Love Lies

  “You tricked me,” she said flatly. “You waited until I was asleep.”

  “Yes,” he replied simply. “Are you sorry?”

  “…I don’t know.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And I’ll hate you again tomorrow,” she warned. “It’s on my schedule.”

  He shrugged, and she couldn’t read his face, didn’t know what he thought about that. Her pride insisted on a small amount of blood-letting before she could go to sleep, so she added, “Also, I was faking it.”

  He laughed so hard the bed shook.

  “What?” she said, disgruntled.

  He pulled her against him and kissed her, one hand cupping her chin, the other arm curving around her waist, snuggling her up against him. “That’s a lie,” he murmured. “When you come, your muscles tighten.”

  “So?”

  “All your muscles.”

  “Oh.”

  “I thought I was going to have a heart attack. Several times.”

  She giggled.

  “It was wonderful. You’re wonderful. It’s never been like that for me.”

  She rolled her eyes, inwardly in complete agreement with him. It had never been like that for her, either. “Please, Victor. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  He didn’t rise to the bait. “It’s true. The difference is in loving the person you’re with, I suppose.”

  Now she was the one who shrugged, and neither of them spoke again that night. She tried once to turn away, get out of his embrace, but he merely tightened his grip until she quit wriggling.

  They fell asleep that way.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jean didn’t even wait until Ashley sat down at the table before pouncing. “Well, well! Don’t you look the radiant bride this morning.”

  “It’s the healthy glow of pregnancy, creep,” she replied amiably, slathering honey on her toast.

  “Ha! Sleep well?”

  “Very.”

  “I’ll bet,” Jean leered.

  “Grow up.”

  Victor entered, dropped a careless kiss to Ashley’s cheek, waved to Jean, and walked out, jauntily swinging his briefcase and humming. Jean watched him suspiciously, then returned her stare to Ashley. “Soooo,” she said casually, “what’s our plan this morning?”

  “We never did get any Christmas shopping done yesterday.”

  “Are you going to buy Mr. Lawrence a present, Mrs. Lorentz-Lawrence?”

  It took every ounce of willpower not to laugh; Ashley managed—barely. She probably shouldn’t have hyphenated her name. “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “You haven’t decided yet,” Jean repeated. “The true spirit of Christmas.”

  “Well, I already gave him a pretty big present,” she said irritably.

  “Oooh, you slut! So you did enjoy yourself last night.”

  She glared at her meddling friend. “I was referring to my agreement to marry him.”

  “Oh, sure. Next you’ll say the baby is his birthday present.”

  “Well…”

  Jean dramatically threw up her hands. “I give up. You’re hopeless. You’re a grudge-holding child.”

  “This, from the woman who fired her psychiatrist because he said she was immature and vindictive.”

  “Well, where does he get off being so judgmental?” she asked reasonably. “I didn’t want a Freudian, I wanted a Jungian. And we weren’t talking about me, we were talking about you. It’s exceedingly shrewish not to buy your husband a Christmas present.”

  “Got any suggestions?” she asked tartly. “He’s a millionaire. What could I possibly buy him that he doesn’t already have?”

  Jean tried another leer; on her exceedingly cute pixie face it looked like an attack of indigestion. “How about a loving bride, welcoming him into her embrace?”

  “He already has one of those,” Ashley said, and blushed to the roots of her hair.

  Jean crowed in triumph. “I knew it! I knew the two of you were in too good a mood this morning. God, he was practically break-dancing on his way out the door. So how was it?”

  “We’re not going to talk about it.”

  Jean’s face fell. “We’re not?”

  Ashley laughed. “No, you pervert. Would I bug you about the intimate details of your married life?”

  “No, but that’s because you have an appalling lack of curiosity. A terrible quality in a reporter, by the way, I don’t know how you kept that job for so long.”

  “I guess I don’t have to worry about such things anymore.”

