Righteous Lies (Book 1: Dancing Moon Ranch Series) (27 page)

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Righteous Lies
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Pandora's Box
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STORY DESCRIPTION: A woman who
slept her way up the corporate ladder and who's never hugged a child in her
life. A best-selling author with post traumatic stress who finds himself
suddenly a father to a child he never knew existed. A little girl who wants
only one thing for Christmas... for Santa to bring Mommy back from Heaven. A
story about the power of love to mend three broken people...

PANDORA'S BOX: CHAPTER 1

Dancing Moon Ranch; Sheridan, Oregon

The snow was
relentless. It had been falling steadily over the three days since Justine
arrived at the ranch, and as she watched it building, she felt trapped. A year
ago she'd been trapped at work on a similar night. Not exactly trapped—she
could have ventured out onto the traffic-mired roads twenty stories below—but
she made the ill-fated mistake of accepting Sean Elliot's offer to have a drink
in his suite and wait till the roads cleared. Sean came up behind her and
looked over her shoulder at the traffic stalled in the streets below, and said,
"You've been waiting for this night as much as I have."

"Yes,"
she'd replied. She gave Sean Elliot everything he wanted that night. And he
gave her the keys to his Jaguar and the promise of shattering the glass
ceiling. But she'd known long before then that she'd eventually have to sleep
with Sean Elliot if she were to get ahead at Elliot, Stratton and Tarlow. It
was the story of her life...

"Justine?"
her sister, Grace, said from behind. "You doing okay?"

Justine glanced
back. "Sort of. It's the snow. It's depressing."

"Not if
you get out in it. Go on the sleigh ride with the ranch guests," Grace
said. "Jack has it rigged up and the horses are wearing bells. It's so
pretty when the horses are jogging along the road with the headlights shining
on the snow. Jack's taking everyone to the neighbor’s ranch to sing Christmas
carols and have eggnog and hot buttered rum. It's always fun."

"Not
exactly my idea of fun," Justine replied. How easy it was for Grace. She
loved the simple life—home, hearth, kids, Jack. Sitting on a cold wooden bench
in a sleigh that smelled like wet blankets and bouncing over a snowy road. But
as much as Justine wished she could be more like Grace, she couldn't cut that
kind of life. Three days with nothing but snow-covered hills and she was about
to go crazy with wanting to be back in the city.

"You can't
just hang out here and mope," Grace said, more like a parent than a little
sister. "The guy was a total prick. You deserve better. Look at the mess
he made of your life. Go on the sleigh ride. It'll take your mind off
things."

"Maybe
tomorrow," Justine said. For tonight, she wanted to mope. She needed to
mope. She needed to get a handle on her life, which hadn't been too good up to
this point. At least not on a personal level. Career-wise, she'd made it to the
top. Almost. There was still that glass ceiling. She hit it hard, the week
before...

Sean Elliot had
never been one to mince words. "I need the keys to the condo," he'd
said in a husky voice that came from the direction of the pillow beside hers.

Her body had
still been entangled in his, when she asked, "Why?"

"We're
history, babe," Sean said. "It's been good. You know it's been good.
And you can keep the Jag." Two days later he accepted her resignation, the
Jaguar her severance pay. His generous offer, he'd called the package deal.
Which, he'd informed her, was better than being fired because of allegations
about a conflict of interests...

Grace touched
Justine's shoulder. "There are other fish in the sea," she said.

"Honey,
I'm all fished out at this point," Justine replied. "I'm through
being used."

"You've
never been used," Grace said. "Men love you for who you are. Smart.
Beautiful. Witty. Sean Elliot was just a bad catch."

Justine gave
her sister a wry smile. Grace actually believed what she'd said because that's
who Grace was. A sweet, devoted little homebody who had the love of a man most
women would die for. Except for her big sister, who only gravitated toward men
who would screw her over, then drop her flat. Beginning and end of story...

"We'll
talk while you're here," Grace said. "I hope you'll stay long enough
for that."

