Dirty Lies Page 4

  Thank God she was saving us both by leaving.

  Chapter Six

  The Anger Of Annalisa

  ANNALISA

  Bathed in an aqua glow, with pale wood and white leather seating, the lounge was on the top floor of the Miami high-rise.

  It overlooked the city's glittering downtown from one bank of windows and the blue expanse of Biscayne Bay from another.

  The kind of place we would have gone on our honeymoon.

  Instead, I was alone at the bar, searching for information on him.

  Luca Rossi.

  The man who should have been my husband.

  I scanned the guys ordering craft beers and bourbon at the bar, sizing up which one might lead me to him. This was the obvious place to hunt for information. His only living relative, his uncle, Federico Rossi, owned a law firm that took up three floors of the skyscraper. A woman working the newsstand downstairs said this was where the firm's lawyers drank after work. Surely someone would know a little about the top attorney and his family—like where they lived and if Luca was indeed in Florida.

  If they didn't, I could entice them to find out.

  As I sipped my mojito, I studied the people in the reflection of the mirror hanging behind the rows of liquor bottles. Too old. Too fat. Too nervous-looking. I appraised myself in the mirror and was pleased my hair had stayed so straight and shiny, and that my low-cut silk blouse had long sleeves to hide the scars from the tiny cuts etched into my forearms.

  I tapped my burgundy-painted fingernails on the glass. Which one of these men looked most like a lawyer? With their expensive suits and carefully groomed facial hair, any of them were candidates. I chose the most earnest-looking: a tall, younger man with close-cropped dark hair.

  He was cute, which was a prerequisite. I would probably have to fuck him later.

  Tossing my long hair, I fixed my eyes on the man. A beat after I caught his gaze, I smiled, closed-lipped, then lowered my eyes demurely.

  Within minutes, he was next to me, two mojitos in hand.

  "You have beautiful eyes," he said, setting the drink in front of my empty glass.

  "Thank you," I purred. I took the mojito and raised it to his, and the glasses touched softly against one another.

  "You work in the building?" the man asked.

  I shook my head and launched into my prepared talking points. "Not yet. I'm interviewing at the accounting firm on the tenth floor. I think it went well. You?"

  "I'm a lawyer with the Rossi firm. We're on floors twenty through twenty-three."

  Perfect.

  "Oh, the firm that advertises on television all the time?" I opened my eyes wider, but not too wide. I tended to look manic when my eyes were too big. Act impressed when he talks. Laugh at the right moments. My mother had taught me how to respond to men, and those charms never failed.

  "Yep. That one. What's your name?"

  "Anna. Yours?"

  "Carlos."

  "Thank you for the mojito, Carlos. It's delicious."

  "Anna. You're not Cuban like everyone else in Miami. I can tell. Where are you from? You have a different accent."

  I grinned. I knew I couldn't hide my heritage, but also suspected it would play to my advantage. "Italy. You?"

  "Nice. An Italian girl. I'm like everyone else here. Cuban."

  "Is it true what they say about Cuban men?"

  He licked his bottom lip and grinned when I flashed my sexiest smile. "What's that?"

  "That they're as good in bed as they are on the dance floor."

  He laughed hard. "Maybe you'll find out."

  Yes, maybe. And later, if I had one more mojito and looked at Carlos the Cuban lawyer just right when he entered me, I'd be able to imagine he was Luca. I'd done it so many times in the past, with so many different men.

  Soon, I'd be able to stop pretending and have the real thing again.

  Chapter Seven

  Lust In The Produce Aisle

  SKYLAR

  Florida humidity was a bitch.

  My skin was sticky from my face to my feet. I was a wreck.

  Wearing a suit to work was itchy, sweaty torture. I wriggled out of my black jacket and tossed it onto the passenger seat, my arms finally free in my white silk tank top. At least I'd worn a black, knee-length pencil skirt that allowed for some circulation.

  Yanking out my ponytail, I shook my hair and swiped a slick of clear gloss over my mouth, rubbed my lips together, tried to gather my hair and tamp it down into a smooth column then tied it in a low, messy bun.

