Liar Liar

by Donna Alam

  ‘Wasn’t she paid to walk the dog, not run around the kitchen island fighting the owner off?’ I ask, referring to the highpoint of last Friday afternoon. A distressed dogwalker and the millionaire Russian pervert—excuse me—businessman who both descended to the concierge desk, one in a dreadful panic, the other bullish. ‘I think he’s lucky she didn’t call the police, oligarch or not.’

  ‘That would not happen at the Tower. At Wolf Tower—’

  ‘Discretion is everything.’ Neither me nor Charles is enthusiastic in our recital of the concierge dogma.

  ‘Bon.’ With a decisive nod, she turns to her own office leaving her minions to run the show. ‘I forgot.’ She pauses at the doorway without bothering to fully turn, her hand on the frame. ‘L’hôtel requires assistance in the catering department this afternoon.’ Her smile is a touch malicious as she adds, ‘I have told them that you will help, Rose. I believe you have experience waiting tables.’

  Anger burns like acid in my veins immediately. She’s been digging through my resumé and googling my previous places of work? But then I remember I’d listed waitressing as one of my duties while working at Riposo Estates in Australia, Byron and Amber’s place, along with a very vague description of my duties at my last job.

  If she thinks she can embarrass me, the woman needs to think again.

  ‘Waitressing? Sure, I have experience. I can work a function like nobody’s business, from casual drinks to silver service good enough for a queen. Hell, I can even do it in heels and booty shorts,’ I retort with a slap to my ass.

  ‘Cherié,’ Charles sniggers as Olga’s office door slams, ‘you have, ’ow you say, pissed on her fireworks.’

  ‘I tell you, Charlie, I thought about adding in a slut drop, but I was worried I’d rip my pants.’ I twist at the waist, trying to get a better look at my butt. ‘They’re a little tight. I’d better lay off the croissants.’

  ‘Pfft! You eat like a bird.’

  ‘Yeah, Big Bird.’

  ‘And I don’t like Charlie,’ he says, pronouncing it, surprise surprise, as Sharlie, which sounds kind of silly.

  ‘Hey, but does this happen often? Being called to the hotel, I mean?’

  ‘Non. But waiting tables might be better than dealing with Alexi when he finds out his new dog walker is an amateur boxer.’

  17

  Rose

  It’s not until I’m making my way across to the hotel, and my stomach starts to fizz that I consider I might somehow cross paths with Remy. And if I do, how would I greet him? How would he greet me? Would he ignore me after what passed between us last week? Could I be civil to him knowing just a few days ago he had his hand in my panties? My nipple in his mouth? No, probably not. Not when my head tells me I need to stay away from him. Against the better judgment of my body.

  I’m directed to the kitchens, though they aren’t in need of a waitress and have no idea what I’m talking about, even after finding someone who speaks my language perfectly. Calls are made as I wait, and I’m eventually directed back to Wolf Tower to report to the kitchen there. Who knew there was a commercial kitchen there, too.

  When I finally find where I’m going, I’m chastised by the chef for being late, I think. One of the few perks of not being proficient in the language. I’m then pointed to a room service cart covered with a white starched cloth. As he returns his attentions to his minions, I take a peek under the cloth to find a prettily printed china tea service, dishes covered with silver tops, and on the bottom shelf, a hot water urn along with a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket.

  I guess it must be for a meeting somewhere.

  ‘Vite!’ I drop the cloth quickly, startled by the chef’s bellow from the other side of the gleaming kitchen. ‘You are late. Take the envelope. Use the service élévateur.’

  With a nod, I pick up the printed directions and wheel the trolley out, tout de suit. What is it about men who cook? The short-order guy at the Pussy Cat was also an asshole. If they don’t like their jobs, they should find something else to do.

  I use the smart key in the envelope to access the lift, pressing the button for the forty-seventh floor. I use the key again at the door to the room, though it’s not quite the room I was expecting. It’s not a meeting room. At least, not the kind with a smartboard, or a table and chairs, but rather an apartment. More to the point, the penthouse—it’s so large and so stylish it makes my new place look like a broom closet!

  ‘Hello?’ My voice echoes in the cavernous space as I linger in the entryway. ‘Hello?’ I pinch my lips together to resist adding ‘housekeeping!’

