Black Lies Page 3

  Jillian stood, pearls rustling, the fury in her eyes finding their mark and burning the skin they touched. “She’s looking for a husband. A new last name, a finish line to the race of life that all of these debutantes live.”

  “I find it interesting for you to know so much about her intentions.”

  “You know me, Brant. I have nothing but your best interests in mind. Trust me when I say to let whatever happened last night be the end of it. You don’t need a relationship, and would do best to stay away from this woman. Next time you want to get your rocks off, let me call the service.”

  With a foot on the desk leg, I leaned back. “You realize how ridiculous it is for you to order me whores. Most maternal figures would be beaming to see me taking out a respectable woman.”

  “Your mother would want this. Trust me.”

  I frowned, flicking a piece of trash toward the basket before looking up into her eyes. “I don’t understand you half of the time.”

  She smiled at me, a hint of sadness in her face. “Trust me, Brant. I could say the same about you.”

  Chapter 5

  I ran along the sand, my tennis shoes squeaking with salt water, the give of sand beneath my soles encouraging as I felt the muscles respond, my legs lifting and pulling, jumping to action as I pounded down the beach, increasing my speed as my house came into view, the finish line in sight. I was wheezing when I came to a stop, my hands wobbly on my thighs, the burn of my chest matching the scream of my muscles, the endorphin high making it all worthwhile. I forced myself to stand, to move forward, my muscles sighing in relief at the leisurely pace of my steps. My arms shaking out, the muscles loosened as I rolled my shoulders and my neck.

  Two miles. Shorter than yesterday but faster. I glanced at my watch, at the frozen stopwatch there. 15:04. I cleared it, the time returning to the display, and started the uphill climb to my deck, where a bench and shower station waited. The woman standing at the gate stopped me short, her rigid posture bringing back the memory of every prep school headmistress I ever had. I paused, eyed her warily, and then continued my forward movement.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” I opened the gate, entering the same space as her, wondering, as I glanced to the front of the lot, how she got back here. We were a lesson in contrast, my skin wet from ocean spray and sweat, a sports bra and spandex the only thing covering my frame. She wore at least two layers, nylons covered by a pants suit, a turtleneck peeking out from her jacket. My drops of sweat versus her pearl necklace. My wild brown ringlets barely contained by a headband and elastic, her coiffed updo barely shuddering in the strong wind. My chest still heaved while she stood, ramrod straight, with a look of cool disdain on her wrinkled features. I frowned at the expression. What the hell had I done to her?

  “Jillian Sharp.” She started to hold out a hand, her lips pursed, eyes sweeping over me, but then thought better of it, choosing to nod instead, as if she was the Queen of England, and I should curtsy.

  “Layana Fairmont. Is there something I can help you with?” My mind was working in overdrive as I repeated the unanswered question. Jillian Sharp. CFO of BSX, Brant’s digital conglomerate. She was the face before the face, the one conducting any news conferences, interviews, or board meetings. She was, best I was aware of, very intelligent, very business savvy, and very busy. Which begged the question of why she was standing on my deck at—I stole a look at my watch—1:12 PM on a Monday.

  “I spoke to Brant this morning. He mentioned your little…” She sniffed in a way I took to be disapproving, her features pinching, an irritated look cast at a burst of wind, “meeting last night.” She probably wants to be invited inside. It would be the polite thing to do, given the sun beating down on her, the salty air, which was no doubt ruining her Chanel suit. I let her stand there, my mind working over her words.

  “And?”

  “May I come in?” She huffed, as if annoyed with asking the question, and I contained the smile that wanted to come out and play.

  “By all means.” I smiled. “You’re already on my property, might as well come inside my home.” I sat on the bench by the back door. Worked the laces of my tennis shoes as slowly as I felt like, feeling her irritation build as I stripped my feet of shoes, then socks, then hosed down my bare feet and dried them. Had she not been here, I would have stripped. Stepped into the outside shower. Scrubbed the sweat off my body and enjoyed a half hour of hot water, pounding and massaging my tired muscles. Then would have wrapped myself in a towel and moved inside.