"I have no
choice," Justine replied. "Sean already moved his bimbo into my
place."
Probably screwing the hell
out of her at the moment
, Justine had to stop herself from saying. But she
didn't want to completely burst her little sister's bubble. "I will have
to find a place to live before long though," she added. "And a job.
Maybe even start a new career. Now that's a novel idea. Justine Page starting
over at thirty-three."

"I need to
get back to the house," Grace said. "Flo's okay with a couple of
three-year-olds and a one-year-old for about ten minutes, but after that, she
self-destructs. Help yourself to what's in the kitchen though." She gave
Justine's arm a little squeeze, then turned and left.

Justine had no
stomach for food, but she did need something to take her mind off her
humiliation and her new status in the corporate hierarchy, which was back to
ground zero.

Heading for the
bookcase at the back wall of the great room, she decided to immerse herself in
a book. She scanned the paperbacks, most with scuffed covers and looking as if
Grace raided the local Goodwill to fill the bookcase. Danielle Steel, Tom
Clancy, Stephen King, Brad Meecham. She'd tried Clancy and didn't get past the
first few pages. Stephen King kept her up one night, but it wasn't a pleasant
read. Danielle Steel was all about male-female relationships, and the only
relationship she might entertain at the moment would be one with a eunuch. Brad
Meecham she'd never read. She slipped his book entitled
Forewarned
from the shelf, flipped it to the back cover and read
about the author...

...Since the publication of his blockbuster
thriller, "Deadly Contract," every novel has become an international
bestseller... published in over thirty-eight languages... lives in San
Francisco when he's not on book tour...

She looked at
the photo of the author. Not an in-your-face kind of photo, the close up with
the author's jaw against his fist. This author stood in the distance, face in
shadow. Flight jacket. Arms folded. Untouchable. Not a man to cozy up to.

Settling into
an overstuffed chair, she flipped the pages to the opening and started
reading...

The narrow ledge was eighteen stories above
the ground and he had only two objects to grab onto: a 7000-volt electric line,
or the outstretched hand of the naked young woman standing in the window behind
him, a woman who had just learned his darkest secret and wanted him dead, but
for one thing
...

***

From the far
end of the great room, Brad stared at the woman. She'd been sitting immobile in
the chair since he came in, head bent over a book. Earlier that day, he'd seen
her standing at the window staring out, and he'd come to the same conclusion
then that he did now. She was a fish out of water, and he didn't want to touch
her with a ten-foot pole. Everything about her was textbook perfect. And high
end. She knew what she had and how to use it to get what she wanted, who she
wanted, and where she wanted to go. Which for her, was to the top.

Could have been
a model at one time. Long lanky legs. Small breasts. Chiseled features, wavy
red hair, the kind that would swish around with the jerks of her head if she
were on top of a man, which is where she'd be. Her kind had to keep control,
whether it was when she was having sex, or running the corporate offices. And
she was way up the corporate ladder. He could almost smell the expensive
perfume from the boss, the aroma of the black leather top hugging her trim
breasts, the scent of the thong underwear he knew she'd be wearing under her
designer slacks. The kind of woman who triggered wet dreams and night sweats in
a man.

He moved, and
she looked up. And stared directly at him.

He walked
toward her. "I take it you don't do sleigh rides," he said.

She looked
annoyed, even though she replied, "Not unless someone chains me to the
sleigh." She bent over her book again, but when he made no move to leave,
she looked at him, and said, "If you want to go to bed with me forget it.
I'm not available."

"You're
not a lot of things," he said. The woman really pushed his hot buttons.

"Exactly
what is that supposed to mean?" She pinned him with dark eyes with
sweeping lashes. She knew how to use those too. Raise the face slowly to make
the eyes wider, let the lashes sweep up, scan the full length of the man. She
was doing it now.

Holding that
dark brown gaze, he said, "You're not my type, for starters."

"Good.
That makes us even. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm busy."

