Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) (4 page)

“Shut up,” I said.

“Well, I don’t see whas wrong wif the maids swiping the coocumbers,” Sue said, her slurred words somehow managing to sound miffed. “If there wasn’t enough dukes wif big peckers to go ’round …”

I tried to laugh, but I choked instead. Sue, who also read historical romances, knew that all dukes were young, rich, handsome, and hung like stallions.

Lord, how I wished I knew a duke.

*****

It was no surprise that I yearned for a good historical romance that night, and so I pulled out my dog-eared copy of
Dark Scoundrel
and read it straight through. Again.

The next morning I forced myself out of bed after too little sleep. I’d been thinking about an idea for a new novel. Well, mostly I’d been thinking about the hero. I’ll admit my handsome neighbor might have had something to do with my train of thought. There were certain parts of him that were very intriguing. I won’t say which parts.

I hadn’t heard from my agent, Rose Feldman, in a couple of months, so we were due to hook up. We stayed in touch just in case I managed to turn out a saleable manuscript. It wasn’t that I couldn’t write. I could write just fine—as well as I ever could anyway—but Rose couldn’t sell it. She said I’d lost the romance. Not a good thing to hear when you’re a romance writer.

“Jane,” came Rose’s raspy voice from my speaker after my line connected with hers. I heard the inevitable click of her cigarette lighter. “I was just thinking about you,” she said.

“Really?” Gee, how nice. She’d been thinking about me.

There was a beat of silence then, “No, not really. I always say that when I hear from someone out of the blue. Makes them think we’re on the same wavelength. Like anybody’s ever on the same wavelength. They don’t usually call me on it, but since you asked … I know how you feel about being lied to.”

Everyone knew how I felt about being lied to. I had ranted about it for weeks after learning the extent of Pete’s deceit. Fortunately, Rose had seemed to take it in stride, telling me it was fodder for writing. In my case that hadn’t proved true—so far.

I decided to get straight to it. “I’ve got a plot for a new romance. And it’s got a great hero.”

There was silence but for the sound of Rose blowing out her cigarette smoke.

“A duke?”

“Of course,” I said. “What’s a hero if not a duke? But this one is really special. He’s got a great character arc and a fantastic sense of humor.” I waited while Rose sucked in all the air between New York and Florida along with her nicotine fix.

“Does he still have a penis at the end of the book?” she croaked out.

I huffed. Mentally, of course. You make one little mistake in this business and they never let you forget it. Not that castrating the hero had been a mistake, at least not the way I’d written it.

“I told you it proved their love transcended the physical.”

“And I told
you
no one wants a hero without a penis, duke or not.”

My hackles rose. I’d put a lot of thought into that hero. “Someone might have, if you’d sent the manuscript out to more than one editor.”

“Jane, I didn’t need to send it to more than one editor. Thirty seconds after she finished reading it, the entire publishing world knew about it. They’re still laughing. You’re lucky everyone likes you, otherwise your name would be mud.”

“Everyone likes me?” I was pleased enough that the offhand compliment soothed my hurt feelings. A little.

“As a writer, not as a person. But no one’s gonna buy a hero without a penis, no matter what.”

“Okay, I get it.” Honestly. How many times did I have to apologize?

“Do you? Do you really? Because the next hero you wrote was impotent, and no one wants a hero who can’t get it up either.”

“That’s not true,” I said, recalling the next book I’d submitted to her, which she subsequently shot down. “He wasn’t impotent with the heroine—just with everyone else. It was romantic.”

“It was gross. Just write a regular hero. One with a penis that works the way it’s supposed to.”

I mumbled something, I wasn’t sure what. I was wishing I hadn’t called.

“Jane, this conversation tells me you’re still not ready to write romance. Go get laid.”

“I don’t need to get laid.”

Okay, maybe I did, but getting laid wouldn’t change my mind about men. Men were scum, but if I had to write them like they were Prince Charmings, I could. It was fiction, wasn’t it? And I was a professional.