  So there, the new Layana did retain some bit of manners. I toweled my feet completely dry and opened the door.

  Two bottles of water, grabbed from the fridge, one slid over the island to Jillian, who inspected the bottle before setting it down. She said nothing as I stared at her, guzzled every drop from the bottle before wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

  Silence. I was damn sure not going to say anything. She was the surprise guest of the hour. The very busy, had things to do, important woman. I could stand there all week without being affected in the slightest.

  She cleared her throat, the sound one that reeked of tea and crumpets but I knew her background. Read a feature article in Glamour magazine that touted her as one of the most powerful women in Silicon Valley. She wasn’t a blue blood. Wasn’t even properly educated. Attended a community college. Worked as a fourth-grade teacher until 1997, when her nephew, one aforementioned Brant Sharp, built a computer in his basement. A computer that made IBM’s latest creation look like a bowl of Jell-O. A computer that made his parents drop every future plan and invest their savings in Team Brant. He was young. Eleven. Needed a chaperone. So Aunt Jillian quit her job and hitched her wagon to Brant. Lived off food stamps and her savings account in a spare bedroom at Brant’s house for two years. Then she brokered their first deal and all of the Sharps moved their bank account decimals seven places to the right.

  “I’d like you to stay away from Brant.”

  Wow. Not what I was expecting. I had half expected her to pull out an appointment book and pencil in our wedding date while the summer calendar was clear. I swallowed a mouthful of water before speaking. “Excuse me?”

  “Brant doesn’t need the distraction of a relationship right now.” She remained in place, standing on my floor on an island of Jillian, back still straight, stick still firmly wedged somewhere up that ass.

  Did the woman know he used whores? “That seems like a decision for Brant to make.” I leaned on the counter, met her eyes steadily. You’re in my house. Step the fuck back. “Last I checked he’s not eleven years old anymore.”

  Her eyes flickered, as if the information I shared was secret, not something known by anyone ready to part with $3.99. Her jaw tightened. “Don’t assume that you know him, or anything about me just because you did an Internet search. He is not built for a relationship, does not have time for you. I’m coming here, woman to woman, to ask you to stay away.”

  “And I’m telling you, woman to woman, that it’s none of your business.” Any interest I had had in Brant was quadrupling with every word out of this woman’s mouth. I had smiled and obeyed for twenty-five years. I wasn’t about to be put in my place by this schoolmarm.

  She moved, dug in her purse, a cream Hermes that I had in green. A laugh bubbled in my throat when I saw what her hand pulled out.

  “You’re going to try and bribe me to stay away from him?” Her hand froze at my laugh, hard eyes swinging to me mid-click of her pen. “We spent one night together. He’s not preparing to propose.”

  “It’s better to be safe than sorry,” the woman said stiffly. “Plus, at this point, there are no emotions involved. Walking away should be, in your case, a breeze. You are a smart girl. I’m sure you’ll make an intelligent decision.” She signed her name to a check she had already filled out, ripping it from the deck with the subtlety of a hyena, then thrust it out, as if it might burn her fingers if kept any longer in her touch.

  I didn�
��t look at it; I held my gaze on her face until she looked up in exasperation, our eyes meeting over the granite island. “I appreciate the visit, but I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  “It’s for your own good, sweetheart. You don’t want Brant. He’s damaged goods.” The acidic words were said with a dash of affection, the nicety not minimizing the truth in her eyes. She believed it. She set down the check. Pushed it forward with her pen.

  “I don’t need your money.”

  “A million dollars never hurt anyone, dear.”

  I dropped my eyes to the check, surprised to see her name across the top. One million dollars. To me, it meant an extra vacation home. Maybe a condo in Colorado. Nothing that would change my life. But it was still a significant amount of money. Especially to be written off her personal account. “It’s worth a million dollars to you for him to stay single? Or is it me that you have such personal disdain for?”