  “Good,” Jean said fervently. “You worked too hard. You have as long as I’ve known you. You were the only freshmen in high school who worked thirty hours a week.”

  “House rules,” she said with a shrug. That foster family had been big believers in the benefits of hard work and no play. “Besides, I got to save a lot of money for college.”

  “Where you worked forty hours a week in addition to going to school full-time. I don’t know why you drove yourself so hard, my parents offered to—”

  “Let’s not go into that again.”

  “'Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.'”

  “How come you only quote the Bible when you can’t base your arguments on logic?” Ashley smiled to soften the rebuke, and sipped her tea.

  Jean watched her thoughtfully. After a moment, she spoke. “I have a dandy idea for a present for Victor.”

  Slurp, slurp. “Umm?”

  “You could tell him you love him.”

  Ashley spit out her tea. “What, lie? What kind of a present is that?”

  “You’re lying now. It wouldn’t be a lie, and it would make him so happy.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “That’s an interesting instruction, coming from you. Do you realize—”

  “Enough, Jean,” she said warningly. “I mean it. No more.”

  Jean subsided. The phone rang, startling them both, and Ashley picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Lawrence, this is William Along, your accountant.”

  “I don’t have an accountant,” she said, puzzled.

  Jean giggled while Along coughed in her ear. “Your husband’s accountant.”

  “Oh. He’s not here, sir, should I have him call—?”

  “No, Mrs. Lawrence, you’re the one I need to talk to.”

  “What’d I do?” she asked suspiciously.

  A puzzled silence on Along’s end, and then he said, “Nothing, that I know of. I mean, your husband didn’t—look. Let’s start over.”

  “Okay,” she said, entirely mystified. She slapped Jean’s hand as her friend brazenly reached for Ashley’s toast.

  “I just wanted to let you know that the thirty-thousand is back in your account, for you to draw on whenever you wish.”

  “Thirty—aw, nuts!”

  “Ma’am?”

  “You mean Dan Mitchell gave it back?”

  “No. I mean, I’ve replaced what you spent yesterday. I was also calling to see if you required more funds, with the holidays coming up.”

  “More funds? What am I going to buy, Holland? Stop dumping money into my account!” she said frantically.

  “He’s just following orders,” Jean said, figuring out what had happened by listening to Ashley’s end of the conversation.

  “Never mind,” Ashley said into the receiver, “I’ll be talking to my husband. Thanks for letting me know.” She hung up and hit the speed dial for Victor’s car phone.

  “Use the speaker phone,” Jean begged, and Ashley ignored her. Victor picked up on the first ring.

  “Lawrence.”

  “It’s Lorentz-Lawrence, Lawrence.” Jean put her head down and began to laugh helplessly. Ashley ignored her.

  “Ashley!” He sounded pleased. He wouldn’t for long. “What do you need?”

  “Your head,” she shouted, “buried in six feet of sand!”

  “Owww,” he complained. “Not so
loud, I damn near drove off the road. What have I done now?”

  “What you always do! Will you stop putting gobs of money into my account?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I know you—you won’t ask for money,” he said. “This way you don’t have to ask. It’s always there.”

  She was stunned that he had anticipated the problem of her pride. It was true; she had even been thinking of getting a part-time job so she could have spending money, and not have to ask him for any.

  “I threw your money away yesterday,” she boasted. “Gave it to a homeless man.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Don’t you care? You—you dumped that money on me and I threw it away!”

  “Well, have fun again today. Listen, is there anything else?”

  “I’m going to withdraw it all and set it on fire!”

  “Whatever. Bill Along will wire more into your account tomorrow.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “I love you, too, sweetie.”

  She slammed the phone down, and from four feet away Jean could hear Ashley grinding her teeth. She wisely kept her mouth shut.

  * * * * *

  When Victor got home that night he was so annoyed Ashley forgot her annoyance, and asked him what was wrong.

  “They want me to go to Greece for two weeks,” he said, hanging up his coat so violently that the coat rack swayed back and forth. “But it’s not happening.”