M
y rash was driving me out of my mind, and so I looked up
herpes
online. I couldn’t tell if what I had resembled what I saw, but those pictures were scary enough to make me want to find out. I did a search for gynecologists within thirty miles. Considering that healthcare was a huge industry in Florida, I was surprised there weren’t that many to choose from.

I struck out with the first five doctors I called, mainly because I refused to tell the receptionists about my problem. I was thinking I shouldn’t have to tell anyone but the doctor if I had a blistery rash that looked exactly like herpes. They were evidently thinking there was no way I was getting in to see the doctor unless I did. I had one phone number left on the list when I decided I’d better come clean.

The receptionist got the words
good morning
out of her mouth, and
my
mouth took off.

“I need to see the doctor,” I said, words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s an emergency. I’ve got this rash on my …
you know,
or maybe it’s blisters, I’m not sure. My friend Sue says it’s herpes, but how would I know? I mean, I’ve never had herpes, but it feels just like what they say it’s supposed to feel like, and I’m totally freaked. I wouldn’t ordinarily think I had herpes, but I had one-time sex with this hot guy who sounds like Javiar Bardem—okay, it was twice—and then he moved in across the street and since then he’s brought home two hundred women, so I’m really starting to worry that he has a bunch of sexually transmittable diseases. I’m sure the doctor is busy but this is an emergency—”

“I’m sorry,” said the brisk voice on the phone, “but I think you meant to call Dr. Forester. His number is 555-8189 and ours is 555-8198. This is Simply Suits in the mall. You didn’t mean to call Simply Suits, did you?”

My jaw dropped to the floor, which made it hard to talk, but if I could’ve talked I would’ve screamed, “Of course not, you idiot! Why would I call Simply Suits to tell them about my herpes?”

As I was trying to decide whether I should just hang up (which would be extremely rude according to the way I was brought up), the girl said, “Oh my God, is this Jane Dough? That’s what Caller ID says. This is Tina Coffey. Remember me from high school? I’m managing this place now. I never thought I’d be a manager, but I just love clothes. So what are you doing now? Oh, never mind. Sorry about the herpes. That’s a bitch.”

I managed to make it through two minutes of conversation with someone I couldn’t remember whatsoever while letting her think we had been best friends. Then I took a couple of deep breaths. I was an adult and I had an agenda, I told myself.

The next call went much differently. “Dr. Forester’s office,” said the receptionist.

“I’ve just moved here, so I’ve never been to Dr. Forester, but I have a rash on my …
you know,
and it’s really unbearable. I was wondering if there was any way Dr. Forester—of whom I’ve heard
so
many nice things—could fit me into his schedule.”

The very helpful receptionist gave me an appointment for that afternoon, and I gave her my insurance information.

Now I just had to get through the appointment.

*****

Dr. Forester’s office was fifteen miles away in a smallish, two-story, brown stucco medical building that had seen better days, and it had seen those better days fifty years ago from the looks of it. The tenants must have thought so too because a large sign at the entrance to the crumbling porte cochère announced their impending move to an ultra-modern medical plaza. I didn’t care how the place looked. In fact, the less distinguished the building, the less self-conscious I was sure to feel.

I was wearing a lacy pink thong with matching bra, just in case the doctor was young and good looking. He probably wouldn’t be asking me out, considering my problem, but a young, good-looking doctor … enough said.

The waiting room was packed with women who had never learned that it was rude to stare. Newcomers were collectively sized up and appraised from head to toe. I couldn’t get a fix on what they thought of me, and I didn’t care. My rash was driving me crazy, and the thong wasn’t helping.

When I finally met Dr. Forester in the examining room, I realized I could have saved myself the discomfort. He reminded me of Clarence, the angel who gives Jimmy Stewart a hard time in the old black and white movie
It’s A Wonderful Life.
He was of average height and weight, with some extra padding in the midsection. He had thick, unruly white hair and big, bushy eyebrows.

“So what seems to be the matter?” he asked kindly. I was too embarrassed to say.