  The week had been consumed by follow-up stories on the plane crash. The victim's wife had talked to me, thankfully, which was the one bright spot. I'd also gotten the scoop that the man definitely wouldn't lose his arm, which made Jill happy. I'd been forced to juggle several other stories from the crime beat as well, and to write a feature on an odd woman who collected rare orchids.

  I wasn't often a features writer, but said yes to any assignment Jill tossed my way.

  She’d told me to push myself, and I was doing exactly that. Failure wasn't an option, because I had no other options. I had no childhood home to return to, no mother or father or siblings to rely on. All I had was a tiny condo and a car, and student loans that cancelled out the value of both.

  At twenty-two, I was alone in the world and it kind of sucked. Pushing myself was the only thing I knew how to do, since I'd been doing it so long, anyway. Maybe that was why, as I sat in my car soaking up the air-conditioning, I was still reeling from that kiss with Luca.

  I was lonely.

  Soon after our encounter I'd searched on the Internet for a Luca who lived at that gated subdivision, but didn't find anything. I'd perused online property records, but I only had his first name and wasn't exactly sure of the address of the house, since I had entered and left through the back.

  I also didn't have Luca's phone number, and even if I had, I sure as hell wouldn't have called or texted. I felt strongly that if a man was interested he should show it. I didn’t chase, not anymore.

  I sighed, thinking about how I wished I could talk to my mom about everything happening in my life since graduation day, but five years had gone by since she died, and a year since my grandma passed. Now I was more alone than ever.

  About to cry, I stopped myself and pointed my car's air conditioner vent at my face, blasting it to the max. The sweat on my face evaporated and I shut my eyes.

  Cut the self pity crap.

  I wasn't a victim. I wasn't special. I was just another unlucky person trying, against the odds, to succeed.

  No mud, no lotus. My mother had always liked to say that. It meant that only through suffering could real enlightenment and bliss unfold. I was somewhat skeptical of this, as I was of all my mother's New Age sayings.

  When, exactly, did the mud end and the beautiful green grass of bliss begin?

  I opened my eyes and grabbed my purse. There would be no further blissful kisses with Luca; that much was clear. He hadn't tried to reach me, which confirmed all of my fears. He was probably annoyed with me and assumed I'd been teasing him. Or he hadn't been all that interested to begin with, if the speed at which he'd walked me to my car was any indication.

  He must've thought I was boring, just like James had.

  So. I'd made the right choice to not have a one-night stand that would have surely ended in awkwardness. Or worse, shame and regret. It was better this way.

  I didn't need a man to distract me. My goal was to work hard at The Post, write excellent stories, and get hired somewhere bigger. To sell my grandmother's condo and be free of student loans. Yet my mind kept returning to Luca, and not only because of his super hot kisses.

  Why hadn't he wanted to tell me that he was the Good Samaritan? I'd put the question to Jill in the newsroom, conveniently omitting the part about how Luca and I made out in the pool, but Jill just shrugged and told me to move on. "It's Florida. People come here to lose themselves, not be featured in a page-one newspaper story."


  Grabbing my car keys, I hobbled into Greenway, Palmira's upscale health food store that smelled like fresh-cut flowers and strawberries.

  My feet were swollen from the humidity, and I'd turned down Emily's invite to a local bar, longing to be one with my pajamas, the sofa and Netflix. Plus I wanted to hit a yoga class early the next morning and didn't want a hangover. The yoga teacher hadn't moved the class from the site of the plane crash, and while I didn't like the idea of practicing where a tragedy happened, it was titillating to think of being so close to Luca's house. I just might have to wear my most flattering yoga shorts.

  Not very enlightened or yogi-like, but oh well.

  I scooped up a container of her favorite kale salad at the to-go counter and wandered over to the produce department. Shopping here was like a religious experience, because the vegetables and fruits always seemed to sparkle while gorgeous Baroque music wafted throughout the store.

  Fresh guacamole and tortilla chips also sounded like good comfort food. I dropped a bulb of garlic in the basket. I was squeezing the Haas avocados for ripeness when I heard a familiar, accented voice.

