Just a Little Lie (Shades of Deception, Book 1) Read online

  Just a Little Lie

  Shades of Deception

  Book One

  by

  Mallory Rush

  Bestselling, Award-winning Author

  Previously titled: I Do

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-283-3

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Copyright © 1992, 2012, 2013 by Olivia Rupprecht. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  Dear Reader,

  It's hard to imagine a world without the technology we now take for granted. And yet, it wasn't so long ago that the only telephones outside a building were in phone booths, the Encyclopedia Britannica was the closest thing we had to Google, and books came in one form: typeset on bound paper.

  I wrote my first published manuscript on what would now be considered a relic: An electronic word processor that was a first anniversary love gift from my husband, Scott.

  Prior to that, I pounded away on an IBM Selectric. My sister Rachel Wallace, a book-loving librarian, worked extra hours to help me buy that electric typewriter so I wouldn't have to continue chasing my dreams on the old manual I'd picked up at a garage sale—a terrific find for a young single mother juggling work, babies, and burning the midnight oil via a nursery lamp that came minus the shade (same garage sale).

  I was incredibly fortunate to have such champions see me through the six years and four unpublished novels it took before landing my first contract with Bantam Books in 1990. Ten years later, I had seventeen novels published and acquired the pen name Mallory Rush for Harlequin.

  The books I wrote during that time, including I Do, now Just a Little Lie, book one in my Shades of Deception Series, reflect the era in which they were written. While technology has advanced at warp speed, love remains as relevant as it ever was, or will ever be.

  Wishing you the kind of love you read about—

  Mallory

  Visit the author at www.malloryrush.com

  He who sees beyond black and white

  has graced this seeker with

  the kaleidoscope of life.

  Prologue

  "Am I... gonna... die?" Sol's vision was hazy, what with his one good eye struggling to stay open. But he could tell that the young Marine's brows were pinched together as he curtly nodded. How fitting that he looked like an angel, with his head haloed by a light shining through the curtain partition in the Middle East hospital ward.

  "Anything I can do for you, Sergeant?"

  "Yeah. Get Turnbull. Tell him to... bring my gear."

  Took him awhile to dredge up the words. He figured it was those damn meat cutters shooting him up good with morphine. Fact was, he'd welcome pain over numbness, this thick sensation of tingling deadweight.

  "Yes, sir. Right away, sir." A sharp salute. A click of the heels. The private turned to leave, then did a quick about-face. "Your men know what you did, and we've all got a lot of respect for that. Lot of respect for you, too, sir."

  Sol tried to lift a bandaged arm, but couldn't. Hell of a thing, he thought. He was two hundred pounds of muscle spread over six feet and some odd inches— "A tall drink of water," his mom had always called him—and he couldn't even lift his damn arm.

  As he drifted off, wavering sparks of memory washed through his drug-induced stupor. He saw the flash of a grenade going off in a freak accident, the trip-hammer reaction to knock his buddies out of the way, and his own body jerking in so many directions he felt like a marionette cut from his strings, then flung into a boneless heap. Feeling the jolt... the fire... the rage that it wasn't supposed to end this way. And Mariah, Mariah so sweet upon the paper, feeling for her now as she sifted through his head like so much regret...

  Should've gotten Mariah in his arms and kissed her hard. Wonder how she kissed, how she...

  "Sol? Yo, Sol. It's Turns. I'm here, you no-good—" The hoarse voice, followed by a cough, roused Sol from his musings. "Checked on Smitty and Brack. They're both gonna make it. Now dammit, so are you."

  "We'll... see." One ice-blue eye slitted open. Must be seeing things. Turns wasn't no crybaby.

  "I got your stuff. Guess I know what you want."

  "Picture," Sol wheezed out.

  "Here she is. Damn pretty sight, ain't she?"

  Turns held the snapshot of a raven-haired bombshell in a string bikini close to Sol's bandaged face. She was twenty-four, six years younger than he, with a toothpaste-commercial smile it looked like he'd never see.

  "Letter. Read it," Sol ordered.

  "Which one? You must've gotten a jillion of those perfumed babies in the last six months."

  "Send me off with a... hot one."

  "Sure, Sol. Here, this one'll give you a jump start. Get you back on track. Sol? Sol?"

  "Still here." He blinked and stared at the picture while Turns cleared his throat, then began to read.

  "My darling Sol—I've already memorized your latest letter, even though I received it just yesterday. I haunt the mailbox, and I must confess that when one doesn't arrive I feel depressed, but that leaves as soon as I go to my bedroom and fill myself up with you.

  "I begin with the first letter, and it makes me laugh. How stiff (ha ha) we were with each other in the beginning. So polite and newsy and awkward. But that soon passed. We've never met, but it's as though we've known each other all our lives. You've never touched me, yet I feel we're lovers.

  "Yes, I have imagined you kissing me, touching me, as you say you dream of doing in person. Thinking of it leaves me feeling empty and longing for more than this romance through the mail and our too brief phone calls.

