Liars Like Us Read online

  Charlotte rolled her eyes and forked a hunk of lobster. “You are so ridiculous.”

  Tate didn’t miss the way her lips twitched seconds before she plopped the lobster in her mouth. And was he mistaken, or had her voice softened just now? He sipped his scotch, turned to his meal. What did any of it matter? She had a boyfriend and it wasn’t him, and no amount of cajoling or quips would change that fact.

  Unless… He thought about the possibilities regarding Charlotte and a boyfriend as he cut a slice of filet, chewed, cut another slice. He’d worked his way through half of the steak before he asked the question he’d started wondering two weeks ago. “When’s Jason coming?”

  The sputter and subsequent coughing garnered a concerned, “Charlotte? Are you okay?” from her mother at the other end of the table.

  She held up a hand, nodded, coughed once more. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”

  A half frown from Rogan whose gaze darted from his sister, then landed on Tate as if to say, Don’t even think about getting chummy with my sister, before turning back to his new wife. Rogan Donovan could say a hell of a lot without ever opening his mouth, and lately most of the warning frowns had been directed at Tate. Whatever. How many ways could he apologize for the way he’d persuaded Elizabeth to remain quiet about her true identity? Rogan called it blackmail, but that was too harsh a term because it implied cruel intent. If he wanted to see what real blackmail looked like, Tate bet Harrison Alexander could give him a few examples from real-life experiences. Except his father wasn’t talking right now. Yeah, what a shame.

  “What happened to Oliver and Camille?” Charlotte’s brows pinched together as she glanced at the doorway leading to the kitchen. “They said they’d be out once the food was served, but that was twenty minutes ago.”

  “No idea.” Tate concentrated on his lobster tail. What had happened to those two? Knowing his aunt, she’d contrived a way to give Tate time with Charlotte, as if that would make a difference. Nothing could happen between them until and unless Tate could bury the fear and be honest about his feelings for her. But how was he going to do that with a boyfriend standing between them? Maybe this Jason wasn’t as solid as Charlotte made him sound. After all, what kind of guy could stay away from a woman like Charlotte? The second the question flitted through his brain, he regretted it. What kind of guy? The kind who was a jerk…the kind who slept with a woman and then refused to admit it was about way more than sex…and then never called her. Oh, and when she appeared five months later, he manufactured some BS about not having her phone number and not wanting to ask her family for it. Really? A guy like that was a jerk and an asshole.

  And his name was Tate Alexander.

  No wonder she’d found someone else. Who could blame her? Maybe she’d left his bed before he had a chance to spin a tale that included adjectives such as unforgettable, stellar, and mind-blowing. But this time, with this woman, it had been, and maybe she felt it, too. Maybe she’d been testing him, and all he’d had to do was work the muscle between his head and find her phone number.

  But he hadn’t done it. He’d failed the test and now it was too late.

  Or was it? He inched his gaze toward Charlotte, caught her watching him. If she were lukewarm on this Jason guy, maybe he could get another shot with her. And this time he wouldn’t screw up. But first he had to dig around and find out more about his opponent. “So, about Jason…”

  Those green eyes sparked seconds before she lifted a shoulder and said, “He hasn’t been able to get away from work.”

  “Really.”

  She let out a huff. “Don’t say it as if you think he should have been here for the wedding. Jason is a very busy man.” Her voice perked up like she was reciting accolades of a hero. “He’s a neurosurgeon.” Pause. “He operates on people’s brains.”

  A neurosurgeon? Well, that sure beat out a businessman. “I know what a neurosurgeon is.” Tate sipped his scotch, thought about going head to head with a guy who operated on people’s brains. It would be a tough match, but it’s not like he was a psychiatrist who knew what went on inside those brains. He decided on a direct approach. “You deserve a guy who’s going to make you a priority, give you the time and attention you deserve.” And if I hadn’t been so damn afraid of my own feelings, that guy might be me.