  "Skylar Shaw."

  I froze, hand on an avocado, then looked up.

  Luca.

  I was lost the moment I looked into his glittering eyes. It was glorious. Like someone had sent the best-looking man in the world to my health food store for my viewing pleasure.

  He gave me a full, seductive grin. The produce misters blasted fine spray onto the nearby organic micro-greens, as if Luca was so hot that the sprinkler system came on to extinguish the invisible blaze.

  I suppressed a giggle at the thought.

  He wore dark blue gym shorts and a white T-shirt with the word NAPOLI in black across the chest. Flip-flops adorned his feet, and unlike the other day he had stubble on his face, which made him look older. Today, he was in a whole other sexy stratosphere.

  "Oh. Hi. I didn't recognize you with your shirt on," I said.

  His eyes widened and he laughed, and when I recalled how he bit my bottom lip and moaned in my mouth as we kissed in the pool, I wobbled a little. Must be the tall heels.

  I squeezed the avocado harder so that I'd have tactile contact with something.

  "I've been reading you in the paper every day," he said in that sexy accent. "You're busy. I loved the story on the unusual orchid collector—how she grew that ghost orchid on hundred-year-old hickory wood."

  He had picked out the most unusual detail in the story. It was as if he knew exactly how to flatter me.

  "Thanks. But she wasn't just unusual. More like obsessed."

  He tilted his head. "Aren't the best stories about obsession? About men and women who want only one thing, whether it's orchids or money or another person?"

  I sucked in a breath and held it. What, exactly, was he implying? My hand was still on the avocado, squeezing it in a death grip. His hands clasped his grocery basket, and I noticed his knuckles were white.

  "Yes," I said. "I guess they are." I exhaled and straightened, not wanting to let on that his little monologue was making my insides quiver disconcertingly. "I'm just getting off work. The governor was on the island today for a news conference, and I had to cover that."

  Like he was interested in the governor. Maybe I should shut up and leave.

  "An interesting assignment, no?" He still had that delicious half-smile on his face. His eyes swept down my body, and it was as if fire lapped at my skin.

  "Not really." I shook my head and wondered if I was coming off as too cold. Was that a bead of sweat running down the back of my neck? I had a vision of his tongue in the same place.

  He seemed so confident, with more than a touch of ultra-masculine edge in his voice. Even though he wore gym clothes, he commanded attention with those dramatic features and that amused grin.

  He glanced in my basket. "And what are you making for dinner tonight, Skylar? Ah. Garlic. Well. You won't be going on any dates."

  I snorted out a laugh.

  Luca opened his mouth in a lazy smile, and his tongue slowly licked the corner of his lip. "I have a better idea. Why don't you come to my house sometime and I'll make you dinner. Surely you would like to enjoy a delicious Italian...meal."

  I stared at him in surprise then chortled, tossing my head back at the cheesiness of his words. He seemed to get my amusement and laughed, himself.

  "That was a stupid line, wasn't it?"

  "Oh yes. It was. At least you recognized it, though."

  "But I'm serious. Why don't you let me make you dinner?"

  I bit my lip and tried not to grin. Should I? It seemed he hadn't been put off completely by my refusal to sleep with him, if his lusty gaze was any indication.

  "I make a mean tiramisu."

  I smirked. The sexual tension between them was hot. And I loved tiramisu. And... "Hmm. When?"

  "Let's see. The next few days, I've got family obligations." He paused and was obviously doing some sort of mental calculation before he grinned. Why was it so warm all of a sudden? Was that a dimple embedded in his cheek? All I could think of was his mouth on my neck, and I swallowed hard.

  Just then an older man approached. Probably a good thing. I had visions of Luca kissing me atop the pile of avocados. What was happening to me? Where was all this lust coming from? I couldn't wait to escape.

  "Luca, how quickly you've made friends on the island," said the man. He was in his sixties, handsome and shorter than Luca. I was startled by how similar his eyes were to Luca's. Identical, even. Was that why he seemed so familiar?

  "Oh. Uncle, this is Skylar Shaw. She's a reporter for The Palmira Post. Skylar, this is my uncle."