  "Since we've shared our hopes and dreams, I think it's time I told you of my deepest fear: that you'll be disappointed when you meet me at Christmas. My picture's very flattering and I'm a little shy in person. Promise me that you won't hold that against me, that you'll remember all that we've shared and give us time to know each other even better.

  "After all, it's what's on the inside that counts. And on the inside, I do love you. Please write soon. And even though it's safe where you are, take good care. I'd die without you. Sending you my heart, I am yours—Mariah."

  Sol's eye remained fixed on the snapshot. Letters like that had kept him celibate for the last few months. Now he was sorry he hadn't taken his pleasure with a willing female and pretended she was Mariah.

  Regret, so much regret. Who knows—they might have even gotten married, after a real courtship.

&nbs
p; But at least he'd had those letters, thanks to Operation Dear Abby. Wished he had time to send that grande dame of advice a thank you for all the mail her readers sent to the soldiers overseas. He'd reached into the mailbag like it was a Cracker Jack box and dug around for a prize that had turned out to be Mariah.

  "This sucks," he mumbled as Dear Abby drifted into the ozone and a vision of Ma and Dad filled his fuzzy head. This was gonna hurt them worse than when he'd turned his back and seen to his own selfish needs. They would've loved Mariah. Mariah, so sincere and sexy, so different from Desiree... Mariah, saying she loved him... loved him...

  "Sol? Talk to me. Hell, curse me blue, but don't leave me now."

  "Get a preacher."

  "What?"

  "Call... her. Cut through the crap... and get us married."

  "You wanna get married? You got it. Hang on, you old SOB. If you won't die on me, I'll get you married." Turns spun around and barked at an orderly. "Got a phone near?"

  "Yes, sir. Lieutenant. An extension's right here. Give me a number and I'll patch you through."

  "Get me a chaplain first."

  "But the Padre's on furlough."

  Turns lowered his voice to a hiss. "Get me anyone. He doesn't even have to say his prayers."

  "But, sir, it's not standard procedure or legal or—"

  "Details can wait. Can you ad-lib some wedding vows?"

  "Well, sure, but—"

  "Then you're it. Call Mobile, Alabama, pronto and get Mariah Garnet on the line—here's her number on the letter. Don't say anything and let me do the explaining. Got that?"

  The voices were no more than faint murmurings to Sol. His mind was whirling as images of Mariah bundled him in warmth. She'd meet his parents now, have widow's benefits that might help make up for what they'd never have. And as long as she was tied to him, maybe he'd never really die...

  "Preacher's here, Sol. Got your lady on the phone. She knows you're banged up and wants to get hitched. We'll keep it quick and simple. All you've got to say is 'I do' when I squeeze your hand."

  "Dearly beloved," the orderly began, "we are gathered—"

  "Just get on with it, would ya?" Turns growled.

  "Do you take this man for your lawfully wedded husband, to have to hold, for ri— Okay, okay. Do you wanna marry him?"

  "I... I—" A feminine voice laced with molasses and tears choked on the other end. "Yes, God yes, I do. Sol? Sol, are you there? Please, Sol. I love you. Please hang on."

  "And do you, Sol Standish, take this woman for—"

  Turns squeezed his hand.

  "I... do."

  "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss—"

  "Want to kiss me instead, Sol?" Turns was openly crying as he leaned down toward his best friend.

  "Take a... dive, Turns. Mariah, tell Ma... I—"

  "Get a doctor in here! He's dying! Someone help me—"

  "Stat! Stat!" A nurse thrust the wedding party out of the way. Doctors and orderlies were fast on her heels. They rushed as one into the surgical unit, where they worked over the groom's lifeless body.

  Chapter 1

  Mariah checked her makeup in the squeaky-clean ladies' room. She dug around for some double-strength aspirin and popped three between her heavily glossed lips. Beth, her older sister, had shown her how to cake the makeup on so she'd look five years older.

  Did she look twenty-four? Hardly. And even with the birth-control pills enlarging her breasts, she didn't come close to filling out Beth's sundress. At least her parents had gone on their European summer vacation once she'd convinced them that the marriage was annulled. And bless Beth for promising to help cover the truth.

  Oh, the lies. How they'd multiplied, like rabbits in heat. First, the picture, one of Beth; next, giving Beth's age instead of her own.

  If only she hadn't been desperate for someone to love her just for herself, with no knowledge of the cursed gift that had dogged her her entire life. If only she hadn't fallen in love with a worldly man she'd never laid eyes on. One she'd been able to reveal her soul to on paper. One who saw only her, not the prodigy who was tested ad nauseam, whose cardiologist father had tutored and displayed her, like some prize specimen, before the medical world.

  She'd meant to tell Sol; really she had. And she would—once she was sure she wouldn't lose him. Then she could safely send Turns the additional papers he needed for the marriage certificate. The blood work was no problem, but her birth certificate had had her scrambling for excuses.

