Sweet Liar

by Jude Deveraux

  Mind? Samantha thought. It was as though someone was asking her if she’d mind going to heaven. “I think that would be all right,” she said, trying her best not to sound as though, inside, she were jumping up and down and yelling, Yippee!

  Vicky smiled graciously, pretending she couldn’t see how Samantha was feeling, but her happiness was infectious. Vicky seldom got to work with a customer who was so purely delighted with things as ordinary as new clothes and a haircut. “Now you must show your suit to Mike.”

  Involuntarily, Samantha frowned because she didn’t want to show Mike anything. In fact, she’d just as soon forget that he existed. Vicky had explained that a Saks credit card would be issued in Samantha’s name and that Vicky could arrange for the cost of the clothes to be prorated over months. Samantha would receive the clothes at Vicky’s cost, thereby making her able to afford an entire new wardrobe. If Samantha was paying for them, why did she have to show her clothes to this man?

  Seeing Samantha’s reluctance to model for Mike, Vicky didn’t understand it, because when she’d first seen them together, Samantha had been clinging to Mike as though he were a life perserver. “I think he will want to see you in your new clothing,” Vicky urged, feeling a little guilty at the elaborate lie she’d concocted to keep Samantha from knowing Mike was actually paying for the clothes.

  Hesitantly, and with more than a little reluctance, Samantha left the dressing room, walking onto the sales floor where Mike was ensconced on a pretty pink sofa with a cup of tea someone had brought him and a newspaper. He was so comfortable that he looked as though he owned the store, looking as at home here among these women and the very feminine clothes as he had looked the first day she’d seen him, when he was wearing cutoffs and a torn shirt.

  Remembering too vividly the indifference she had received from her father and her husband when it came to her clothes, Samantha didn’t want to model for him. Her husband had wanted her covered up and looking neat and tidy, but past that he hadn’t cared what she wore. Her father didn’t notice the difference between his daughter in heels and hose and his daughter in jeans and a gardening shirt.

  But Mike didn’t ignore Samantha and was far from indifferent to her. When he first saw her walking toward him, he put down his paper, slowly got out of his chair, and went to her. When he reached her, he took her hand, turned her about, and studied her, looking at the fit, cut, and color of the suit. “Yes,” he said after considerable thought. “It shows her off.”

  Samantha tried her best to control her enormous grin at his praise. It wasn’t the words so much as the way he paid her the compliment, as though she were beautiful and he was judging whether the clothes were worthy of her. As she turned to follow Vicky back to the dressing room, Mike caught her shoulder.

  To her consternation, he leaned forward, put his face in her neck and kissed her ear. “You ever cover up your hair again and you’ll answer to me.”

  Samantha moved away from him, but not before goose bumps of pleasure raised on her body.

  Within an hour she became used to modeling for Mike. In direct opposition to her first opinion that Mike was oblivious, she found that he was very aware of women’s clothes and she soon learned to trust him. “No, the jacket’s too long for you. Covers up your rear end,” he said in utter seriousness.

  “That is not a reason to dislike a garment,” Samantha snapped, but Mike just grunted. Samantha decided to buy the jacket and wear it often, but in the dressing room, when Vicky asked if she would take it, Samantha hesitated. “No,” she said at last.

  Samantha soon began saying yes to what Mike liked and no to what he didn’t like.

  To bring Samantha garments from floors other than the designer apparel on the third floor, Vicky enlisted the services of two saleswomen, telling them what she wanted and where they were to get it. The women brought armloads of lacy underwear, nightgowns, and even shoes to Samantha, and they brought purses, gloves, hosiery, and costume jewelry from the first floor.

  It was when Samantha was trying on a lovely Carolyn Roehme dress, that she realized Mike was also approving or vetoing the underwear that was being presented to her. “That color’s wrong for her,” she heard him say. “No, not black. I want the white nightgown,” she heard him say twice. Samantha felt her face grow red as she remembered what he’d said to her on that first day: that he wouldn’t be able to control himself if she wore something white and lacy.

  “Do you have any blue nightgowns?” Samantha asked Vicky.

