Bouquet of Lies (2 page)

“Why not?”

“Ethics.” Courtney shrugged and took a drink of her Cosmo.

Lacey scanned the crowd. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. He’s right there.” Lacey trained her eyes on him.

“What?” Courtney craned her neck.

Lacey stood and waved. A moment later Officer O’Donnell was standing at their table. He wore jeans and a plain blue T-shirt. It was form-fitting and not exactly rock-trendy. His hair wasn’t buzz-cut, but it was short. She’d have to do something about that if they were going to see each other. She liked running her fingers through longish, sexy hair.

“You made it,” she shouted.

He acknowledged her with a nod then immediately concentrated on the band. Standing as if at attention, he folded his arms across his hard-body chest. Definitely 55 pounds at ten reps each bicep, she thought. And wouldn’t those arms feel just fine around her? A moment later his head was bobbing to the beat. Lacey and Courtney gave each other a puzzled look.

“He doesn’t say hello?” Courtney shouted.

“I guess not. Hey! Sit down.” Lacey tugged on his shirt. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

He glanced at Lacey and then noticed the champagne. His eyes went to hers. “You aren’t twenty-one.”

She took out her ID and raised it up to him. “This says I am.”

He took it, read it, and slipped it into a pocket without an inkling of expression.

“Hey!”

“I saw your real ID, remember?” He finally took the chair on the other side of her.

“How could I forget?” She sucked on the corners of her mouth to keep from smiling. If he wanted to play hard-ass, that was okay. It would be fun to loosen him up. Besides. She’d already had two drinks, her limit when she was going to drive. Not to mention, she could always get another ID. Her twenty-first birthday was just around the corner, too. She smirked. “Guess you’ll have to buy your own drink now.”

“Not if I have a tonic and lime.”

“You take my ID and expect me to buy you a drink?”

“It wasn’t your ID and I don’t expect anything.” He folded his arms again. Lacey was no expert on body language, but to her it meant he wanted to keep a wall up between them. Why come then? Did he like her or not?

“Okay, Danny.”

“The name is Dan.”

“Okay, Dan. Dan-the-Man. Wanna dance?”

He looked at her for a long moment and drew a deep breath.

“Come on.” She grabbed his hand and led him to the floor. There she raised her arms above her head and moved her hips in a seductive swivel. His eyes remained glued to her body. He looked as if he’d been hit with a stun gun and she laughed.

“Join me.” She motioned with both hands. His gaze rose to her face and he began to move, but only slightly. She wondered what was going through his mind. “You’re so serious,” she shouted above the music. “People don’t come here to think.”

His expression didn’t change and she slowed her swivel. Something sad held him in its grasp; she could feel it. Then it suddenly melted away.

“You’re right.” He began to move to the beat.

All salsa fantasies aside, he was a better dancer than she thought he would be after seeing him ROA—rigid on arrival. His hip action was downright sexy.

Mmmmm
, she thought and laughed.

“What?” he shouted.

She smiled, raised an eyebrow, and got her hips in gear.

When the music changed to something else, they boogied to it. When it changed again, they did their own version of a bump and grind. A slow song began and they stood facing each other. Her chest heaved, but not from dancing. He was handsome and masculine and there was something erotic in his stare. She was all heat and electricity and she wanted his arms around her, his perfect pecs pressed against her chest, and his lips on her lips.

He started to walk off the floor and she grabbed his hand. He turned, and she put her arms around his neck. His hands automatically went around her and they shuffled their feet in a box step that was maybe three inches square. He was warm and solid and she could feel his heart pounding against her chest. Their cheeks rubbed. Stubble tickled her skin and she moved her face to heighten the sensation. His hand went to her hair. He stroked it once, twice. She put her head back so that he could kiss her. He looked into her eyes and everything froze for a moment, before the spell broke.

