I have a select few partners I call when I need a date to an event or the like. It’s easier that way. Sure, the media and gossip rags like to print shit about me, thinking they know every aspect of my private life, but they don’t.