  Charlotte waited, like she thought there was a punch line, and when nothing came, she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and turned the faintest pink. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  He nodded, leaned toward her. Of course, he should keep his mouth shut and enjoy a minute when she wasn’t snarling at him, but he couldn’t. His damn heart fought out common sense and won. “And if Jason doesn’t pan out—”

  “Do not even say it.” The snarl came, and with it enough fire to singe him. “You, Tate Alexander, don’t know the meaning of caring about anyone but yourself.”

  And with that, she tossed her napkin on the table, pushed back her chair, and stalked outside, leaving Tate alone with his conscience and a half-empty glass of scotch. He drowned out his conscience with the scotch and ignored the stares from the other end of the table. His family had money and power, but they’d never been able to get the love and relationship part right. He wasn’t like his father, or his uncle, or grandfather. Tate cared, and he wanted a life with only one woman—Charlotte Donovan—but it wasn’t going to be easy or without pain. And he didn’t stand a chance if he couldn’t open his heart, but that was scary as hell.

  Still, if he had to lose the love of his life, he wasn’t going down without a fight.

  Chapter 2

  Why had Aunt Camille invited that man to the wedding? Charlotte stared at the arbor decorated with roses, garland, and a gazillion twinkle lights. Tate Alexander did not belong here. He was a nuisance and a pain in the butt, even if he had the most entrancing voice she’d ever heard—and the most captivating smile.

  No, she would not think about his voice, or his smile, or anything else.

  She moved toward the arbor, traced a rose. He had no right to ask about her personal life or the man in it, even if there technically was no man. How could there be with Mr. Pain-in-the-Butt occupying so much of her brain? Let him think she had a boyfriend named Jason who was a neurosurgeon. Sure, let him think that.

  What did it matter if such a person didn’t exist and the Jason she’d dated had not been a neurosurgeon, but a skydiver. So what? Jason lacked what she’d been looking for, just like all the others. There’d been a fireman, a pediatrician, a stockbroker, even a race car driver, but none of them made her want to spend more than a few dates with them. Even the ones with the best prospects had proven lackluster and insignificant when compared to Tate Alexander.

  Ugh, was she destined to live a life of turmoil and discontent because certain body parts refused to cooperate with her grand plan to erase Tate Alexander from her life? She needed to clear her head and a walk would do just that. Never mind that she wore three-inch heels and would have to remove them and walk barefoot. Blisters were preferable to being stuck in the house with her nemesis. Besides, the dancing would start soon, and her mother would insist she join in. Rose Donovan did not take no for an answer when dancing was involved, and with three males in the room, one being the groom, and the other her uncle, odds were Rose would attempt to foist Tate Alexander on her. No thank you. Not in this world.

  “Charlotte?”

  She had her hand on the gate latch when Camille descended upon her in a powder-blue designer suit and matching shoes, a dainty hand extended. Her aunt was stunning, despite the sadness that surrounded her. Everyone knew the reason for the sadness; he even had a name. Carter Alexander. Doctor. Husband. Father. Philanderer. “Yes?”

  Her aunt eyed her. “Planning an escape?”

  Charlotte removed her hand from the latch, stepped back. “Just wanted a little fresh air.”

  “Honey, there is nothing fresh about the air right now. It’s humid and so close, it makes my curls go limp.” She touched
a red ringlet. “Stay near the fans. And you don’t want to miss the dancing. Your mother’s been waiting to see you and Tate glide across the floor, and you can’t disappoint her.” She didn’t wait for a response but patted Charlotte’s hand and chuckled. “If Rose has anything to say about it, you and Tate will be the next couple exchanging vows, though I doubt it would be in a backyard garden. My guess is the country club, but who knows? With the Alexanders, anything is possible.” Another chuckle and a shake of her head. “Did I ever tell you the governor flew in on a helicopter when your uncle and I got married? Landed right on the front lawn. What a sight that was.” Her voice trailed off, followed by a sniff and then, “And all these years later, here we are.”

  Right. Charlotte would remain single if it meant ending up with a life like her aunt. Why didn’t she dump the jerk? Sure, he could be charming, and he was intelligent, well spoken, handsome, loaded. But really? Was any of it worth giving up your self-respect? What about integrity? What about happiness? What about wondering if or how many illegitimate children existed?