He took a step back. She got the feeling he wanted to run, although he stayed put. He took her hand in his and framed her in a traditional hold, keeping her a couple of inches from him so that their torsos couldn’t unite. Distant and sullen again, he was stiff—everywhere but where she wanted him to be.

At three in the morning Lacey slipped her key into the backdoor lock of the 1930s renaissance revival style, Holmby Hills mansion where she lived with her father, grandfather and sister, and entered the kitchen. The sprawling house was kept in good repair and cosmetically appealing. This room had been modernized with the best of appliances and conveniences. She opened the refrigerator and poured a glass of milk. It was late and she wasn’t the least bit sleepy. The evening had been stimulating to say the least. Officer Danny O’Donnell . . .

In a deep mocking voice she said, “The name is Dan,” and giggled.
Dan. Dan-the-Man.

A mew came from outside.

“Kitty!”

She opened the door and scooped a scrawny, gray and white tabby into her arms. The cat didn’t push away, accepting Lacey now that she had fed her so many times.

“Mew.” The cat’s green eyes were large and luminous, smiling and pleading at the same time.

“Are you hungry?” Lacey scratched the pitiful thing behind one ear. “Left your food in the car.” She spied the milk she had poured and tipped the glass so the feline could lap it up. She sat down and stroked the tabby’s striped fur while it drank.

“You like that, huh?” The cat’s tail switched. Lacey smiled. “I met someone today. A stick-in-the-mud. For real. What do you think of that?”

The cat glanced at her then went back to the milk.

“Gave him my phone number. Courtney says I’m nuts.”

Finished, the cat jumped off the table and rubbed against Lacey’s legs, first one side then the other, purring all the while.

“I think I like him. Even after he took my ID. Some nerve, huh? But funny, too.” She shrugged the thought away and chased a new one. “He liked the music. Couldn’t tell if he liked me. I think he did. But then he got all stand-offy. We hardly got a chance to talk.”

The cat suddenly scampered to the door.

“Yeah. Because he did what you just did. Left in the middle of a conversation. I don’t think he liked Alex and Sigmund’s shtick.”

She opened the door and the cat fled.

Forgoing the dark, narrow kitchen stairs, Lacey switched off the light and moved through the door to the large foyer where she began the climb on the sweeping staircase to the second floor.

Her thoughts circled.
He’s not a total killjoy. He let loose on the dance floor and looked sexy doing it. Next time . . .

She stopped herself. What made her think he wanted to see her again? He never asked for her phone number. She’d taken the initiative. Grabbed a pen and wrote it on his palm. He probably really loved that. She rolled her eyes.

He never tried to kiss her, either. But when did he have the chance?

When we danced that slow dance.

She grimaced. Who was she kidding? He wasn’t going to call.

Her toes began to pinch and she took off her shoes before climbing the rest of the stairs.

It was Sunday. She would sleep until noon and not give Dan-the-Man another thought. She yawned, tapping her hand over her mouth. Unless, of course, she did.

About to push open the door to her bedroom, she heard a whimper from across the hall that made her stop. Her sister cried out familiar words that were muffled, but clear, from behind her closed bedroom door, “Let me out! Please. I’ll be good.” Darla was having nightmares again.

Lacey hurried in and lay down beside the seventeen-year-old who was tossing and moaning in the bed. She wrapped her arms around Darla’s shoulders.

“Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. Baby, it’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe.”

Darla’s frantic movements lessened and she opened her eyes. “Lacey?”

“Yes. You’re safe.”

Darla swallowed. “I had that dream again.”

“I know. I heard. You want to talk about it?”

Darla nestled closer. “It was like always. I was in a dark room. Then the room began to shrink until it was the size of a box and I couldn’t get out. I called and called for you. But you didn’t come. So I told him I’d be good. But he didn’t care.”

“And you don’t know who
he
is?”

“Uh-uh.”

Darla never saw her captor in the dream.

“Well, you’re okay now.” Lacey stroked her sister’s hair.

