Dirty Lies Read online

  Her mouth dropped open. "Oh, I didn't mean to use the word 'dating.' It just slipped out."

  "But that's what we're doing, no?" I kissed her again, and my heart softened even more. "You need to get out of bed now, before I keep you here," I growled, spanking her lightly on the ass. "You have a monkey to find."

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The Wrong Choice

  SKYLAR

  "So, they found the monkey at some guy's house. It was trying to break into the lanai. There was a bowl of fruit on the patio table."

  I was sitting in Luca's kitchen, telling him about the day. He couldn't stop laughing, and I couldn't stop swooning.

  "No way. Come on. Monkeys don't really eat fruit."

  I giggled. "It's true. They do. They found the monkey trying to rip through the screen door. They used a tranquilizer gun to immobilize him. Oh, and the monkey's name was Cheetah."

  God, I loved making Luca laugh. I sipped my wine and admired his arm muscles as he stood at the open fridge. He was trying to decide whether to make chicken or fish. I was trying to decide if I'd ever seen anything sexier than that tattoo on his arm.

  My mind shifted vaguely to the fledgling herb garden back at my condo on the balcony. The plants might be dead by now. Maybe I could bring them here. Surely Luca would take good care of them. I envisioned us gardening together.

  He'd admitted we were dating. So why couldn't I dream of a future?

  Luca took out a package of chicken, a handful of cherry tomatoes and a head of garlic. "Pollo alla parmigiana," he said.

  Jazz wafted softly through the air, and I allowed visions of my life with Luca to unfold in my mind. Speaking Italian. Cooking together. Ski vacations. Sexy-times on beaches and in front of fireplaces in the mountains. The fantasies were limitless and sparkling, urbane and classy.

  He rinsed a few of the small tomatoes and held one between his thumb and forefinger, then walked over to me. He kissed my mouth softly and nibbled on my bottom lip.

  "Your mouth is so fucking sexy," he murmured. "Open for me."

  With kiss-stung lips, I did, and he set the small red tomato on my tongue. Our eyes met as I chewed, and my stomach clutched with nervous anticipation.

  Tonight would be our night. I trusted him. We're officially dating.

  He kissed my forehead and went back to the other side of the kitchen island, to the cutting board. I took another sip—Luca had opened a bottle of chilled pinot grigio—and pondered silently whether I should enroll in an online Italian class.

  "Where did you learn to cook?" I asked.

  He chopped a clove of garlic. "My mother. I watched her in the kitchen from when I was a little boy. We even cooked together the night before she…"

  Luca went silent.

  "Before she died in the fire," I prompted, absentmindedly finishing his sentence.

  I immediately regretted my words.

  Luca stopped chopping and cocked his head. The good mood, the laughter, the flirting, dissolved into the ether.

  He didn't say anything.

  I sat on a barstool at the kitchen island, and he faced me on the opposite side. I noticed his hand gripping the large knife, and my pulse quickened as I recalled a true-crime book that centered around a woman who was stabbed to death.

  "Tell me, Skylar," he said, resuming work in a methodical, precise way. Chop. Chop. Chop. "How do you know my mother died in a fire?"

  He wasn't looking my way. Instead, he glared at the knife and the garlic.

  I swallowed hard. It seemed I didn't truly know if Luca was a dangerous person or not. Why did he seem so angry? Was there any good reason he should be furious I'd done some background research?

  I opened my mouth and closed it. Unsure of what to say, I went with the truth. I didn't expect him to understand exactly. He wasn't a woman, and he wasn't a journalist. Still, this shouldn't have been that big of a deal. "After I met you, I looked you up. Online. And found some stuff."

  "You backgrounded me." Chop. Chop. Chop. Luca's eyes bored into mine, and he sounded disgusted. "And…? Tell me what you found. Tell me the results of your research."

  I inhaled sharply. "Um. Luca, you're scaring me with that knife."

  He looked down, and with precision, set the knife aside. His voice was soft, yet still icy when he spoke. "I'm sorry."

