Page 22 of Filthy Liar

“Rose-colored glasses,” she murmured. “It wasn’t that good. Besides, you’ve moved on to fancier flavors.”

“I have?”

She bats her eyes and adopts a French accent. “We have such men in France as well, but we don’t make movies about them.”

That gasp I heard. I should have recognized it immediately. “That made an impression on you.”

Ellie flips her hair. “It’s fucking bullshit, that’s all. The French absolutely make movies about their special operators.”

I laugh, I can’t help it. “You’re pretending that you’re mad her line wasinaccurate?”

“Of course.”

“And not that she was flirting with me.”

“Why would I care about that?”

I drop my hand to her hip and grab a handful of her skirt in my fist. Her lips part and her eyes dilate, her pupils going inky black. “Because after all this time, you were jealous.”

“Never.” The word slips over her lush lower lip as a breathy whisper. “I couldn’t care less who you try to fuck in your misguided pursuits—”

“I didn’t fuck either of them.”

“No?”

“I raced after you.”

She clicks her tongue against her teeth. “Ooh, I didn’t see you going soft, Jason.”

My fist tightens and her skirt bunches higher on her hip. When I flex my little finger in an effort to cool-the-fuck-down, I graze bare flesh. Her thigh. “Nothing soft about me,Ellie.”

Her gaze flares at the name. A reminder we have an unhealthy amount of baggage to sort out. “You chased after a ghost instead of finishing your mission.”

I bare my teeth in what is undoubtedly a ghoulish grin. “Already had the information I needed.”

“And that is?”

“None of your business.”

“Okay.” She rolls her eyes. “Well, this has been fun.” She firmly sets her palm on my chest and pushes. “For real, though, I’m leaving now.”

“Didn’t get what you were looking for?”

She gives me a dismissive up and down. “I got something better. Now I know who’s running damage control for Jeff Mayfair.”

I growl under my breath as she gives me her back, moving to the door. I want to grab her and haul her to the sofa across the room. Instead, I watch her set that perfect little hand on the doorknob and twist it.

As the door opens, I find my voice. “The next time we see each other, Ellie—I want to finish this conversation.”

She looks back at me. “It’s Melinda. Maybe try using my real name and we’ll see.”

8

Melinda

The next afternoon,I use press credentials to get into an event for the very first time.

I never set out to be this kind of journalist. I’ve always wanted to write long-form narratives that take months to research and craft. But time is now of the essence, and it turns out that my Melinda Gray pseudonym—and a quick email from my agent—is enough to get credentialed for the Canadian Embassy lunch I couldn’t otherwise get a ticket to. This is the endgame I was angling at for weeks.

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