Her Dark Lies Read online

He laughs. “Well, they won’t be watching what we get up to in there. Besides, I’ve been told the bed is magic.”

  There is something...wistful on his face. I run my hand from his cheek to his temple, smoothing back his too-long hair. There is the lightest sprinkling of silver in his part, just a few hairs here and there, lending him a serious, studious air.

  “A magic bed? What, does it fly?” I tease.

  “In a way. Rumor has it ladies tend to get knocked up on their wedding nights. My grandmother and my mother swear by it.”

  “Ah.” A deep sense of foreboding seizes me, and I instinctually scan my body for any signs of pregnancy. It’s a reflex, something I’ve done regularly since we first became intimate. An accidental pregnancy terrifies me. I can only imagine the headlines, how I’d be portrayed. Prevailing wisdom: a woman like me can only land a man like Jackson Compton if I get pregnant and he is forced to do the right thing.

  I run my mind over our sexual escapades from the past month. I had my implant taken out; it was making me feel terrible. I have been taking my pills on time, haven’t I? We’ve been careful, yes?

  Stop it. You’re being paranoid.

  Yes, of course we’ve been careful. The dull ache deep in my stomach is certainly my impending monthly, just in time to ruin our wedding night. The malaise I’ve been feeling for the past couple of days is stress and travel related. I’ve never flown well, even short hops leave me with a headache, clammy and uncomfortable. Add in a mild concussion and a boat on slightly stormy seas? I’d gone to the doctor for a preventative motion sickness patch before we left; it is helping tamp down some of the nausea from the bump on my head, too.

  The long night coupled with the long journey from Nashville to Naples is catching up to me. We’d been forced—quelle horreur—to fly first class on Delta instead of being chauffeured across the sea in the family jet. Jack’s father is flying in from Africa, where he’s been on business with Jack’s brother Elliot. As heads of the company, their travel needs take precedence.

  Yes, it was a terrible burden for me to be waited upon by the dark-eyed flight attendants with their prettily accented Italian and sly smiles for Jack. The wine was plentiful, the carbonara and crusty bread delicious, the lay-down beds surprisingly comfortable. I’d only disliked being separated from Jack. He was in the cozy suite behind me, and I felt all alone, watching the flight attendants’ faces light up with pleasure as they walked past me to tend to Jack’s needs.

  The breeze picks up, and I realize Jack is looking at me curiously. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, but good grief, don’t wish a baby on us just yet. I want to be married for a while, first.”

  “No promises, darling. My parents will explode with happiness at the idea of another heir.”

  There is a certain hopefulness in his voice. Jack is a decade older than me. A widower. His first life was stolen from him. He is ready to start a family. I understand. He’s already experienced so much. I’m only getting started. I’m not ready for a child. I might not ever be ready. I need to tell him that, before the wedding. In case it’s a deal breaker.

  I take a deep breath. “Jack?”

  “Yes, darling?”

  But we are interrupted by a call from the upper deck. Gideon, beckoning. “We need you for a moment, Jack.”

  Jack squeezes my shoulder. “Be right back.”

  I watch Jack stride away and wrestle my urge to confess back into place. What purpose will it serve? He’ll just get upset, and who knows, maybe I’ll change my mind.

  You know what they say about digging your own grave.

  I turn back to the island.

  Unlike the smoky gray open waters of the bay, the water in the shallower edges of the channel is cerulean and almost clear; schools of dark fish race away. What are they running from? The boat? A predator?

  The breeze cools, the azure Mediterranean early summer sky turning hazy. Bad weather is coming. Italy is under a Red warning this long weekend, a severe weather alert, expecting the worst storms in a decade.

  I hope everyone gets here in time. The channel crossing to Isle Isola is too dicey to manage anything smaller than the yacht or the hydrofoil ferry in bad weather, and the hydrofoil normally runs to Isola only once a week, though it’s running three days in a row for us to get all the guests on the island. And obviously, the choppers can’t fly if the storm is too bad.

