The Liar by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online Page B

to my eye,” she corrected, “if they weren’t all the same. The bindings, the height. And I guess I have to say, I wouldn’t be one to curl up in front of the fire and read
Faust
.”
    “You’re not alone in that.” He slipped the book back in place and turned those cool eyes on her. “Ms. Foxworth, I’m not Lauderdale. My name’s Ted Privet.”
    “Oh, did Mr. Lauderdale send you to take a look?”
    “I’m not a book dealer, I’m a private investigator. I spoke to you on the phone a couple nights ago. I asked about David Matherson.”
    She took a step back. Heels or not, she could and would outrun him. Get him outside, away from Callie.
    “And I told you, you had the wrong number. You need to go now. I’m expecting someone any minute.”
    “I only need a minute.” With a smile, he lifted his hands as if to show her he was harmless. “I’m just doing my job, Ms. Foxworth. I tracked David Matherson to this area, and my information . . . I’ve got a photo.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket, holding his other hand out and up in a gesture of peace. “If you’d just take a look. Do you know this man?”
    Her heart hammered. She’d let a stranger into the house. She’d gotten careless, having so many people going in and out, and she’d let him in. With her baby sleeping upstairs.
    “You let me think you were someone else.” She put a whip in her voice, hope it stung. “Is that how you do your job?”
    “Yeah, actually. Some of the time.”
    “I don’t much like you or your job.” She snatched the photo out of his hand. Stared at it.
    She’d known it would be Richard, but seeing him—the movie-star smile, the brown eyes with hints of gold—hit hard. His hair was darker, and he wore a trim goatee she thought made him look older, just like the identification from the bank box. But it was Richard.
    The man in the photo had been her husband. Her husband had been a liar.
    What was she?
    “This is a picture of my late husband, Richard.”
    “Seven months ago, this man—going by the name of David Matherson—swindled a woman in Atlanta out of fifty thousand dollars.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know any David Matherson. My husband was Richard Foxworth.”
    “Two months before that, David Matherson swindled a small group of investors in Jacksonville, Florida, out of twice that. I could go back, go on, including a major burglary in Miami about five years ago. Twenty-eight million in rare stamps and jewelry.”
    The swindling, after what she’d learned in the past weeks, didn’t shock her. But the thievery, and the amount of it, had her stomach twisting, her head going light.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want you to go.”
    While he tucked the photo away, he kept his eyes on hers. “Matherson was most recently based out of Atlanta, where he ran real estate scams. You lived in Atlanta before coming here, didn’t you?”
    “Richard was a financial consultant. And he’s dead. Do you understand? He died right after Christmas, so he can’t answer your questions. I don’t know the answers to them. You’ve got no business coming in here this way, lying your way in and scaring me.”
    Once again, he held up his hands—but something in his eyes told Shelby he wasn’t harmless at all.
    “I’m not trying to scare you.”
    “Well, you have. I married Richard Foxworth in Las Vegas, Nevada, on October 18, 2010. I didn’t marry anyone named David Matherson. I don’t know anyone by that name.”
    His mouth twisted into a sneer. “You were married four years, but you claim you don’t know how your husband really made his living? What he really did? Who he really was?”
    “If you’re trying to tell me I’m a fool, get in line. Made his living? What living?” Overcome, she threw out her arms. “This house? If I can’t get it sold and fast, they’ll foreclose. You want to claim Richard swindled people, stole from people? Almost