  Who the hell gives a stranger a key to their home? I wonder, glancing once again at the printed instructions, then again at the open door.

  Seems I’m in the right place.

  ‘Hell.’ The wheels of the trolley squeak as I wheel it across the onyx marble floor, glancing around as I wonder where I’m supposed to set this all out. I start by unloading it onto the twelve-seat dining setting, relocating it to a low coffee table between two modern sofas as the covers come off, and I realise this is an afternoon tea for two, complete with two dainty silver cake stand, which I have to assemble before filling with goodies. Tiny fancy iced cakes and finger sandwiches with the crusts cut off. A chest with a selection of teas; Darjeeling, oolong, lapsang souchong, and a selection of herbal and fruity teas. And champagne.

  Once satisfied with the position of the china, silverware, and napery, I wonder what comes next. I mean, I guess I’m supposed to wait. Maybe serve? After standing around for a few minutes, I decide to investigate. Not investigate investigate; I don’t want to be caught rifling through bedroom drawers or anything. But I take a wander around the living space. I gaze at the modern art on the walls, stormy, and sort of masculine. Run my hand over the velvet sofas and leaf through the coffee table books; mostly architectural and art. Then I take a peek at the kitchens, yes, plural; one Calcatta marble and high-end units, the other commercial grade, and probably for the use of the chef. There’s a silk-covered cocktail bar that would look more at home in a fancy hotel, a small library with a pair of very slouchy yet very uncomfortable looking leather chairs. And, no surprise, staff quarters. Two rooms, you know. Just in case you need more than one person to pick up after you.

  How the other half do live with their mezzanine floors, which, if I stand on my tiptoes, I can just about see the floor of. Beyond the wall of glass lies a resort-style pool area with loungers and a table setting or two, plus an inviting infinity-edge pool, providing views to the horizon, I’ll bet.

  Back in the living area, I poke one of the dainty sandwiches, wondering how long before the bread starts to curl. Dipping forward, I inhale the delicious aromas; the almond marzipan coating the petit fours, the zesty lemon iced cakes, and the glaze of chocolate on the tiny cream-filled eclairs. My stomach rumbles, and I’m tempted to help myself to a piece, my hand hovering over a succulent looking sugar dipped strawberry.

  ‘Fruit, as if,’ I snigger, popping a pistachio-encrusted chocolate square into my mouth. The burst of flavours is glorious. Butter and chocolate and sugar and nuts and just the best thing I’ve tasted in ages! ‘Oh, my stars,’ I mumble, swallowing it down. Of course, like Noah’s Ark, these treats come in twos. Which means I have to hide the evidence of having already eaten one . . . by eating another one.

  Who says crime doesn’t pay? Not me.

  ‘Ventre affamé n’a point d'oreilles.’

  You know that saying, I almost jumped out of my skin? That’s pretty much what I do, my body springing immediately straight, my hand retracting to my hammering heart, but it’s not just the fact that I’ve been busted helping myself, it’s more who I’ve been busted by.

  ‘Jesus, Remy! You scared the tar out of me.’ I press my hand to my chest, the sensation beneath my palm like runaway hooves. Only, I’m not sure it’s entirely shock. It’s almost as though my body remembers his.

  ‘Désolé.’ I’m sorry. ‘I thought you heard me c
ome in.’

  That voice.

  Rich, warm. Seductive.

  That accent.

  Just kill me now. Preferably by orgasm overload. Or pistachio-coated chocolate.

  That tone.

  So not désolé at all.

  And don’t get me started on the view; his suit, impeccably cut and the colour of midnight sins. The contrast of his brilliant white shirt, open at the neck to expose the caramel of his skin. His hair is stylishly tidy, his cheeks smooth. He looks almost edible in whatever he chooses to wear, but something tells me he’s made a little more of an effort today.

  I tamp back the hope the effort could be for me.

  ‘But perhaps you were too busy enjoying your cookie to hear. Ventre affamé n'a point d'oreilles. A hungry stomach has no ears.’

  I can literally feel the blood rushing to my cheeks—and my poor maligned ears.