“I’m glad you’re home.” Darla’s muscles relaxed. She yawned fully before she spoke. “Did you have fun tonight?”

“I had a blast.”

“Where’d you go?”

“The Roxy. One of these days I’ll get you to come with me.”

Darla yawned again. “I don’t think . . .” Another yawn, bigger this time. “I don’t know . . .” Her words trailed and with the comfort of her sister’s arms around her, she fell back to sleep.

Lacey pressed her cheek against Darla’s head. “I do, baby. Once we move out of here, you’re gonna get strong and we’ll go lots of places together. Lots and lots of places.”

Two

THE MORNING SUN glinted off the gold heart locket Darla Bouquet clasped around her neck before she tucked it inside her T-shirt. She would allow it to hang outside the shirt only after she was safely away from the house. Probably no one in the family would see she was wearing it anyway. Lacey was asleep. Her father was off playing golf and her grandfather would have gone with him to hang out in the club house.

She shrugged into a pastel pink shirt meant to cover the scars on her arms, and then slipped a cross-strap bag over her head. It was big enough to hold her sketchbook and charcoal pencils, along with all the regular things she kept in her purse.

She wiggled her toes inside the Nike Air Max shoes on her feet, the bright purple ones Lacey had given her last Christmas. Somehow the white sneakers in her closet had disappeared. Lacey was always trying to make her stretch herself, even with things as insignificant as shoes. She could hear her sister now:
Stop trying to be invisible!

Darla began to tremble and sat on the bed. She hadn’t slept well last night. The idea of going somewhere alone had triggered the recurring nightmare where she was a child locked in a trunk.

Breathe. Just Breathe.

She took out her cell phone and drew a deep breath. Maybe the Reverend Irene would have a change of heart. Maybe she would say Lacey could go with her. She punched the number and a husky female voice answered.

“I don’t know if I can do this.” Darla twisted a lock of her long, straight, white-blond hair.

“My darling. We’re all afraid of something and we must all overcome.”

“But why can’t Lacey come with me?”

“My vision was clear. You’re to go alone.”

“But—”

“Take the Metro. Take the bus. You can do this.”

Darla held the phone in silence and took short, shallow breaths. Her chest hurt.

“You asked for my help and I told you. I’ll help you as long as you do as I say. You must go alone if this significant thing is to happen.”

Significant thing.
That sounded ominous. She didn’t want to go anywhere. Home was comfortable. Home was safe. She liked being in her room. There was plenty to do. Read. Surf the Internet. Sketch views of the backyard from her window. Sometimes—when Lacey was in the mood—the two of them had long chats.

The Reverend broke through her thoughts. “You think too much. Perhaps this will help. There’s something I didn’t tell you. You’re going to meet someone important.”

Darla’s pulse quickened. That could only mean one thing: her mother was going to show. At last she would see her again. She cleared her throat and whispered. “I can do this if you say I can.”

“That’s better. Now it’s time to get a move on.” The Reverend hung up.

Darla smiled faintly. Now she had a reason to go. She still didn’t understand why she needed to go alone. If she asked Lacey . . .

She began twisting her hair again. Lacey would ask how she came up with the idea of an outing to the Huntington Library. Then she would have to explain about the Reverend Irene’s vision and Lacey would launch into a lecture about the stupidity of listening to psychics.

Darla’s stomach churned. She grabbed a pillow, hugged it to her chest and began to rock. Agoraphobia. Fear of crowds and wide open spaces. Doctors had diagnosed her years ago.

It wasn’t true. She was too young to have it. She might be anxious about the outside world, but really? Would a true agoraphobic even consider going to such a large public place as the Huntington? No way!

She took a couple of deep breaths and repeatedly told herself she could do this. If she had a panic attack, she would find a bathroom and wait it out. Simple.

One more deep breath and she began to calm down.

I am not agoraphobic. I am not!