  Camille grabbed Charlotte’s hand and said, “Come along, you young people can provide the entertainment.”

  “No, really, I—”

  “Oh, hush, it will be grand fun. Maybe we’ll even convince your mother and Oliver to get out there. I do wish he’d invited Jennifer Merrick.”

  “Jennifer? The owner of the Peace & Harmony Inn?” Uncle Oliver and Jennifer Merrick? Wasn’t she a little young for him? And didn’t she have a child?

  “Yes, indeed. It’s not official or anything, but I’ve been watching them. A few months ago, they couldn’t stand the sight of one another, or so they said, but something happened. Or maybe they let their guard down enough to truly see the other person.” Her voice shifted, turned soft and persuasive. “You know how it is. You carry all sorts of preconceived notions about someone with you for years, and then one day, you really look at them. Maybe you open your heart and give them a chance. You don’t want to because it’s risky, and they could hurt you. But you’re tired of pretending and there’s just something about that person that makes your heart jump.” A nod of her head, followed by a sly, “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  What to say to that? “I guess?”

  Her aunt threw back her head and laughed. “You and Tate have been avoiding one another for years, and I say it’s time to own up to what’s happening, and it starts with a dance.”

  Camille Alexander was the most persuasive person Charlotte had ever met. There was no saying no thank you, or I’d rather not, once she chose a course of action and homed in on her target. Right now, Charlotte and Tate were the targets, which was why Camille had dumped her in the living room and disappeared into the kitchen. It’s only a dance. One dance. Surely, I can tolerate that.

  “Shall we dance?”

  Charlotte glanced up to find Tate standing before her, hand extended. One dance. That’s all. Music swirled around them in a persuasive attempt to coax her onto the hardwood floor where she’d danced as a child. Every Saturday night, they’d pushed aside the furniture and learned a new dance: foxtrot, waltz, jitterbug. Life had been so simple then, not confusing with too many gray areas. Oh, how she missed those days.

  “Charlotte?” Tate’s voice pinged her heart. “Come on, let’s dance.”

  This is about so much more than a simple dance. I know it, and so does he. She shook her head. “I don’t think so.” Dancing with the man meant getting close, touching him, inhaling his scent… “No, thank you.”

  “I promise to mind my manners.” Pause. A hint of a smile. “Unless you don’t want me to…”

  She raised a brow, scowled. “Does that line really work for you? I mean, it is so over-the-top cliché.”

  He laughed. “I don’t know, I only used it on you to get a reaction.” His next words made her stomach jump. “Sad to say, most women don’t need a line from me at all. But I prefer a challenge.” His lips pulled into a real smile. “Like you.”

  “Well, dream on, Buster, because that is not happening.” And she wished he’d stop looking at her like he thought she was dessert.

  “A simple dance doesn’t mean it has to land us in bed.”

  But those eyes and that expression said something else altogether. Unless you want it to, is what they said. Charlotte let out a huff, started to turn away when her mother approached them.

  “Look at you two. I can’t wait to see you dance.” The expression on her mother’s face said happy and excited. How could Charlotte disappoint her? Ugh. Dancing with Tate Alexander was so not what she wanted to do.

  “I was just thinking the same thing, Rose.” Tate concentrated on her mother, gave the poor woman one of his smiles. “Unless you’d like to dance?”

  She let out a tinkle of laughter, shook her head. “Oh no, Tate. I much prefer to watch you and Charlotte. And I have the perfect song.”

  Her mother gave them one last glance and made her way to Oliver, who sat in the corner, as the resident DJ. Spinning wedding music was a long way from his rock-n’-roller days with his band, but he didn’t seem to mind it. In fact, he looked pretty mellowed out, with his mug of coffee and his tunes.

  “Can’t disappoint your mother now, can we?” Tate whispered in her ear.

  Charlotte let out a loud sigh and muttered, “Let’s just get this over with, okay? And can you not talk?”

  He clasped her right hand, placed his other hand on her waist. “Sure. Any other instructions?”