Why he didn't
turn and leave, he couldn't figure. The woman was a trap waiting to spring. But
she was also a puzzle. A fish out of water. "If you call reading paperback
trash being busy, then I guess you are."

She lifted the
book and looked at the cover, as if to reassure herself that she wasn't reading
trash, and said, "To each his own," then bent over the book again.

He sat on a
chair across from her and put his mug on the coffee table between them.
"How long are you staying?" he asked, not really expecting an answer,
but curious to know how long a fish could stay out of water.

"About ten
seconds if you don't leave," she replied.

"Where
will you go? Out into the snow?"

"To my
bedroom."

"Alone?"

"Does that
shock you?"

"Does it
you?"

She looked
intently at him then, a long fixed stare that should have made him
uncomfortable. Most men would have walked away from that stare. He should, but
didn't. The woman was an enigma, and he didn't like enigmas.

"I've been
to bed with my share of men," she said. "You won't be one of
them."

She returned to
her book, but he could tell from the way her eyes were moving and shifting that
she wasn't reading the words. She was trying to figure out what to do with him.
He took a long slow sip of coffee, and said, "The naked woman's his
daughter. He found it out when he was about to screw her. She commits suicide
in the end."

The woman
slapped the book down. "So you read trash too."

"Only the
first few pages and the ending. Everything in between is crap." He tipped
his mug toward her in a silent toast and smiled.

She didn't
smile back. "From the ledge?"

It took him a
few seconds to follow her line of thought. She was quick. "Overdose."

"Cliché.
You're right. This stuff is trash." She closed the book and waited for him
to say something. Or leave.

"How would
you have done it?" he asked.

"I would
have had him commit suicide. Same difference, but the man gets shafted this
time. Typical male writer. The woman always gets screwed."

"Not the
way it's written. He doesn't screw her. He's an honorable man."

"Then why
does she commit suicide?" the woman asked.

"She's
tired of men using her," he replied.

In an instant,
all the bravado left the woman. The defiance in her eyes died. Her lips parted
in dismay. And she looked vulnerable. Exposed.

So the fish was
out of water because she'd had her fill of men using her.

Oddly, the way
she was looking at him reminded him of Yvette. He hadn't thought about her in a
while, but she was always hovering around somewhere in his memory. When things
got bad he'd retrieve those four days with her and wonder why he never went
after her. He was wondering now. "So let's rewrite the ending," he
said, wanting to get some of that bravado back. He didn't want to solve the
enigma of her. Not yet.

"I
can't," she said. "I haven't read the book. Someone keeps
interrupting me. So you tell me the new ending." That little flare of
defiance was back in her eyes. He could imagine her in his bed now. But he'd
never let her get on top. He'd keep the control. He glanced down at her hands
folded together over the book, like she was guarding it, then looked at her and
said, "After suffering abuse from her father over the years, the daughter
becomes a strong, in-control woman who uses everything she's learned to become
an international counter spy for the Department of Defense. And her father gets
testicular cancer and has to have his balls cut off."

"Too many
men in the Department of Defense," the woman said. "She needs to get
away from men. All her life she's been used and dumped. I say we make the
daughter the editor-in-chief of a magazine for women called,
Shafted
. But I'll go with the part about
the father."

"You're a
dangerous woman," he said.

"How
so?" she asked, curiosity hovering in her eyes.

He offered her
a wry smile. "A man would need to watch his balls if he found himself in
bed with you or he could lose them."

"Good
point," she said. "I wish I'd thought of that before."

"Before
who?" he asked, knowing it was a who. Not a what.

"Elliot."

"Left him
intact, did you?"

"Unfortunately,
yes," she replied. "But I got to keep the Jaguar."

"But you
lost your self-respect." He looked directly at her, and she didn't flinch.

"I lost
that a long time ago," she said, giving a little shrug.

"Did you
think you'd find it here?"

"You're
asking too many questions," she said, irritated. "When men ask
questions it's because they're ready to screw me over and dump me. It won't
happen again."

"I already
told you you're not my type," he said. "So you can answer my
questions."