She hated the label. It kept her stuck. Even if she pulled herself together and did something outside its scope—like go to the Huntington alone—she would still be thought of as sick. Her family didn’t understand her, and only Lacey cared. She flopped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, the pillow still clutched in her arms.

Thank God for the Reverend Irene. She had only known her three months. And how they met had been a fluke. If the Reverend hadn’t been lost. If she hadn’t somehow chosen their house to persistently knock on the door. If anyone else had been home to answer . . .

Darla sat up. It was time to go. If the Reverend believed she was secure enough to go out on her own, then it was so. And besides. Her mother would be there. She was going to see her mother!

She adjusted her bag and moved into the hall. As she headed downstairs, worry returned. The Metro. The bus. She’d never taken either before. The idea of public transportation was more intimidating than the thought of going to the Huntington alone. That’s when she realized she could take a cab. The Reverend never said that wasn’t okay.

The Huntington was part library, part art gallery, part botanical gardens. It was located in a residential neighborhood and boasted world-class literary works, historical papers for scholars, and master artworks.

Darla had visited the place once, as a child. She and Lacey. Their au pair had taken them. She didn’t remember much, except that she found it boring. What three-year-old wouldn’t? She did remember wanting to pet the squirrels, but even that memory might have been erased if it weren’t for the terrible scene that took place when they arrived home.

Grandfather screamed at the au pair and backhanded her across the face. Darla cowered behind a door while brave Lacey kicked him in the shin and shouted at him, her little six-year-old hands balled into fists. Their grandfather would have smacked her
if
he’d been able to catch her. They never saw the au pair after that, and later that night their father and grandfather argued. 

“So far, so good,” Darla muttered, moving along the cement walk to the entrance pavilion where she obtained a map. The Huntington was 207 acres in size. Reverend Irene had mentioned the Chinese Garden, the lily ponds, and the Jungle Garden. She said to sketch the famous paintings after sketching landscapes.

The gardens were beautiful under the blazing sun and despite the heat, lots of people roamed the grounds. But she saw no one who could be her mother. After comparing every blonde she spotted to the 4 X 6 photo she’d brought along, only one woman held her interest for longer than a second. However, when the woman turned, she was clearly too old. Her mother would be thirty-nine today. In the photo she was twenty-two. This 4 X 6 shot and the one in her locket were the only pictures Darla had of Crystal.

The temperature was easily in the nineties and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Darla hadn’t brought sun block or a hat. Her fair skin burned easily. She remained outdoors for only forty minutes before she decided to head inside the museum’s Beaux-Arts style mansion. It had been the residence of the Huntington family and now housed a collection of European art. 

With her feet planted in front of “The Young Fortune Tellers” painted in 1777 by Sir Joshua Reynolds, Darla began to sketch. Twice the appearance of an attractive, fortyish blonde stole her attention and each time she sketched the woman before determining the blonde was not who she wanted her to be. Then she went back to the Reynolds painting.

“This is stupid. Where is she?” Darla’s hand slipped, marring the drawing. Furiously, she erased the errant streak of charcoal and spoke louder. “Maybe I am insane.” 

“Insanely good,” a male voice close to her ear responded.

She jumped, dropped her charcoal pencil, and clutched the sketchpad to her chest. She didn’t look at the person who had issued the compliment, and with head down, held her breath.

“Sorry. I wasn’t trying to scare you. I just thought you should know I liked your drawing.” He stooped for the pencil and held it out to her. Like a feral animal afraid of capture, she reached for it.

“Thank you,” her voice a choked whisper. She spun in the opposite direction and scurried away.

“Wait a minute. You weren’t finished.” The young man caught up to her, but she didn’t stop. He equaled her pace. “You should finish.”

“No. I can’t now.”

“Because of me?”

She nodded once.

“Oh, don’t say that. You make me feel like a louse. Look, I’ll go right over there.” He pointed. “And leave you alone.”

She slowed her step.