  That flicker of gray again. A tropical storm of emotions in this small woman. “Trust me. I want what’s best for Brant. And, for you.”

  I pushed back the check. “No thanks. And it has nothing to do with Brant. I’m not going to be bought off from anything.”

  She chuckled, the sound anything but jovial. Instead, it scraped long, dead fingernails down my spine, reducing me, in one squeeze of her vocal chords, to a misbehaving child. “Oh, how easy it is for a child of wealth to take the moral high ground. I imagine, had you had to work a day in your life, that you would react differently. If it were your money that built this house. That purchased your ocean-front view.”

  I stared at her, bit back words of retort that didn’t really hold any substance. She was right. Didn’t mean I was going to let her stand here, in my damn house, and make me feel guilty for it. I watched as she ripped the check in half. Let the pieces of it scatter to the counter.

  “Fine. You don’t want my money? What about HYA?”

  My fingers tightened on the counter, everything changing in the kitchen in that one moment. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. “What about it?”

  “Last year BSX donated…” She moved her gaze around the kitchen, as if there was complex math being done in some corner of her mind.

  “Seven and a half million dollars.” I found my voice—it moved out of my throat without invitation. She wouldn’t.

  “Seven point six,” she corrected me, her voice hard. “I head our charitable contributions team, along with twelve other departments at BSX. Step away, or I’ll pull this year’s donation.”

  My world grew a little smaller. Donations were due next month. We were asking BSX for eight million, which would, in addition to normal expenditures, pay off the existing debt on three new homes we put under construction during the last year. Without that donation, the organization would have to cover both mortgages for a full year. An impossible task. And, honestly, my fundraising skills… I couldn’t make up that deficit. No way. I could barely raise the two million dollars I had pulled in last year. I swallowed. Stared at this evil woman who suddenly held a full house in her deck. A full house of homeless kids.

  “Get the fuck out of my house.”

  And so my relationship with Jillian began.

  Chapter 6

  I didn’t react well when being told what to do. I was also selfish. Both of those arrows pointed in the direction of calling Brant. Planting myself front and center in his life in any way I could.

  But I couldn’t ignore the kids. The ones I spent Tuesdays and Thursdays with, the one break from my superficial life, the peek I got into a lonely, sad existence that HYA brightened in a few small ways. Important ways. The old woman was right about one thing. There were no emotions attached at this point, no reason why I couldn’t just walk away from the man. Walk away and allow thousands of children to have a little brightness in their lives this year. Would I take that away from them just to spite Jillian Sharp?

  Yeah. Probably. I never claimed to be a saint. Manipulation should never win. Plus, I should never lose. My new mantra was to do as I wished, not as society expected or wanted. On that note, I was almost obligated to give her the proverbial middle finger.

  I dumped a liberal amount of Kahlua in my coffee, sat down on my sofa, and stewed over the decision. Stewed over why Jillian was so dead set against a possibility that hadn’t even become a possibility yet. Was it me? Some hatred of a stranger she’d never met? Or any woman who might interrupt the flow of Brant’s life? How many kitchens had she stood in? Checks had she written? Foes had she faced?

  Three cups of coffee later, I slumped low in the couch, the pillow imprinting expensive designs in the side of my face, when my phone rang. I jerked to life, wind-milling my hands and feet for a brief moment as I found my way to my feet and regained my bearings.

  I stood there for a brief moment, my bare feet on bamboo floors, blinked, and tried to find the source of my awakening. The shrill sound of my ringtone reminded me, my bleary eyes finding the cell on the kitchen counter, my weak legs bringing me closer.

  BRANT displayed on the screen. I silenced it, stumbled back to the couch, and collapsed facedown.

  Think of the children.

  My second nap ended sometime after lunch, the irritated growl of my stomach punching through any alcohol-induced slumber. I made it through half the steps involved in a chicken salad sandwich before I was reminded of Brant’s call, mayonnaise fingers plucking my phone and dialing my voicemail.