  I was grateful to diffuse the situation, even momentarily. "I found a couple articles in Il Mattino. One about your parents dying in a fire. Another that said…" my voice trailed off. I was scared to say it.

  "Another that said what?" Luca gripped the side of the island counter, arms extended.

  "One that said the fire was probably set by the…the Mafia. The Camorra."

  Luca smiled, a wry, sad expression. "The Camorra," he repeated, drawing out the word and rolling the 'r'. The menacing way he pronounced it made me uneasy.

  "Yes."

  "And what else did you find?"

  I shook my head. "Actually, I thought it was weird. I didn't find anything else about you. I looked everywhere. Facebook. Twitter. Public records. Google. I couldn't find any other details about you. I guess I just figured you're a private person."

  Luca laughed, a mean sound. "Yes, like I told you, I am a really private person." He paced the kitchen. "So, let me get this straight. We met. We shared…I don't know, a connection. An attraction. Yes?"

  "Obviously."

  "So, the first thing you do is run a background check on me like I am, I don't know, a criminal?"

  His voice was slightly louder. He was clearly angry now, and I tried to keep my own voice steady.

  "Luca, I'm sorry, but I need to explain this in context. You've only been in Florida a few weeks. As a single woman here, it's crazy. Every third guy has been arrested, served time in prison, or gone bankrupt. It's dangerous for women like me to not check someone out. All of us do it." I paused to breathe in and out. "Well, all of us female reporters do it anyway."

  Luca was stone-faced. "And so, since you could only find those two articles on my family, what conclusions did you draw about me? Come on. I want to hear them."

  "Nothing," I lied. Unconvincingly. "I just thought about what a tragedy it was that you lost your family. It must have been devastating."

  "Bullshit." His nostrils flared a little bit. I wondered if I could get to the front door quicker than him. Probably not.

  My face flashed hot. There was no salvaging tonight. But this was his fault for not being forthcoming. I decided to tell him everything.

  "Look. I'll be honest. After I read that, I wondered if you were in the Mafia—the Camorra, or whatever. I figured you might be lying about your master's thesis too. You never talk about it. I thought the fire might have been set as some kind of retribution or something. I don't know, though. I know nothing about the Mafia."

  "You. Thought. I. Was. In. The. Mafia." Luca enunciated every word perfectly, slowly running his hands through his hair. At least he wasn't holding the knife.

  "Well, are you?" I prodded. "If you didn't have this stupid rule that we can't talk about each other's pasts, this whole conversation wouldn't be happening. Normal people, normal men and women who meet and hook up, they share details of their lives with each other. You didn't even want to tell me your name when we first met. What was I supposed to think?"

  He glared at me. "'Normal people.' You think I am a normal person? You have no idea who I am. And what do you think this is, you and me? It's been 'hooking up' to you?"

  I didn't reply. He was being irrational. What did he want me to say?

  "That's the trouble with you Americans," Luca continued. "You see Italians and immediately think of The Sopranos or Vito Corleone. I didn't say anything the first time you mentioned that, the night we met. But it's offensive. You think we're all Latin lovers with no conscience. We just eat pasta and pizza and screw our way through life. And the Mafia. Jesus. You have no idea what the real Italian crime families are like, what they do or how they affect my country. You're so shelter
ed here on your stupid little island, covering your bullshit news."

  That was out-of-bounds. There was no need to criticize my newspaper and my career. Jerk.

  "Maybe if you didn't come off as so sketchy, I wouldn't think you were in the Mafia. You won't talk about your past. You won't talk about the future. You were nasty when we first met and I asked you questions. You said we shouldn't define this. Us. What am I supposed to think?"

  My words hung in the air. We glared at each other as several tense seconds passed.

  "I'm going home. Where are my car keys?" I demanded.

  Luca walked out of the kitchen, then returned and put the keys on the island counter. Raising his hands so they were in an X, he sliced them through the air. "Basta," he said.

  I didn't know the word, but I understood the meaning.

  Enough.