  She deftly caught the coat rack before it crashed to the tile, and righted it. “Who’s ‘they’? I thought you were the boss.”

  “I am, which is why I have to inspect the facility, see if the company wants to put up the nine-point-two mil asking price.”

  This made little sense to Ashley; what was really interesting was how clearly angry Victor was. “Well…Greece in December,” she said tentatively, trying to soothe him, “that sounds pretty nice.”

  His face lit up. “Do you want to come with me?”

  “Uh…no.”

  “Right.” His features hardened. “Of course you don’t. So I’m not going.”

  “But why not?”

  Heading for the phone, he paused to give her an incredulous look. “Why not? Because you’re pregnant!”

  “I am?” She felt her stomach, made her eyes widen in exaggerated surprise. “Oh my God! I am!”

  “Very funny. I’m not leaving you alone for two weeks.”

  Her mouth fell open, and this time she wasn’t feigning surprise. “That’s why you don’t want to go?”

  He didn’t answer, just gave her ‘A Look’ and started dialing. She crossed the room and gently took the phone away from him. “Victor. Go. I’ll be fine. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Husbands,” he said stubbornly, “do not go flitting off to Greece when their wives are pregnant.”

  “I’ve never known you to flit,” she said solemnly, trying to coax a smile. She stopped teasing and adopted a brisk tone. “Besides, it’s only, what? Two weeks? Big deal. You won’t even miss a pre-natal exam.”

  He was weakening; she could sense it. “But if things run late, I might not be back in time for Christmas.”

  “So?”

  He stared down at her in astonishment. “So? So? Husbands do not miss their first married Christmas when their wife is—”

  “All right, enough with the Sacred Husband Rules. What difference does it make if you’re back on the 23rd or the 27th? You said yourself just the other day that your parents are in the Bahamas until January, so you wouldn’t have seen them for the holiday anyway.”

  He was giving her a very odd look, and she wondered what the problem was now. He said slowly, “What exactly did you do at Christmas time, growing up?”

  She shrugged and tried to move away; he caught her hands and held them. She could see he wasn’t going to relent until he had what he wanted, he was like a pit bull that way, so she said, “It depended on where I was. If I was with a foster family they usually tried to include me in their celebration.”

  “Usually?” he said sharply.

  She ignored that. “And if I was in a state-funded home, I would…go to the Christmas party.” Cheap paper decorations in a smelly gym. Presents which were almost always second-hand clothes. Watery punch. A big man in a shabby Santa suit, pretending to be cheerful. Rich families “helping”, but really using her and her peers as object lessons for their children: ‘See, these are the poor people, and we’re helping them. Isn’t that nice? Aren’t we nice?’

  Their pity and charity was bad enough, but Christmas was a dreaded event, mostly because it was quite clear that most of these people couldn’t be bothered the rest of the year. Where were you in February, she had wondered at five, at eight, at ten, at fifteen. And August? Why do we only see you when Salvation Santas are on street corners and the stores are stocked with candy canes and holiday cards?

  She forced the memories away. “Christmas wasn’t a big deal,” she said firmly, not liking the sudden understanding she saw in his eyes. “And if you’re a couple days late, it won’t matter.”

  “Thanks very much,” he said dryly. “So glad to know my presence is neither required nor appreciated.”

  She shrugged.

  “If I do go, won’t you miss me…just a little?” he teased.

  “No,” she said coolly.

  He hung onto his smile. “Not even at bedtime?”

  She sniffed and quickly moved away before he could see her blush. Every time she thought about last night, she was alternately thrilled and terrified. Thrilled it had been so good. Terrified for the same reason.

  Victor allowed himself to be persuaded, especially after Jean swore up and down never to leave Ashley’s side for even a nanosecond. “Half a nanosecond,” she promised. She and Ashley watched him pack and Jean generously offered Ashley’s driving services. “She’ll be glad to take you to the airport.”