  The Hebrides is approaching the cliff’s edge now. The imposing granite face is sheer and unforgiving. We’re so close I can see the striations of the stone, the moss growing in the cracks. At the top, there is a flash of white. What is that?

  A scarf, my mind fills in. A woman’s scarf.

  And then it is gone.

  Someone is watching for us.

  5

  Old Bones

  The crew begins to shout, and Jack appears back at my side. “We’re putting in. The radar looks nasty, the first of the storms is coming in faster than they were expecting. I hope the hydrofoil is right behind us. They might have some trouble if they haven’t launched yet.”

  “What did the Crows want?”

  “Malcolm and Gideon,” he corrects automatically. “You have to stop calling them that, darling. Especially now. They were just running me through the new schedule. Mom called, she thought it might be wise to move everything up a day. The storm will blow through during the night and day tomorrow, then there will be a break in the weather. So, the rehearsal dinner will be Thursday night instead of Friday, and the wedding Friday instead of Saturday. Is that okay?”

  I fight back the urge to snap—Are you kidding me? We’ve had this schedule laid out for months. What if the guests don’t get here on time?

  But the girl who’s marrying Jack isn’t the type to get fussed over something so insignificant as a schedule change. No bridezillas here. Ana and Brice are funding most everything for the wedding anyway, and with Henna planning everything, I’m just along for the ride. My only goal is Jack’s—our—eternal happiness.

  “No problem. With everyone here I suppose it doesn’t really matter when things happen. If Henna’s cool with it, so am I.”

  “Good. Thanks for being so understanding. Now the only issue is getting the ferry here before the worst of the storm hits.” He looks over his shoulder to the open waters as if he can conjure the hydrofoil. I run a hand along his arm, for once reassuring him.

  “I’m sure they will. I have faith in the Compton magic. Everyone will be here safe and sound before the heavens start to squall.”

  “I love how you talk.”

  “I love you. By the way, someone was watching for us on the cliff. I saw a flash of white, a scarf, I think. Your family must be expecting us.”

  Jack’s brows furrow. “No one should be up there now. It’s blocked off for the renovations.”

  “Someone cheated then.”

  “You’re sure you saw someone?”

  Am I? The flash of white, the sense that a woman had turned and walked away...

  “Yes. Of course, I am.”

  “All right. I’ll mention it. We don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

  The engines reverse, growling their displeasure. The teak deck shifts beneath our feet, and I grab onto the railing for extra balance. The island looms ahead, its lush, forested hills gleaming, the massive cliffside disappearing from view as the boat comes around. The sun catches my ring, making it flash and sparkle.

  I breathe in the sea air, taking a moment to revel in the warm sun, the shrieks of the gulls, the calls of the crew, the strong arms folded across the rail next to mine. The incessant whapping of a helicopter’s rotors bleeds through the bucolic seascape. Jack’s father and brother, beating the storm.

  “It’s all going to be fine,” Jack says again, sensing my need for reassurance. The past forty-eight hours have been off the charts nerve-racking.
<
br />   “I know. I’m not worried.”

  Many marriages are made on such little lies. It’s so much easier to reassure than laying oneself bare. Saying I am terrified is unthinkable. All of this—the break-in, the trip, the island, the wedding, the storms—it is too much for me to bear. And yet, I smile winningly at my fiancé, squeeze his hand. He mustn’t know I’m second-guessing everything. He would take it the wrong way.

  I look toward the pier. A knot of people comes into focus, and there is the small strobing of a blue light. Alarm seizes my stomach.

  Malcolm shot the intruder.

  “Jack, what’s going on? I can see blue lights flashing. Is that the island’s police?”

  His attention snaps to the pier. “Our local island polizia, yes. The Italians have both local police and military police, but here on the island, it’s just a couple of local guys. There’s no crime on Isola.”

  Unspoken—Our security sees to that. You’re safe with me, Claire. Always.