  I plucked the keys off the counter and went upstairs to the bedroom, where I grabbed my purse.

  I didn't even bother trying to find any clothes I had brought, or my small overnight bag. Screw it.

  I slammed the front door and ran to my car in the rain, barefoot. Shaking, I drove out of the subdivision. The road blurred out of focus from the downpour and my tears, and I couldn't make it home without pulling over and sobbing. I hadn't cried this hard in years, and the feeling made my body heave and roil and gag.

  I stopped in the parking lot of a pharmacy and pulled into a space at the end of the lot.

  I planned to buy tissues, but when I opened the door a large puddle was almost up to my small car's floor and I slammed it shut. Crying harder beneath the yellow glow of a streetlight, I battled back guilt over our fight.

  What else could I have done? Should I have tried to lie more convincingly to Luca about knowing the details of his past? No, that wouldn't have worked. I was incapable of lying. And why should I have to?

  He was being unreasonable.

  I inhaled deeply and forced myself to stop crying. Why was I sobbing exactly? I had nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe I should have told Luca earlier that I had pried into his life, but still, he had no reason to be so angry.

  No, I was the one who should have been mad. At myself.

  I had let someone new into my heart, and once again, I'd made the wrong choice.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Not Okay

  LUCA

  A full-blown panic-attack gripped my chest as I listened to Skylar drive off.

  I've screwed things up good…

  I tried to catch my breath and steady my erratic heartbeat. She’d known about my family and hadn't said anything? How long had she known? Since the beginning?

  Something had snapped in me when she mentioned my parents. I'd wanted to be the one to tell her, if I had chosen to tell her. Which I hadn't.

  But I'd been about to. Still, this felt like a betrayal, especially since I was still nursing the rawness of my uncle's revelation. Skylar had researched me as if I were a common criminal. As if she didn't trust me.

  I wiped away the sweat that had formed on my brow. Like I hadn't done the exact same thing to her. Although, I probably wouldn't have backgrounded her if the Mafia wasn't after me. But it’s different for women. She was right.

  I'd also assumed I could look into her past for whatever reason, but she didn't have the right to inspect mine.

  God, I felt like such a hypocritical asshole. I shouldn't have yelled at her, shouldn't have uttered those brutal words.

  How I treated her wasn't okay.

  Why can't I just be a normal person with a normal life?

  I held my head in my hands and slumped onto the kitchen counter. Why hadn't I just told her the truth? Why hadn't I told her I was a journalist? An author? That I wasn't in the Mafia?

  I wasn't thinking straight. Walking into the study, I sat and poured a big glass of my uncle's expensive Irish whiskey. I downed the glass and poured another. Maybe it was time to move on from Palmira.

  But was I ready to say goodbye to Skylar?

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Falling

  SKYLAR

  It was stupid, but I hoped Luca was looking at my Instagram feed.

  I snapped a selfie, then one of Matt and some guy from advertising as we sat at a table near the bar. My cleavage looked pretty awesome, if I did say so myself, in the low, U-neck cotton dress—one of many I'd bought on sale in anticipation of a hot Florida summer.

  I uploaded the photo and considered the hashtags while smirking. The previous weekend, when I was at Luca's house—when we were getting along—I'd persuaded him to sign up for Instagram under a fake, anonymous account name _Italy-Man111_ and he'd followed me.

  After deadline. #VodkaRedBull #80snight #Partylikeajournalist

  I slammed back that first drink, the alcohol a comforting burn sliding down my throat. Then I sipped my second because my stomach was approaching queasytown.

  It wasn't because of the booze. My stomach had been like this for days, ever since the fight with Luca. Now, it was Friday night, five days later, and I was at the Iguana listening to stupid '80s music.

  I should have tried to join in the conversation with my newsroom friends about that day's selection of front-page stories, or about the massive layoffs at several Florida papers, but talking about journalism held no appeal. Instead, a memory of Luca drifted into my mind. We'd been on the beach one afternoon the previous weekend and he had kissed me ferociously, as if it were the final kiss of his life.