  Vicky smiled and moments later a sedate, blue nightgown appeared. “Mike doesn’t like it,” Vicky said.

  “Good,” Samantha answered. “I’ll take two of them.”

  Samantha bought many, many items. By four o’clock she had lost count of all the suits, shoes, dresses, and casual clothes she had said yes to, only a few of which were to be charged to her account. “This is going to cost too much,” she said to Vicky. “This must be hundreds of dollars.”

  Vicky had her back to Samantha so Samantha couldn’t see Vicky’s raised eyebrows. Hundreds? Vicky thought and realized that Mike had been right. He’d said he doubted if Samantha could even conceive of a single dress costing seven thousand dollars, so all price tags had to be removed before she tried on the clothes. Removing the tags had been a great bother to Vicky and her assistants, but for what Mike was spending, they could afford the bother. And, as Samantha had an unconscious eye for quality, she had spent many thousands. If she were presented with two pairs of shoes, one costing six hundred dollars and the other pair a mere two hundred and fifty, Samantha unerringly chose the more expensive shoes.

  Straightening, Vicky looked at Samantha. “They are ready for you now in the hair salon.”

  Nodding, Samantha wondered what Mike would have to say about her hair, hoping he wasn’t one of those men who said, “Take off a quarter of an inch and no more.” When it came to feminine hair, her father and her husband had thought that women should have one style: They should be able to sit on their hair.

  Preparing herself for the coming disagreement, Samantha thought of arguing that she should be able to choose the way she wanted to wear her hair, but she knew before trying that it would be a useless attempt. Mike walked into the salon, not seeming to be bothered by the sheer femininity of the place—in fact, he even winked at a woman who had her hair covered with folded pieces of aluminum foil. Immediately, he began telling the hairdresser how Samantha’s hair was to be cut. “I want her curls to show,” Mike said. “And I don’t want and style that makes her use hair spray. I can’t stand the stuff, scratches a man’s face.”

  “I will wear my hair any way I want to,” Samantha said. Both the hairdresser and Mike turned to her with blank looks on their faces, as though they were surprised and totally unconcerned with her opinion. As they turned back to each other, Samantha looked in the mirror and sighed. That Mike was saying what she herself wanted to say made no difference; it was the principle that mattered.

  While her nails were being manicured, the hairdresser cut inches off her hair, cutting it into layers of different lengths. With each inch that fell away, Samantha felt lighter and younger. Even before the dryer was held to her hair, she could see the curls forming about her face. When it was done, she shook her head and laughed.

  Mike was beside her, looking in the mirror at her. “I didn’t think you could be prettier, but you are,” he said softly, making Samantha blush.

  Taking her by the hand, he led her to another chair and there she got a makeup lesson and a small shopping bag full of cosmetics and skin care products. She would have been shocked to learn that the cosmetics alone were over three hundred dollars.

  It was late afternoon when Samantha, dressed in a red Christian LaCroix suit, her hair short and curling about her head, her face perfectly made up, left Saks on Mike’s muscled arm. They carried no bags since Vicky had said she’d have everything sent to Mike’s house. This time, when they went through the cosmetics area on the first floor, many o
f the tall, thin young women rushed forward to offer Samantha a sample of their perfume, but she waved them all away. Mike stopped at the Lancôme counter, and in spite of Samantha’s insincere protests, he chose Trésor for her, paying for it with cash.

  Holding the little bag of perfume tightly in her hands, as though it were very precious, Samantha looked up at Mike. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for today.”

  He smiled at her, a smile of pride and pleasure. “Want something to eat?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m starving.”

  Tucking her arm under his, he led her from the store. As they walked out together, Samantha noticed that Mike was as proud to be seen with her when she was wearing her old sweat suit as he was when she was in designer clothes. It really didn’t matter to him what she was wearing.

  7

  As they walked back to the town house, Samantha kept touching her hair, feeling the way it curled about her face.

  “Like it?” Mike asked, and she nodded.