  She eyed him, tried to ignore the cologne that reminded her of autumn and fresh air. “No, and don’t be sarcastic.”

  His smile flattened, and the brackets around his mouth deepened. “One of these days, you’re going to have to admit there’s something between us, no matter how much you want to deny it.”

  Was he serious? He couldn’t be. Hadn’t she told him she had a boyfriend? A neurosurgeon? She opened her mouth to deny what he’d just said, but the words stuck in her throat.

  “Yeah.” He sighed, leaned down and whispered in her ear, “That’s what I thought.”

  Charlotte had been obsessed with Tate Alexander since she was thirteen years old and spotted him kissing Delilah Montgomery at the park. He’d pulled Delilah against him, ran his fingers through her long hair. Charlotte had touched her lips, stared harder. What would it feel like to be kissed by Tate Alexander? To know the warmth of his smile, the tenderness of his touch? She’d spent the next several years wondering and imagining, despite the series of boyfriends that never quite worked out.

  And then Aunt Camille stepped in and arranged the date that never happened because the jerk stood her up. It was the summer before she headed to college, and she was feeling grown-up and so sure of herself. She’d taken half a day to get ready, choosing just the right outfit, straightening her hair, adding extra eyeliner. She made sure she didn’t tell her parents where she was going because they would not approve. Donovans did not mix with Alexanders. It was an unwritten rule; one Camille had ignored when she married Carter Alexander, and it hadn’t turned out so well for her… Charlotte had slipped out of the house at 9 o’clock, made her way to the park and waited. Two hours later, she walked home, muttering curse words she’d never spoken before and vowed she’d never spend another minute thinking about Tate Livingstone Alexander.

  Of course, that had been a lie, but she’d pretended she didn’t care that he’d stood her up, even told her aunt that his no-show didn’t matter. Camille hadn’t liked Tate’s behavior, had threatened to call him out on it, but Charlotte begged her not to say anything. A girl must have her pride, and if there was one thing Charlotte Donovan had, it was pride. She ignored Tate when she saw him the summer after her first year away at college. Oh, she’d seen the way he’d stopped and done a doubletake, as if he hadn’t really seen her before and liked what he saw now. She’d fluffed her hair and strutted away, knowing those silver eyes followed her. It was like that every time they were near each other: the cautious
gazes, the deep stares, the wordless emotional connection. Sizzle, that’s what it was, and it was powerful.

  They didn’t speak until the year his mother passed away. Marguerite Alexander’s death was a tragic occurrence that left the whole town mourning the genteel Southern woman who feared her tyrant husband as much as she loved her children. Charlotte had wanted to attend the funeral, but the Alexanders were private people, and there’d been no public viewing. She’d run into Tate the night before the funeral as she jogged through the park. He sat on a bench, close to the spot where she’d spotted him kissing Delilah Montgomery all those years ago. His usually perfect hair stuck out, his tanned complexion pale, eyes bloodshot. There was such pain and loss on his face, such sadness, that she wanted to comfort him. Let him know he wasn’t alone.

  Tate? Are you okay?

  He’d blinked twice, as though he’d just realized she was standing in front of him. Then he dragged a hand over his face, let out a long sigh. Sure. I’m fine.

  But the heaviness in his voice said he was hurting. Charlotte sank onto the bench beside him, covered his hand with hers. I’m so sorry.

  More hurt spilled out. Thanks. He turned to her, his silver eyes a mix of sadness and despair. Thanks, he said again, his voice rough.

  She’d memorized the sound of that voice for years, imagined it spilling over her in soft, sexy tones. But this voice? The rawness of it grabbed her, tore at her heart. Charlotte touched his cheek, stroked his jaw. When he leaned toward her, she eased her hands around his neck and guided his head onto her shoulder. It’s okay to be sad, she murmured, stroking the hair she’d dreamed of touching since she was thirteen. It was as silky as she’d imagined, the texture rich, the curls slipping between her fingers. It’s okay, she whispered, eyes closed, head bent. Tate wrapped his arms around her waist, pulled her closer, his breath fanning her neck.