  Safety is something Jack offers in spades. After Monday’s escapades, I’ve been shown that in person.

  “What do you think’s happened?” I ask. “They aren’t here about Monday night, are they?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose we’ll find out. They’re blocking our way up to the Villa.”

  It’s another ten minutes before we can disembark. Jack is silent and watchful the whole time. He holds my hand and plays absently with my ring. I see the muscle in his jaw tick, tick, tick as he grinds his teeth.

  When the gangplank finally settles against the ground, he says quietly, “Just follow my lead.” He steers me down the pier toward the flashing lights. We’re fifteen feet away when he sucks in a breath and says, “Wait here.”

  “But—”

  “Wait here, Claire.”

  Jack doesn’t normally command me. I’m so shocked I halt immediately, and he surges ahead, disappearing into the crowd. I stand awkwardly alone, shivering in the salty breeze. I can hear Italian, spoken very quickly, much too fast for me to follow even the few words I’ve picked up, then Jack’s baritone, all overlaid with a cacophony of seagulls—the island’s rookery for wayward birds must be nearby. I’m just grateful for the solid ground. Maybe I was getting a little seasick.

  Jack reemerges moments later, his face pale.

  “The timing is impeccable,” he grumbles.

  “Are they here for us?”

  “No. The restoration people dug up a body.”

  “A body? Whose?”

  “No idea. Sorry, technically it’s not a body, it’s a skeleton. Remains. This happens frequently in historical restoration.”

  “Remains?” I’ve had just about enough death for a lifetime. Two bodies in two days?

  Jack smiles. “Don’t freak out. You know this island dates back. Sometimes there are little mudslides that expose ruins, or the restoration people my dad hired will dig into the ground and find a tomb, or tunnel under a building and uncover disarticulated bones.”

  “So it—they—aren’t recent?”

  “Goodness, no. I’m sure they’re not. My parents will have to meet with the people from the historical society, just to be certain, but it’s all going to be fine. It’s just one more thing to handle.”

  He sounds annoyed but supremely unconcerned, so I relax, too. I have learned to take my cues from Jack. This is a whole new world I’m stepping into, and camouflage is my only weapon.

  “Let’s get up to the Villa. I’m sure my parents will want to see you. And I’d love to show you around, if you’re not too jet-lagged. Plus, we have the meeting with the lawyers this afternoon.”

  Ah, the lawyers. I’ve almost forgotten about the prenup signing. Almost...

  What, you thought it was going to be different? You missed the part of the story where Prince Charming sat Cinderella down with an annuity payout schedule because the glass slipper earned interest at 4.8 percent a year? This is the Comptons we’re talking about.

  Jack might love me beyond all reason, but his family will protect him at all cost.

  “I’m not too bad actually. Awake enough for greetings and explorations, at least.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  6

  The Benighted Path

  I try not to gawk as we walk past the remains. Whoever the poor soul is—was—they’re now wrapped up in a blue tarp. It’s creepy, knowing that fifteen feet away lie the dusty, mud-streaked bones of a person who walked this island, who stared at the same beautiful views, who experienced joy and sadness and pain and love. A hundred years or a thousand, it’s still a person. A dead person.

  I shake myself from this reverie before Jack notices. I never know when it will hit, this protective retreat. Death of any kind can do it to me. I never go to funerals, or viewings, mainly because of the horrible tradition of leaving the casket open that happens so often in the South. For years, I even had to be careful with movies and television and books, reading the online synopses and reviews first to make sure I wouldn’t be caught unawares, because a shock death of characters I cared about threw me off my stride for days. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time making sure nothing bad will happen to the people around me so I won’t be forced to witness them in their final resting state, and if their recklessness can’t be managed, I’ve cut them loose.

  And now I get to mark my wedding weekend with dead intruders and skeletal remains? Lovely.

  I try to put the lump under the tarp out of my mind. Jack takes my hand, and we follow the crushed shell path that meanders up the hill to the Villa.