  She wasn’t aware of it, but she was walking straighter, taking longer strides than she had when they’d first walked down the streets. Feeling some regret that Samantha was no longer clinging to him, Mike was pleased to see her smiling and happy, and he was delighted to see her looking as good as she did.

  When they neared the town house, Samantha was the first one to see the women sitting on the stoop. There were four of them, and it was easy to conclude that they were not what her mother would have referred to as “nice” girls. Their clothes were too tight, too short, too brightly colored, their faces painted with too much contrast between lips and eyes and cheeks. Three of them were smoking; two of them were sitting on the iron railing, and they made no attempt to pull their tiny skirts down over the parts of their bodies that they were exposing.

  “I think you have guests.” Samantha realized she was frowning, for she’d been looking forward to ordering a salad plate from a deli and sitting in the coolness of the garden with it, but now she’d have to retreat to her father’s room.

  Seeing her frown, Mike pulled her hand into his arm. “You’ll be my hostess.”

  “I can’t…” she began because she didn’t want to become more involved with this man than she already was.

  “It’s just Daphne and some of the girls wanting a free meal. They’ll be gone before full dark.”

  “Oh,” she said softly, eyes wide. “They work at night?” She was trying to sound sophisticated, as though she weren’t shocked by the dress and manner of these flamboyant women.

  “They strip.”

  “Oh,” Samantha said again, relieved, for stripping was healthier than what she’d first thought they did. As they drew nearer, Samantha felt one of the women looking at her with more interest than the other three, and she knew without a doubt that this woman was Daphne. When the woman left her perch on the rail, Samantha saw that she had to be at least six feet tall. Samantha thought that under the face paint the woman was probably quite pretty, but it was difficult judging her facial beauty because her body was so distracting: a great deal of it was cantilevered from her broad-shouldered frame. “Is she Daphne?” Samantha asked, whispering.

  “Every inch of her.” Mike was watching Samantha’s face, hoping for a sign of jealousy.

  Leaning closer to Mike, Samantha whispered, “Are parts of her…augmented?”

  “As far as I can tell, most of Daphne is fake,” Mike said with enthusiasm. “She’s been augmented, supplemented, subtracted from, added to, from her face to her feet. When you touch her, all the balloons she’s had inserted under her skin slide away at crazy angles.” Even as closely as he was watching Samantha, he couldn’t see any signs of jealousy.

  “And Daphne is an…an exotic dancer?”

  “No, she’s a plain ol’ garden-variety stripper, there is absolutely nothing exotic about Daphne.”

  Halting, Mike faced Samantha, his hands on her shoulders. “Sam, my girl, you don’t have to meet these women, and I’d understand completely if you didn’t want to. I can send them home, and then you and I could go out to a quiet dinner somewhere. I’ll take you to La Cirque.”

  “What a ridiculous thing to say,” she said sharply, realizing that he didn’t understand that her questions were curiosity; he seemed to think she was a Puritan snob who wouldn’t sit at a table with a stripper. “Of course I want to meet them. And would you please stop touching me?” Moving away from him, she started down the street, and the next moment she was introducing herself to the women, who looked at her with bored eyes.

  Daphne came down the stairs, towering over Samantha. “You’re Mike’s…tenant?” she asked.

  When she figured out what the woman was asking, Samantha realized why the women were looking at her with hooded eyes. “His tenant and nothing else,” she said with emphasis. When she saw the slight smiles of relief on the faces of the women, she realized that these women considered Mike to be their property and Samantha an intruder.

  Mike unlocked the door, and in the next moment the women swept inside and took over the town house. They turned on Mike’s stereo, then went to the kitchen and began pulling out dishes while one woman went to the telephone to order enough food for a dozen people. One of the women said she had a new routine for the club and wanted Mike’s opinion on the strip dance, but he declined her offer for a private viewing. Samantha was somewhat curious as to what a stripper really did, but she couldn’t very well ask the woman to perform for her alone.

  The food arrived, and before she knew what was happening, Samantha was acting as both a hostess and a maid. For the rest of the evening, she seemed to always be in the kitchen ladling food onto plates, pouring beer into tall glasses, and carrying trays into the garden. Once, Mike caught her just as she stepped into the garden and pulled her into his arms, with her back pressed against the front of him, his strong arms about her waist. He bit her earlobe.