“I’ve got …
something,”
I mumbled. I didn’t know whether or not to tell him of my suspicion. I decided I shouldn’t predispose him to that diagnosis.

“What?”

“I don’t know what. That’s why I’m here.”

“No, what did you say? You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear as well as I used to,” he said, cupping his hand behind his ear.

Perfect. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have at all, let alone at ear-shattering volume. “I have something, you know, down there,” I said louder.

“Well, sure you do,” he shouted. “We’ve all got something down there, don’t we?” He let out a guffaw at his joke.

I didn’t want to seem like a bitch so I smiled—tightly—while he got over himself.

“Ahem, yes, well, let’s take a look,” he finally said.

I put my feet in the stirrups and scooted down the table while chanting my favorite mantra to myself.
In twenty minutes this will all be over. In twenty minutes this will all be over.
I’d been using that since the night before my first oral book report, substituting whatever period of time was appropriate. It worked, for the most part.

“Uh-oh,” he said.

I may not know a lot of things, but I do know that “uh-oh” isn’t something you want to hear your gynecologist say when he’s looking between your legs.

“What? What’s wrong?” I tried to steady my heartbeat by reciting “The Three Little Pigs” in my head. When I got to the third little piggy that had herpes, I almost flipped out.

“You have a fungus.”

Eeeew.
That was even worse than uh-oh. “A fungus?” My voice was an octave above its normal range, so I took a deep breath and pulled it back down. “How did I get a fungus down there?”

The doctor stuck his head around the cloth covering my lower half. “What?” he yelled.

I shouted back, “How did I get a fungus down there?”

He stared at me, perplexed for a few seconds. “No, not down
there.
On your foot. It’s on the inside of your left foot. It’s just a little ringworm. You probably went outside without your shoes. Welcome to Florida. Get some of that ointment for jock itch and use it morning and night for six weeks.”

Jeez.
Yesterday I would have been appalled to learn I had a fungus on my foot. Today I was relieved.

“What about the other?”

“Looks like a contact dermatitis rash,” he said as he got to his feet.

That was it? That was all he was going to say? I wasn’t paying someone to tell me it was a rash. That much I knew. Besides, that particular part of me hadn’t been contacted in months. From what I’d read online, contact dermatitis appeared immediately following the contact. Herpes, on the other hand, could show up at any time between contact and death.

“Are you sure it’s not herpes?” There. I’d said it. The dreaded “H” word.

“What?”

“Herpes!” I shouted. “Could I have herpes?”

“You have herpes?” He shrank back, as though afraid to stand too close.

“No! I mean, I don’t know! I mean, I suppose I could. I had sex with someone …”

“You had sex with your son?”

If I hadn’t been so worried, I’d have laughed out loud, as ridiculous as the conversation was. I deliberated on whether or not I should leave before the situation deteriorated further, but I hadn’t come this far to find out nothing. And the worst part was over, surely.

“Is there a test for herpes? I’d like to do the test for herpes, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” the doctor said. “Just let me see if I can find it. I don’t do a lot of them. Most of my patients have enough sense to use condoms.”

I had sense too, but as far as I knew, they didn’t make a condom for someone’s tongue.
You idiot,
I told myself. The prospect of sex with Javiar Bardem after being sexless for almost two years had obviously knocked the sense right out of me.

The doctor rummaged through a couple of drawers and scanned the shelves of a cabinet. Then he went to the door and opened it. “Has anyone seen the test for herpes?” he shouted. “I’ve got this woman in here who thinks she has herpes.”

“Hey!” I said, but he was already out the door, closing it behind him. I could still hear him, though, and so could everyone else within a two-block radius.

“Jane Dough here thinks she has herpes,” he yelled out. “Has anyone seen the herpes culture kit?”

Holy crap! Was he really screaming my name out there within hearing distance of a packed waiting room? I did a frantic mental scan of the Health Information Privacy form, which might have worked if I had actually read it, but seeing as how it was a contract of sorts, I’d just skimmed and signed, as usual. I remembered a lot of worthless stuff about the people the doctor could leave messages with and verbose passages about signed releases, but I didn’t recall that shouting had been covered. But it had to be in there somewhere, didn’t it?

Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe what I really had was syphilis and it had gone to my brain. I sat there stunned until I heard him yell my name again and something about having sex with my son.

I shot off the table and yanked on my thong and capris. I shoved my feet into my sandals and ran to the door. I cracked it open a sliver and peeked through just in time to hear a woman on the waiting room side of the open glass window say, “I think it’s so professional that the doctor is using the name
Jane Doe
so that none of us knows who that poor woman with herpes is.” She squinted at the door I was shielding my body with, as though she had X-ray vision.

“Oh, no,” said the helpful receptionist. “Her name really
is
Jane Dough, but that’s D-O-U-G-H. You probably read about her in the paper. She writes those sexy romances under the name Janie Jansen.”

For God’s sake! Had
no
one read that privacy act? The buzz of excited conversation from the waiting room competed with the loud ringing in my ears. For two seconds the word
lawsuit
flashed through my mind—before it was knocked out by the words
reporters
and
herpes.
I snapped myself out of my daze and concluded there was no way I was walking out past those women.

I grabbed my purse and ran to the window, the only other way out of the room. I could jump from the second story if I had to. I’d done it lots of times as a kid. It was one of those stupid things I did to prove I wasn’t afraid of heights, though I definitely was. My knees were paying the price now, and they’d probably break when I did it this time, at this age, but I didn’t care.

I flipped open the vertical blinds and almost fainted with relief. I was at the front of the building; the overhang of the porte cochère was directly below.

I slid open the window, straddled the sill, and paused while I asked myself if I really wanted to do this.
Hell, yes!
was the answer. They might have heard my name, but they didn’t have a face to put with it—yet. What were the chances that most of those women in the waiting room had cellphone cameras? Pretty good, I was thinking, and those cellphones were probably pointed at the door in eager anticipation now. If my picture was in the morning paper with the word
herpes
in the headlines, I would probably have to kill myself.

I gulped in some air and chanted aloud, “In ten minutes this will all be over. In ten minutes this will all be over.”

I dropped about a foot onto the overhang and scrambled, half sliding, half tumbling down the sloping roof to the closest point to the ground. Crouching there, I peered over the edge to make sure no one was directly beneath me, and my body went so weak I almost fell over, head first. It was only about eight feet or so, but my brain didn’t seem to get it.

I pitched my bag to the ground, rolled over into a prone position, and slid my legs over the edge. I heard something rip, but I kept going, scooting farther and farther, fearing the moment that I would be so far over that I’d have to drop and hang by my arms. I didn’t think I could actually hang by my arms since I hadn’t worked out in ten years—okay, never—but I had no choice. Any minute I’d be forced to switch my weight to my arms. My muscles would fail, and I would fall. It occurred to me that I should have looked for a place where there was grass beneath me instead of concrete. Crap.

I heard a shout that sounded like, “Catch her!” I couldn’t tell where it came from but my bet was the open window. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure it would leap out of my chest. They probably thought I had robbed the doctor’s examining room and was making my getaway.

I decided I didn’t care if I hit concrete. No matter how much it hurt, I was getting out of there. I didn’t know if I could go to jail for fleeing a doctor’s office out the window, but I wasn’t sticking around to ask. I switched my weight to my arms and dangled for a moment. Then I let go—at the same instant that someone caught me and swung me to the ground. I turned around on shaky legs expecting to face a security guard, but that wasn’t what I saw.

He was drop-dead gorgeous, early thirties, and more than half a foot taller than me, with broad shoulders and thick, dark hair that was curling a little onto his collar. He had the most amazing gray eyes, and they were sparkling with humor. I took in his long white coat and the name tag that said Dr. Bryan Rossi.

Great.
Now
I meet a young, good-looking doctor.

He smiled, revealing one sexy dimple. My knees gave out and I stumbled. He caught me again, but this time he didn’t let go so fast.