  ‘Okay, so you caught me.’ I fold my arms across my chest. Or under the girls, at any rate. I swear I don’t do it to get his attention, but it goes there anyway. When his attention rises, I’m wearing an expression I like to call, buddy, my face is up here.

  ‘Rose,’ he says, sliding off his suit jacket and dropping it carelessly to a chest that must surely be a Japanese antique. ‘With you, a man is spoilt for choice where to look.’

  I note the lack of apology or discomfit as his gaze roams over me, even as I kind of enjoy it, too. ‘Yeah, well, my boobs are like this fine china here. They only come out for special occasions.’

  ‘I don’t know about china, but they’re certainly fine.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Remy?’ If this sounds like an accusation, I’m sure it’s because it’s meant to. I mean, where the hell has he been for the past week? Not thinking about me, that’s for sure.

  ‘What am I doing here? I happen to be looking at my lunch.’ I’m pretty sure my heart skips an excited, horny little beat. Could that be me? ‘My late lunch.’ I find myself glancing down at the afternoon tea, my sense of exhilaration dipping along with my gaze. He arrived after me. If I’d been invited, wouldn’t he have said “my lunch date”.

  Tea for two and guess who gets to play waitress?

  ‘I guess this must be your place then, huh?’ I try to keep my voice light as I glance around the room. No way I want to look at him, especially not as I experience the unexpected prick of tears. What did I expect? He’s not interested in me. At least, for no more than a cursory boob browse.

  ‘In a way,’ he agrees, sliding his hands into his pocket and sauntering farther into the room. ‘What do you think of it?’

  ‘I think it looks expensive.’ But I’m no longer looking at the penthouse. ‘The views are great.’

  His gaze is soft yet challenging as he comes to a stop in front of me. ‘Personally, I find the view entrancing.’ He reaches out, tugging lightly on the scarf around my neck, his gaze dipping to my mouth and lingering there. Everything south of my navel clenches, the way he’s looking at me seeming to make perfect sense everywhere but my head.

  ‘What are we doing here, Remy?’

  ‘Talking,’ he answers simply.

  ‘After a week of nothing?’

  A shadow of something crosses his expression, but it’s gone just as quick. ‘You asked me to stay away from you last Tuesday. I promised myself I would.’

  ‘Oh.’ I swallow over the sudden lump in my throat. A whole week and I’ve only myself to blame? I’ve been cursing myself for thinking I was a rich man’s plaything when, in fact, he’d behaved honourably, abiding by my wishes.

  But if he’d felt the same about me, wouldn’t he have—

  ‘At least, I tried. I did keep away until Wednesday, at least.’

  ‘What?’ I find myself shaking my head a little. This doesn’t make sense. But in the midst of such confusion, why when he’s near does this all seem possible?

  ‘I stayed away from you until Wednesday.’

  ‘But I didn’t hear from you then—I haven’t seen you all week.’

  I know, I know. It’s all my fault.

  ‘I requested a delivery over the concierge booking system. When it arrived without you, I thought perhaps you were still angry.’

  ‘I didn’t see your request.’ It certainly didn’t come to me, because if it had, I’d already be familiar with the butterfly wings beating in my chest, encouraging that overworked muscle to take flight.

  ‘I tried again on Thursday. Then Friday morning. Once more on Friday afternoon. Three times on Saturday. I’ve acquired a lot of things I don’t require, yet I’m very sorry to say that my needs have gone unfulfilled.’

  ‘Maybe you should lodge a complaint.’ I chew on the inside of my lip, though I’m sure it barely conceals my relief or my giddiness to see him smiling back at me.

  ‘I gather someone in your office was eager to take care of me herself.’

  ‘Tall, blonde, and Polish?’ I ask with no little chagrin. ‘Lips like a duckbill? But you know she works for you, right?’ So you can kick her ass anytime you like. Figuratively, at least.

  He inclines his head, seeming to weigh up his words. ‘I felt the path of least resistance would be one you’d prefer. You value your privacy. It’s what made you run from me last week, what made you tell me to stay away. You should know that Everett is the head of my security team and very discreet.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I answer quietly. ‘That helps.’ Helps to confirm I’m not the topic of gossip, though I kind of worked that out for myself.

