Sweet Liar Read Online Free PDF Page B

Edwardian caricatures.
    Relaxing more every minute, she was shown a library paneled in oak with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. She was impressed by the sheer number of books until she saw that, as far as she could tell, all the books dealt with American gangsters: their origins, biographies, even books on the economics of being a gangster. Looking away from the books with a grimace of disgust, she saw in the corner of the room, near a big desk heaped with papers, large white cartons labeled with the names Compaq and Hewlett Packard. Surprise showing on her face, she turned to look at him.
    â€œYour rent,” he said in answer to her silent question. “A whole year’s rent is in those boxes, and I have no idea what to do with the damn things.”
    â€œI could—” Samantha stopped herself, knowing she was feeling a computer aficionado’s heartfelt lurch at seeing powerful computer equipment sitting unused in boxes. It must be how a doll collector would feel at seeing boxes in an attic labeled, “Great-Granny’s dolls” and not being allowed to open the boxes.
    â€œYou wouldn’t by chance know which end of a computer to use, would you?” he asked innocently, knowing full well that she was a whiz with computers. He’d bought what Dave Elliot, in one of his letters, had told him Samantha said he should buy.
    â€œI know a little about them,” she said vaguely, slowly turning away from the boxes.
    Leading her upstairs, he showed her two bedrooms, both of them decorated with plants and art from around the world, one of them furnished with wicker chairs with pillows printed with ivy vines.
    â€œYou like it?” he asked, not attempting to control the eagerness in his voice.
    Samantha smiled before she caught herself. “I do like it.”
    When he grinned in response to her assertion, Samantha almost felt her breath leave her. He was even better looking when he smiled like that, such a smile of pleasure, untainted by any other emotion. Feeling that it had suddenly become very, very hot in the room, she started toward the door.
    â€œWant to see your apartment now?”
    Looking away from him, looking at anything but him, she nodded.
    She followed him up the stairs to the third floor. When Michael opened the door to the first room, Samantha forgot all about New York and this man who unsettled her, for she could feel her father in this room. Her father had always said that if he had to start from scratch, he would decorate his house in green and burgundy—and this living room had been made for her father. A dark green couch had been placed at an angle to a green marble fireplace, with two big, comfortable-looking green-striped chairs across from the couch, all of them set on an Oriental rug handwoven in colors of green and cream. Around the room were pieces of dark mahogany furniture, not one piece having spindly legs that would make it easy for a man to knock over.
    Walking to the mantel, Samantha saw several framed photos of her family: her mother, her parents together, her paternal grandfather, and herself from infancy to one year ago. Tentatively, she picked up a silver-framed photograph of her mother and, holding it, she looked about, closing her eyes for a moment. The presence of her father was so strong in the room she almost expected to turn and see him.
    Instead, when she turned, she saw a stranger standing in the doorway—and he was frowning at her.
    â€œYou don’t like it,” Mike said. “This room’s not right for you.”
    â€œIt’s perfect for me,” Samantha said softly. “I can feel my father here.”
    Mike frowned harder. “You can, can’t you?” As he spoke, he looked at the apartment with new eyes, seeing that it wasn’t a room for a pretty blonde female. This was a man’s room. Specifically, it was David Elliot’s room.
    â€œThe bedroom’s through here.” As