  “Release me!” she hissed. With her hands full with a heavy tray of food, she couldn’t hit him in the ribs with her elbows as she wanted to do.

  “I’d like to hold onto you forever,” he said into her ear, nibbling on her lobe.

  “You’re drunk.” Giving a sharp twist to get away from him, she set the tray down, then turned and gave Mike a hard look, but that didn’t keep him from laughing at her. As Samantha went back into the kitchen, Daphne was standing inside the house by the glass doors, watching the two of them.

  “You’re not in love with him,” Daphne said flatly.

  Samantha looked surprised. “No, I’m not. Is that unusual?” Glancing toward the three women in the garden, she watched them taking turns dancing with Mike. “He seems to have quite enough women in love with him.”

  Daphne smiled. “He does. He’s an easy man to love. He’s sweet and generous and not at all hard to look at, and he takes care of his wounded birds.”

  After pausing for a moment, Samantha put potato salad in a bowl. “Wounded birds?”

  “Yeah,” Daphne said. “Like a boy scout, I guess, although I’ve not met too many of them. Mike likes to rescue people.”

  “And what does he do with them after he rescues them?” Samantha asked softly.

  Daphne smiled. “Gets rid of them fast, as far as I can tell.” She nodded toward the women in the garden, each of them looking at Mike with adoring eyes. “Look at them. Each of them thinks she’s going to be the one to catch Mike. But you know what? This time next year not one of them will even be invited to this house. But look at me, I’ve known Mike for two years, I’ve seen women come and go, all of them looking at him just like they are, but not one of them, as far as I know, even went to bed with him.”

  “But you’re still here,” Samantha said.

  Daphne picked up the bowl Samantha had filled. “But then I’ve never fallen for him, have I?” She gave Samantha a look that could only be interpreted as warning. “You watch out, honey, Mike is a heartbreaker, a real heartbreaker.”

  After her talk with Daphne, Samant
ha stayed in the kitchen by herself for a while. A heartbreaker, she thought. What she did not need in her life was her heart broken another time. In fact, she didn’t think she could stand having her heart torn out of her body another time.

  “You okay?” Mike asked from behind her.

  Turning, she looked at him. He was so good-looking that it was sometimes difficult to think when he was around. All day long, with every word he’d spoken, she’d been aware of the way his lips moved.

  Mike took a step closer to her. “You’re looking at me strangely. Want me to tell them to leave?”

  Samantha smiled at him coolly. “No, please don’t.” She turned away from him. “I’m rather tired and I think I’ll go to bed.”

  Moving to stand beside her, Mike cocked his head to gaze inquisitively at her, then put his hand under her chin and made her look at him. “Something’s bothering you. Did Daphne say anything? She didn’t tell you one of her stories about men, did she? I can tell you that Daphne has a very odd outlook on life.”

  “No,” Samantha said, lying as she moved her chin out of his hand. “It’s been a long day and I want to go to bed, that’s all.”

  Mike looked at her. Without moving, without touching her, his face changed to one of such heat, of such desire, that Samantha felt her skin grow warm. “I’d like to go to bed, too,” he said softly.

  Samantha took a step back from him.

  Abruptly, Mike’s face changed from desire to anger. “Who’s turned you off sex, Samantha?” he asked, making her name sound like a synonym for priggishness.

  That made Samantha laugh, and the temptation she’d felt a moment before was gone. “Men are so predictable,” she said. “Whether they’re a CEO or work in a filling station, they’re the same. Because I don’t want to go to bed with you, you like to think I’m frigid or a victim of incest or something else awful has happened to me. For your information, Mr. Taggert, no one has turned me off sex. But you with your constant touching of me and your vulgar little innuendos are about to. Why don’t you ask one of those women to go to bed with you?” She nodded toward the women on the other side of the glass doors. “Or do you only want women who tell you no? Is it the challenge that intrigues you? When you’re adding another notch to your bedpost, do the women who’ve told you no repeatedly get a star by their notch?”