  “No thanks, I’ll have a car pick me up. Any requests, ladies?”

  Jean chirped, “Oh, anything grotesquely expensive and hand-made will be fine.”

  “I don’t want anything,” Ashley said quickly.

  “Ah, the joy of marrying a cheap date,” he said, snapping his travel bag closed. Ashley stuck out her tongue and he pretended to grab it on the way out the door.

  The house seemed too big and too quiet after he left. Ashley was annoyed that she thought so. She was even more annoyed to find that she missed him dreadfully.

  What, exactly, did she miss? The fights? Her cruel insults? His gently forced, excruciatingly patient lovemaking? The passionate, abandoned sex the night before he left? The daily squabbles?

  Just him, she reluctantly decided, well into the second week of Victor’s departure. She missed seeing him, touching him, being touched by him. She missed his body next to hers in their king-sized bed, which all but swallowed her up when he wasn’t in it. She missed making him laugh, she missed his teasing.

  Jean’s right, she thought glumly. I’ve got it bad.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  He came home in the early hours of Christmas morning, well before dawn. She knew this because he woke her up when he tried to slip into bed. To Victor’s credit, he had been extremely quiet, but when someone is out in twenty-degree weather, however briefly, they cannot sneak up on someone in a warm bed. Thus, Ashley woke up feeling as if a draft of Arctic wind was trying to climb into bed with her.

  “Gaaaaahhh!” Then, “You’re back,” she said muzzily, her mind still fogged with sleep. She rolled toward him and gave him a sleepy hug. “Welcome home.”

  He was so astonished he almost fell off the bed. “Thanks, honey. Go back to sleep. You need your rest.” But his hands were on her, his arms were around her, he nuzzled her neck. Christ, he had missed her. Never had there been a longer two weeks.

  She gasped sharply and he started to let go, clearly, he had startled her, even frightened her, with his affectionate, too-sudden embrace. But, i
ncredibly, the words he heard weren’t ‘Don’t touch me,’ but “My God, you’re freezing.” She snuggled up closer to him, trying to warm him.

  He groaned into her hair, trying to ignore her sensual wriggling against him. She doesn’t mean anything by it, he told himself sternly, even a little frantically. Leave her alone. Go to sleep.

  “Victor…” she whispered.

  “What, honey?”

  “I missed you.” This was so quiet as to be almost inaudible.

  “Really?” he gasped. Then, trying for nonchalance, he said casually, “Oh. Well, I missed you, too…a little.”

  She giggled and when he gently stroked her stomach through her nightgown she didn’t pull away. “What’s this?” he asked delightedly. “Oooooh, Ashley, you’re getting fat!”

  “Too many crullers,” she yawned.

  “You’re definitely thickening around the waist,” he said, feeling, stroking. She was maddeningly soft and warm. “It’s so cute!”

  “Shut up, you’re making me sick.”

  “God, I wish the baby was due tomorrow. I can’t wait."

  “If the baby was due tomorrow, you wouldn’t be able to get your arms around me. We’d have to buy a bigger bed.”

  “Hardly. Can I…?” He inched the hem of her gown up, wanting to feel her stomach without the cloth barrier. She didn’t demur. Soon he was rubbing his palms across her soft little stomach. He wanted very badly to kiss her there. He squashed the impulse. “Do you feel okay?”

  “Mostly. I still have morning sickness, and not just in the morning, but if I nibble on something it goes away.”

  “That’s good.” His hands, independent of his will, were inching up until they were stroking just below her breasts. She drew in a sharp breath but still said nothing; he couldn’t believe it. “I missed you so much, Ashley. I thought about you constantly.”

  “That’s good.” Was that…did she actually sound a little breathless? Was it possible that she wanted him? No, that was too conceited for belief. They’d been married less than a month. You have to give her more time to get over what a bastard you were. You have to—

  “Um…Victor?”

  “Yes, sweetheart?”