  I got sweaty behind my knees just thinking of it.

  When I snapped out of my reverie, my friends were still talking. The thought of never kissing or touching Luca again made my stomach hurt more. Scooping up my phone, I checked my texts, voicemail, and email for the thousandth time.

  Like he'd ever messaged me or emailed me. Really, he'd only ever called a few times and never left voicemail. He'd left no trace of himself in my life, and it almost made me sob when I realized he probably wanted it that way.

  Thank God I hadn't had sex with him. At least I was getting out of this relationship with a gossamer-thin thread of dignity. Annoyingly, I'd left some clothes and my favorite lipstick at his house, and I thought about drunk-dialing him when I got home. I imagined teasing him on the phone, enticing him into coming to my house…

  No. I was still angry at him for acting like an ass.

  The DJ said something about how that evening was called The Flashback Café, and how he was going to play some classic, slow-dance '80s songs. I rolled my eyes at Matt, who chuckled.

  Matt. He was single. He was cute. Maybe I should hook up with him to forget Luca. He'd driven me to the Iguana tonight, and would be driving me home. So maybe he'd been thinking along the same lines…

  No. Screwing Matt was a shitty idea if I'd ever had one. Imagine if I did and we had to face each other in the newsroom or go on another assignment together? I shuddered at the possible complications such a scenario would cause.

  A song came on, and I recognized it as one my mother had loved. It had been Heather Shaw's favorite song in the world, which was why the first gospel-like strains of "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me" by Culture Club plunged me into an even darker mood. My mother used to sing this to herself while brushing her hair, looking into the mirror in our tiny log cabin bathroom.

  The lyrics were so sad. Had my mom been thinking about my dad as she sang? I'd never asked, and fought back tears when I realized I'd never get the chance to ask my mother anything again.

  Crap. I was a mess tonight.

  I turned to the group and pretended to be interested in the conversation. Nodding and emitting “mmmhmm” at appropriate times made me feel a bit more normal, like I was getting back to real life.

  "Dude, you want a fireball shot? You're getting a fireball shot. You look like shit," Emily yelled.

  I winced, then laughed. I'd told Emily about my fight with Luca.

  Older couples packed the dancefloor. Matt tilted his head at them and looked at me with hopeful puppy-dog eyes. "Dance?"<
br />
  Oh God. I shook my head and took a swill of my drink, pretending to inspect my napkin.

  Mercifully, the song ended. I looked up, and Emily plopped the fireball in front of me. I grabbed it, closed my eyes, and tossed it back. I grimaced as the candy-spicy liquid slid down my throat, then opened my eyes and saw…

  Luca?

  He stood on the other side of the room, staring at me across the dance floor, leaning against a post.

  He wore charcoal gray pants, like a businessman. Black shoes. A white, button-down shirt, also very businesslike. His stubble was longer, practically a beard. Everything on him looked dark and brooding. His eyebrows, his hair, his gaze.

  He was even smoking a cigarette, which should have turned me off. But it didn't. Not even a little. The way he raised the cigarette to his lips and squinted at me, then exhaled, was thrilling. Bad in every good way possible. The intensity in his eyes left me breathless.

  Emily jabbed me in the ribs. "Matt's going for more shots!"

  I didn't respond, just quietly touched Em's arm with my fingers and stared as Luca moved toward us, languidly, dangerously. My mouth felt dry, and as he got closer, his eyes almost seemed colorless.

  "Oh. Oh!" Emily's hand gripped my forearm. "Is that Luca?"

  He walked up to our table, and every woman within a ten-foot radius, including me, especially me, was speechless. He stood nearby, and with a glance, looked down at an ashtray, casually crushing the cigarette into it. He lifted his gaze to me, and the corner of his mouth turned into a half-smile.

  Was it apologetic? Commanding? Regretful? I had no idea.

  I swallowed. Anything I could say in that moment—introductions to my friends, a reprimand for being mean, a simple hello—seemed inadequate. Stupid. I grinned nervously.

  Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart" came on, and Luca held out his hand.