  One new message. Received at 11:07 AM.

  “Layana. This is Brant Sharp. I enjoyed last night, sorry to skip out without saying goodbye. I’d like to take you to dinner tonight to make up for it. Let me know if you are free.”

  No goodbye salutation. Just an ending of the call, my recorded voice informing me of my options in regards to his message. I pressed 4, saved it, ended the call, and tossed down the cell. I finished fixing my sandwich, a frown pinching my features.

  He called two more times that week. Left two voicemails.

  The next week nothing.

  The next week nothing.

  The fourth week he sent a large arrangement of orchids. The card simply said, “Call me.”

  Day thirty-four: BSX wired their annual donation, meeting our request, eight million dollars.

  On day thirty-five, I called him back.

  “Hey.” Total silence in the background. No hum of machinery, no busy San Francisco street.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Trust me, I won’t leave in the middle of the night again. I learned my lesson.”

  I laughed. His wry tone made me smile. “It wasn’t that. Truly. I just needed to get some things in order before I saw you again.”

  His next sentence was a grumble in words. “Clear the bench?”

  More like wait out a contract. “Something like that.”

  “So… your bench is available?”

  I laughed. “As unsexy as that sounds, yes.”

  “Good. I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.”

  I smiled. “Pick me up at seven.”

  Jillian must have had a direct line to this man’s brain. She called within three hours. The number unfamiliar, I answered it while folding laundry, whites laid out across my sofa like flags of surrender.

  “I didn’t expect you to be a woman who would renege on a deal.” No polite words of greeting, no introduction before diving into the meat of the issue. I recognized her voice instantly, my smile widening as I got a month’s worth of pleasure in the sound of the irritation in her voice.

  “All’s fair in love and war, Jillian. We have a year before BSX’s next donation to HYA. That should give us both enough time to sort this matter out.”

  “I don’t expect to remember your name in a year.”

  I clicked my tongue at her. “Word of advice, Jillian? Don’t push back. It’ll only cause me to pursue him more.”

  “Word of advice, sweetie?” She dunked the last word in poison, drawing it out in a manner that made my brow arch with admiration. �
�Realize when someone is trying to do you a favor.”

  I didn’t have a witty comeback for that one. Didn’t really understand it enough to respond. I swallowed, folded the white tank top over twice in my hands and added it to the pile. “Don’t worry about Brant. I won’t hurt him.”

  “That isn’t really what concerns me.” She hesitated; I could hear the catch in her breath before she spoke again. “Call me when you find out what does.”

  I didn’t talk to her again for nine months. I called her the night I discovered his secret.

  Chapter 7

  Wealthy men were a breed I knew well; a wealthy man raised me, my impressions of him stolen during brief moments of notability during my first eighteen years. I had dated the young versions, ones who had been born into the world of trust funds, Harvard legacies, and country clubs. Their sense of entitlement had been seconded only by their undeserved egos. Then, I graduated college and moved into the world of men, older versions who reminded me too much of my father, men who took rather than asked, and who expected subservience from anyone with breasts.

  Wealthy men had their benefits: the limos, vacation homes, private jets, and exorbitant gifts. They also had their shortfalls: arrogance, unfaithfulness, an impossible schedule, and, more often than not, an opinion of women that left much to be desired. But hey—that was the rare thing I’d had in common with most of my dates, a mutual lack of respect. And probably the reason why I’d never had a relationship bloom to fruition.

  Brant was completely different than every other wealthy man I’d ever met. He listened when I spoke. Looked into my eyes and not at my breasts. Asked my opinions, valued my intellect. He approached our new relationship in the cautious way that a cat approached food, pushing delicately before gaining footing, his steps as new and explorative as my own. We danced around each other, our moves becoming stronger, more sure-footed with each passing day. Together, we created and explored our roles; sex the only area of our life where no practice was needed.