  "Hi. I'm Federico."

  I extended my hand. Ohhh ...right. Now I remembered who he was.

  Federico Rossi was a personal injury lawyer who advertised on television and radio all over Florida. His commercials were notoriously absurd, with the tag line, "We the People."

  The reporters in my newsroom chanted it in unison whenever the ads came on TV. I'd heard the older Rossi owned a home on Palmira. His main law practice was four hours away in Miami, according to the commercials.

  And Luca was his nephew. Hmm.

  He'd mentioned an uncle the other night. Luca Rossi?

  Was that his name? I grinned. Now I'd be able to investigate him properly.

  "Federico Rossi, right? The lawyer? It's nice to meet you, Mr. Rossi. I've seen your TV ads. Are you enjoying Palmira?"

  "Yes, I am. Most of the time I'm in Miami, except when I want to spend time with my brother's son, my nephew here. Palmira is my second home, my vacation getaway." The older man winked.

  "Oh yes. Luca told me all about how you've let him stay at your place while working on his master's thesis."

  Federico smiled and his eyes widened. "Yes...that's right," he said slowly.

  I smiled back. How interesting, that Luca hadn't mentioned his uncle was a famous attorney. Now my curiosity was working overtime trying to figure out why.

  "Well, we should be going," Luca said in a bright voice. "It was good seeing you. I'll call you."

  His voice faded as I looked into his eyes. While I'd never seen such beauty or felt such intensity from a man, I was curious why he was now in such a hurry to leave.

  No way would I let Luca—or his uncle—slip away now. This random encounter was perfect. I wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to get to know Luca on my own terms or ignore a potential interview. Or to cultivate the elder Rossi as a source.

  A trifecta of awesome.

  Turning to Federico, I beamed. "You know, Mr. Rossi, we have a weekly feature at the paper called People of Palmira. We profile a prominent resident and run a nice, big photo. Could I interview you? I'm sure you have some great stories."

  "Of course, Ms. Shaw, I would be honored. I never turn down a conversation with a beautiful reporter. You could come to the house and we can talk. Right, Luca?"

  I glanced at Luca. His sexy eyes had turned steely.


  "Um, sure, Uncle. Sure."

  "Perfect," Federico said. "How about Wednesday morning at around eleven? I have to be in Miami later that night."

  I grinned, ignoring Luca. "Thank you. I'm free and I'm sure I can make a photographer available as well, Mr. Rossi."

  "I live in The Sanctuary. The address is 100 Sea Grape Lane. Do you know where that is?"

  Luca spoke in a flat tone. "She knows."

  "I know," I said at the same time. "See you both at eleven on Wednesday. Have a great weekend."

  "You too, Ms. Shaw. It's a pleasure meeting you."

  Luca still had the icy glare on his face. "Ciao."

  Well. So much for the dinner invite.

  I quickly made my way to the checkout stand, my cheeks blazing. I reminded myself that Luca wasn't James, that his flashing eyes weren't reprimanding me. He was sending some message to his uncle.

  Relax.

  Driving home, I chided myself for the millionth time about something else. James shouldn't have such a hold on my reactions to men. When would he stop looming large in my life?

  Throughout most of college, I'd been like Teflon to relationships: Sure, I'd attracted guys and even hooked up a few times during parties, but I never got attached because I preferred being alone and focusing on her studies.

  Until James. He'd been so captivating with his stories of Iraq and Afghanistan, of getting shot at by insurgents and living in a reporters' house in Baghdad. He'd used his expertise to help me, paragraph by paragraph, with my articles. Because of him I recognized what separated a powerful news story from a mediocre one. Because of him I knew when to ask questions during an interview and when to stay silent. And at first the sex had been wonderful, all caring and whispered sweet words.

  He'd changed when he was laid off from the paper, though, as part of massive staff cuts, and began drinking two bottles of wine every day. Sex was less frequent, and it made me uncomfortable that he treated me a bit Svengali-like. I encouraged him to look for other jobs, but he claimed to have enough in savings and from a severance check to live on while he helped me with my career.