  ‘And while I apologise for putting you in that position, but I won’t say sorry for wanting you.’ Oh my. I try to will my pulse to slow and not react to his words. Words that seem to hint at very big things. ‘I almost knocked on your door more than once.’ His voice is low and husky, his fingers suddenly warm against my face. ‘But I didn’t want you to think I’d moved you to the building for convenience.’

  ‘Why did you? What am I doing here?’

  ‘Indulging a selfish man. That’s why I thought we should keep our first meeting professional.’

  ‘Is that what this is?’ I glance behind me to where I’ve laid out the items from the trolley.

  ‘What does it look like to you?’

  ‘Borderline diabetes?’

  His laughter is deep and rich, like a vintage Bordeaux. And just as intoxicating. ‘It’s afternoon tea,’ he says, a ghost of a smile lurking still.

  ‘Isn’t that more a British pastime?’

  ‘Non. It’s a very civilised pastime, and the French are nothing if not civilised.’

  ‘And I suppose the table and hot water aren’t there to make sure you behave well?’ Despite my sparring response, something inside me turns instantly to goo. When was the last time someone did something like this for me? Well, maybe other than the heap of gifts he sent, which suddenly seem to make more sense. This is what Grandma Aida would’ve called courting, though I’m not sure she’d say the same for what happened in his office last week.

  Would that have been a little heavy petting back in her day?

  ‘I think you secretly like me when I don’t behave well.’

  ‘Do you?’ My arched tone matches my brow.

  ‘At the very least, I hoped I could persuade you to stay.’ He seems to temper his expression; from provoking to penitent. I’m not so easily fooled, though I certainly appreciate the effort. ‘If all else failed, I plan to get you drunk and take advantage of you.’ I find myself laughing, feeling all kinds of giddy inside as Remy’s expression firms. ‘You told me to stay away. And I did. But it was never going to last very long. I want to get to know you, Rose. I want you in whatever capacity you’ll have me.’

  The butterflies turn into tiny bursts of fireworks, though I’m able to keep my tone cool and my voice even. ‘Even if that capacity is just as my boss?’

  They’re just words, I tell myself. Words from him to me and right back at him. I don’t have to read too much into it, do I?

  ‘You know that’s not going to wo
rk for either of us. Not while there are desks in almost every room of this building.’

  ‘Are there? In every room?’

  ‘If not, there will be soon. A desk in every room to remind you of what you do to me. To remind you of what I want to do to you.’

  ‘What happened to whatever capacity I want?’

  ‘I’ll abide by any rules you instigate. Outwardly, at least.’

  Oh, my Lord, could the guy’s smile be any more enticing than it is? Any more inciting? And who was it again who said the man was cunning? Alice from HR, I think, when she called him the little wolf. She might be right, not that it matters, because you know the heart eye emoji? That is currently me. I’m bursting with joy and relief—relief that this hasn’t all been one-sided. That his abandonment of me is all in my head. I don’t pretend to understand exactly what’s going on here, and I know this goes against everything I’ve ever done to protect myself. Told myself. But I can’t help it—I don’t want to help it.

  I just know I want to give in. Give in to it. Give in to him.

  ‘Well,’ I begin, unable to move my eyes from his. ‘I suppose we should . . . drink tea.’

  ‘Or you could let me kiss you.’ A dare glitters in his gaze.

  ‘I don’t remember you asking last time.’

  ‘That was before you told me to stay away.’ Even as he answers, he’s cradling my face in his hands, slanting his head. Parting my lips with his tongue.

  I find myself sighing. It’s as though every fibre of my being has been tight, or tangled like a woollen ball and now? Now I’m unfurling in his arms, undone by this man, by his tender lips and the subtle strokes of his tongue.

  As he pulls back, his eyes are darkly dilated, more midnight sky than lush green. ‘This mouth was made for kissing,’ he murmurs, his thumb skimming my tingling bottom lip. ‘I’ve thought about this mouth for so many nights.’ He presses a kiss to the corner, his lips grazing mine. At the tauntingly sweet brush of his tongue, I push up onto my toes, aching and desperate for more. ‘So greedy.’ The heat of his words whisper across my lips as I reach for him, but then he grabs my wrists, shackling them in his fingers.