“How about that? You go and finish and I won’t feel guilty for disturbing you.”

“Don’t,” Darla said.

“Don’t what? Don’t go?”

“Don’t feel guilty.”

She heard him chuckle. She lifted her line of sight from the floor to his face. He was in his twenties and had a bright, friendly smile. His hair was dark brown and neatly trimmed. She managed to look at his eyes. They were friendly, too, and even in the soft lighting of the gallery, she could see they were a deep cobalt blue.

“Hi.” His smile softened.

Her obvious appraisal of his face must have made him feel welcome to stay. He sure wasn’t walking away like he said he would. Darla’s skin grew hot. She felt certain embarrassment at having been caught ogling his charms had turned her face a glowing shade of crimson.

“What else were you drawing? I saw you outside, but you were gone so quickly. May I see?”

He held out his hand for the sketchbook Darla still clutched like a shield. She allowed him to take it.

He examined the first sketch. “This is nice. You’re good.” He issued a smile and turned to the next page. “I thought I saw you drawing this woman.”

He saw me drawing outside . . . He thought he saw me drawing this woman . . .

For some reason, instead of feeling anxious about the uninvited attention, she found the idea that he was interested in her exciting. She began to tremble. Somewhat out of fear, but mostly out of attraction.

She watched him peruse her sketchbook and accepted his compliments without responding. She could remember feeling this way, or at least some childish version of it, about Jake, the chauffeur’s son, when she was seven. Jake was a few years older, and a big tease most of the time. Once, when he found her crying because of something her grandfather had said, he sat down next to her and consoled her.

He may be your grandfather, but he’s a slimeball. If he goes too far, just let me know. I’ve got a cousin in Schenectady who owes me a favor.

Jake had winked and she always wondered if he was serious or not.

She sighed.

“What are you thinking about?” the guy with the cobalt eyes asked.

Darla jolted back to the present and stared at him. “Uh. Nothing.”

“That sigh sounded like something.”

Darla swallowed. She didn’t know what to say.

He noticed the 4 X 6 photo tucked in the sketchbook and held it out to her.

“Who’s this?”

“My mother.”

He placed the photo next to Darla’s face and compared. “I see the resemblance.”

“You do?” Darla always thought she looked like her mother, but no one ever mentioned it.

“You’re prettier.”

Darla felt her stomach flip. Did he really think she was pretty? Lacey was the pretty one. Everybody said.

“She’s dead.” The remark flew out of her mouth before she could stop it. Why had she said it? She didn’t even believe it. Perhaps to change the subject. Their conversation had gotten too personal, way outside her comfort zone.

“I’m sorry.” He looked genuinely abashed. He handed her the photo.

“She isn’t really dead.”

His brow creased.

“I mean,
I
don’t think she is.”

“You don’t think?”

“They say she died giving birth to me. But I’ve seen her.”

Why was she rambling on? She didn’t usually talk so much. And she didn’t know this guy. He was a complete stranger.

Get your sketchpad and go. Stop looking into his eyes.

But her arms wrapped around her waist and her feet stayed put. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry? For what?”

“For babbling.”

“Well.” He handed her the sketchbook. “I wouldn’t call that babbling. And if you say you’ve seen her, I believe you.”

His smile was warm and aside from Reverend Irene, no one ever said they believed her. Grandfather called her crazy. Lacey told her to get her head out of the clouds. Her father just said to shush.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

He slid a finger down the side of her mouth and her heart skipped at least two beats. His touch was as sweet as a kiss. At least an imagined one. She had never been kissed by a boy in her life.

“You’ve got a bit of charcoal . . . There. All gone.”

Oh, he was just cleaning her face. She started to put a hand to her cheek, but he stopped it by grabbing her wrist.

“You’d best wash your hands.”

Her face grew hot again and she nodded. He hesitated for only a moment before he turned away. He looked back once as he walked from the building and Darla felt her heart flutter like an excited butterfly.