  Turns seemed content when she'd said that it must have gotten lost in the mail, and silly her for sending the original. What he thought about her taking so long to replace it she didn't know, but he had asked her not to mention the minor holdup to Sol, since he had enough problems to deal with. She'd readily agreed, knowing it was in both their best interests.

  Anyway, she didn't need to worry about the paperwork at this stage. Not when her husband might take one look at his bride and write her off as jailbait. Birth and marriage certificates wouldn't mean squat if he dumped her on sight.

  Mariah pressed her forehead against the rest-room mirror as the walls closed in. Please, Lord, she silently prayed, let Sol love me. Give me the chance to make this crazy thing work. I know a marriage based on lies is no way to start, but without them we wouldn't be married and I'd be stuck in med school. For once, just once, I need a life of my own, something normal and real, a kindred spirit who can simply let me be... me.

  "Mariah? Honey, the plane's going to be here any minute," she heard LaVerne Standish say.

  Grateful that the pills had taken the edge off her headache—though they hadn't done anything for her galloping heart—Mariah summoned one of Miss Lilah's Finishing School smiles for her mother-in-law.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Standish. I wanted to look my best."

  "Call me Mom. And, Mariah honey, you look as lovely as they come." LaVerne tilted her head. "How old did Sol say you are?"

  "Twenty-four."

  "Heaven above, I wish I had some of what you must be drinking. Of course, with all that milk on the farm, you're bound to keep it up."

  Mariah drew in an unsteady breath, quickly swallowed another aspirin, then followed "Mom" out the door.

  *

  As the plane taxied down the runway, Sol peered out the window with his one good eye. He had trouble recognizing the small gathering near the tarmac. He had trouble recognizing himself. He was no longer a globe-trotting lifer in the service, but he wasn't a third-generation dairy farmer ready to milk his daddy's cows. Not in a million years.

  A sense of failure weighed heavily upon him. Life had twisted his goals and self-image to suit everyone but himself. He wasn't even sure if he could be a husband to his wife.

  He'd find out soon enough. Tonight, honeymooning in a nearby hotel. What if she cringed when she saw his eye patch, his scars? And what if he couldn't... The doctors had said he was just weak, depressed, or that maybe it was the medication. Easy for them to shrug it off; it wasn't their masculinity on the line.

  Dear God, he prayed, please don't strip that away from me too. The possibility gnawed at his gut.

  Five minutes passed, then ten. And still he sat there. Damn, but he wished he wasn't married, that he didn't have to think of anyone but himself. And damn Turns for saying that was just the problem and he hoped Mariah gave him holy hell, knocked the chip that ran a mile wide from off his shoulder.

  If only he hadn't signed on the dotted line while he was so doped up he couldn't remember it. If only Turns hadn't taken it on himself to secure the marriage certificate. How Turns had pulled it off, Sol wasn't sure, even though he'd sort of seen it himself during one of his stupors.

  Turns had claimed the certificate was now getting shuffled around. Once a record of it was entered in the Unit Diary, the Marines would recognize the marriage—not that that would make the union any more real than it already was—and send Sol the certificate for posterity.

&nbs
p; "Posterity," he sneered. "What a concept." Without a consummation, Mariah had grounds for an annulment, and all of Turns's help would go down the tubes. Serve him right, Sol thought cynically. He was no bargain and he knew it—just as he knew Mariah mattered to him.

  She mattered enough that he didn't wish himself on her.

  "Sergeant? Your family's about to rush inside if you don't show fast."

  With a heavy sigh, Sol used his muscular arms to pull himself up, then took the proffered crutches. But at the top of the stairs he stopped. Ma and Dad had tears in their eyes as they shouted his name and opened their arms. Their prodigal son felt the familiar rush of guilt, followed by a mind-scrambling confusion.

  Who was that with them? Surely not Mariah. This looked like a scared girl, hesitantly smiling and extending her hand in a wave. Then her fingers curled into a fist, which she pressed between her daintily rounded breasts.

  Sol did a double take. He frowned and saw her lips tremble. The trembling caught at him, made him feel more a man. Her open vulnerability called to his own, though he was always careful to keep it hidden.

  Unable to bear showing any sign of weakness, he pitched his crutches to the attendant and grabbed on to the rails. Maybe it was cheating, but at least he would manage the steps without feeling like a cripple. They'd said he would never walk again, and yet he had. They'd said he'd need crutches for life; he couldn't buy that either.

  When he stumbled on the last step, his face flushed and a profanity escaped from his flattened lips.

  "Son? Son, are you okay?" His parents rushed forward as the attendant caught him from behind.

  "Fine," he bit out. The glare he shot the attendant netted him his crutches, an apology, and a quick retreat. His family wasn't so easily put off. Sol stiffly endured their help amidst hugs and kisses while he scanned the girl's pretty but too-young face for any hint of distaste or pity.

  No pity. Maybe a little caution, but no distaste either. He did see, however, a quick comprehension of his curtness, a deference to his stung pride. There was a maturity in her steady gaze that he recognized from her letters. Mariah. His wife wasn't what he'd expected. She was less. And in some unfathomable way, she was more.