  “If we’re going to see your parents, can I change first?”

  “Why? You look great. We’re fine as is.”

  This is decidedly not true.

  Looking at Jack’s preferred daily garb, you’d never know he was from one of the wealthiest families in America. Granted, the security muscle is a giveaway, at least marking him as someone important, but he likes to keep things casual. I look him over from head to toe: his favorite pair of striped canvas shoes desperately need a run through the washing machine, the worn Nirvana T-shirt that belonged to his favorite, now deceased uncle, has a rip under the left arm, and his button-fly Levi’s are so frayed around the edges it looks like he’s rolled down several hills in them. It is a state that can only be achieved from extensive, loving wear and benign neglect, nothing manufactured about it. How he can go from tuxedo to vagabond is stunning.

  But I’ve shed my shimmering chrysalis, too.

  I’m currently wearing dark skinny jeans in slightly better repair than Jack’s with an artistic rip in the knee—purchased, not worn in—a white linen button-down, a thin black leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up, and Converse high-tops. My hair is screwed up in a bun on top of my head, but I can feel tendrils floating around my face, escaping the clip. My nails are short and painted black.

  This is my summer uniform. In winter, the Converse are swapped out for a pair of luscious buttery brown leather Frye boots I inherited after a roommate decided she didn’t like them anymore, or my disreputable Doc Martens, and I cover my white tops with a heavier leather jacket or sweater, depending on the function. Simplicity. I like simplicity beyond all measure. I no longer use my body as a canvas—I leave that to my art.

  “We look like we’ve been traveling. Your mom—”

  “Loves you just the way you are, as I do.”

  If she had met me when Jack did, I wonder what she would have thought. It was bad enough he brought home an artist whose biggest sale was the result of Jack’s own checkbook. One pierced and tattooed—I didn’t exactly fit the wholesome family image the Comptons were shooting for. I’ve worked hard on that image. I didn’t want to give them any reason to dissuade Jack from my side.

  But they seem to like me. I’ve never gotten any weird vibes off his mother. She’s not clinging to her baby boy and pu
shing me away. Actually, she has been quite the opposite—loving, engaged but not overbearing, respectful of our time and desires for privacy, and interested in my art for its own sake. If this continues, she will be the perfect mother-in-law. And his father is relatively absent from our relationship. Though he and Jack work together and I’ve seen some fraught moments, he’s never been anything but kind to me.

  The walk from the dock up the hill to the Villa gives me a chance to calm myself. The island has seen a wet spring and the path is fragrant with the heady aroma of the blooms. The florals are nearly overwhelmed by the warm scent of fresh lemon. No wonder, the lemon groves along the path sport monstrous fruits; I’ve never seen such a thing. They are everywhere, like mutant, aromatic tennis balls hanging on the hills, perfuming the air.

  I hear barks, deep throated and sharp. Jack smiles. “Here they come. Okay, remember what I told you. The wolf dogs are highly trained but the first time you meet them—”

  Two massive silver-and-black dogs burst around the corner, braying at our intrusion. I have never seen such gorgeous creatures. Jack told me all about his family’s dogs, all descended from an original brother and sister, bred specifically for protection and companionship. Lupo Italiano—Italian wolf dogs—a supposed cross between a wolf and a German shepherd.

  These two look more like wolves to me. Sleek and huge, they look like they eat elk for dinner. One elk to one dog. Good grief.

  I stand still. They reach Jack first, but only give him a cursory glance—it is me they’re interested in. I wait, allowing them to come to me. They do, snuffling delightedly at my sneakers, rubbing against my jeans. The slightly bigger of the two puts his nose into my hand.

  The second dog is yipping in excitement. Jack gets down on one knee, grabs the beast by the ears, and starts talking to him like he’s a baby. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Who’s a good boy?”

  The bigger dog is still nosing my hand. I move slowly—he could take it off with one bite should he want to—but when I scratch his ear, he closes his eyes in bliss and leans against my leg.