Goddess Rising Read online

  But something in Alejandro’s face when he laid down the accusation told her he was telling her the truth. She also saw in his face that he wouldn’t be backing down either.

  It was just going to get worse if she didn’t find a way to handle him.

  Way worse, before it got better.

  Chapter 8

  September—Wednesday Morning

  Criminal Psychology Lecture, Texas A&M

  S A M A N T H A

  “There were three outstanding papers presented on the topic of behavioral psychology of career criminals,” Professor Hammond told the class from the front of the lecture hall. “I’ve asked the top three partners to present the premise of their papers. I’d like for you to get an idea of their approach and to understand the benchmark I expect you all to perform at for future work.”

  Chris slanted Sam a happy grin, his excitement palpable. They’d received an email from Professor Hammond’s TA a couple nights before, asking them to be prepared to talk to the class about their thesis first.

  Chris had called her within minutes of receiving the news. “Can you believe this?” he’d asked. “Man, I’m so definitely getting that dance with you now.”

  “I’m worried for you that you’re more into the dancing than the actual grade,” she’d replied on a laugh.

  “Hey, I’m just a man, after all.”

  Sam could almost see his smile over the phone.

  “Technically we haven’t gotten the grade yet,” she’d pointed out “We’re going to have to nail this presentation.”

  “Let’s practice tomorrow night at the library,” he’d suggested. “I should be done with football practice and dinner by seven.”

  “That works.”

  “And Sam?” she’d heard him call out just before she hung up.

  “Yeah?”

  “You got cowboy boots and a hat?”

  “I am Texan, Chris. You’re not going to want to present this in matching outfits, are you?” she asked dubiously.

  “When we get that A, I’m takin’ you two-steppin’ at Dukes,” he added confidently.

  A big grin spread across her face. She couldn’t have thought of a better way to celebrate.

  “You’re on.”

  They’d practiced their synopsis at the library the next night until they’d had it down pat, and Chris was so antsy to get rolling, he was practically bouncing in the seat beside her. Sam put a calming hand on his arm. He immediately covered it with his own, squeezing it.

  “Let’s start with Samantha Wyatt and Chris Fields,” Professor Hammond told the class as she moved away from the podium, gesturing toward where the two of them sat in the lecture hall.

  “Here goes nothing,” Sam murmured, standing.

  Chris started talking before she’d fully made her way down to the front of the lecture hall.

  “Baby, those jeans definitely don’t make you look fat.”

  The room’s collective gasp was almost comical.

  Sam suppressed a smile as she turned around.

  “I love your mother, honey,” she said, surprising the class. “Of course she should join us for dinner,” she added, her tone sugar-sweet.

  The class blinked at them both in confusion.

  “I don’t feel good,” Chris complained, rubbing his stomach as he joined her on the podium. “I can’t go to class today.”

  Sam turned to Professor Hammond. “I wrote the paper, but my hard drive crashed,” Sam told her teacher beseechingly.

  The class snickered, catching on to their game. Professor Hammond shook her head in mock consternation, lips twitching.

  “I don’t have any money. But I promise I’ll pay you back tomorrow,” Chris said, pretending to look for his wallet.

  “You’re the best player on the field, Chris,” Sam flattered, doe-eyed. “The very best.”

  He stopped acting immediately, straightening. “Wait, that one’s the truth, right?”

  Sam just lifted her brow, turning to face the class as they chuckled at Chris’s earnest response.

  “The average person is lied to approximately two hundred times a day,” Sam informed the audience. “But what’s a little white lie in the scheme of things?” she offered casually. “Except when you’re dealing with a career criminal, a con artist, or a sociopath.”

  “The premise of our paper is that you don’t have to be a professional interrogator to spot lies and deceptive personalities,” Chris added, standing beside her at the podium.

  “Paul Ekman, one of the world’s preeminent psychologists on the study of emotions and facial expressions, estimates that a single person can produce up to three thousand facial expressions that are indicative of our feelings. But, his premise is that all three thousand expressions can actually be categorized into seven basic human emotions,” Sam explained.

  “Fear, sadness, disgust, happiness, contempt, anger, and surprise,” Chris continued, mimicking each emotion dramatically, drawing a few laughs.

  “Ekman and his team developed the Facial Action Coding System in the late 1970s, and it’s been used as the foundational building block for the study of deceptive expressions, by professional criminologists and interrogators ever since,” Sam went on. “Ekman’s research has isolated nine facial indicators that can be considered reliable clues for lie spotting. The first is micro expressions, which are involuntary and can flash across a person’s face in a fraction of a second. These micro expressions are nearly impossible to squelch or control, and they give you a glimpse into what your intuition is likely reliably telling you—”

  “I did not sleep with her! I barely know her!” Chris burst out, looking fleetingly guilty before switching to indignant.

  Several people laughed aloud while a few guys shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

  “The second is squelched expressions,” Sam continued. “When a person senses that a dangerously honest expression might become perceptible, he or she works actively to cover it with another expression, in order to camouflage the intent or true emotion. Professionals pay a lot of attention to overt smiling because that’s considered one of the easiest voluntary expressions a person can make, and because it typically engenders a feeling of warmth and goodwill—even where none exists.” Sam wilted against the podium, rubbing her temples. “I have a headache, baby,” she said to Chris. “Not tonight, okay?”

  Snickers rippled through the lecture hall as Chris visibly hid his grimace with an understanding smile. “Of course, sweetheart.” He turned toward the class. “The third method is looking for reliable facial muscles, such as the corners of the eyes or the chin,” Chris continued. “It’s very difficult to fake a genuine emotion like happiness or sadness in these parts of the face.”

  “What grade did we make on our paper, Professor?” Sam asked.

  Their teacher grinned. “An A.”

  Sam swung back to Chris. He smile was a beatific grin of infectious proportions. They high-fived each other as the class applauded. Naturally, they’d assumed they’d made the grade, but man, it sure felt good to hear it.

  “All right, all right,” Professor Hammond called out, waving her hands to quiet the clapping. “Ms. Wyatt and Mr. Fields, carry on.”

  “The fourth, fifth, and sixth indicators of deceit occur within the eyes,” Sam went on. “It’s a myth that a liar won’t look you in the eyes. If anything, in a normal conversation, people often only meet eyes only thirty to sixty percent of the time. In fact, someone who is actively trying to deceive you is actually very likely to look you straight in the eye.”

  “Pupil dilation is also a good indicator as that can’t be controlled,” Chris added. “Someone who is afraid or experiencing some other kind of extreme emotion they’re trying to hide can’t conceal unusually dilated pupils.”

  “Which leads me to my little brother’s favorite ocular deception—tears,” Sam told the class with a grin.

  “Hey, it’s not just little siblings that pull that trick to their advantage,” Chris
pointed out. “Girls know all about how to prey on our weakness, am I right, guys?” Chris continued as several male groans and feminine protests reverberated through the hall.

  “All right, all right, you’ve made your point,” Sam replied with an eye roll.

  “So that takes us to the final two indicators, according to Ekman’s methodology,” Chris continued. “True emotional indicators tend to be expressed simultaneously, while feigned indicators occur in quick succession.”

  “I’m not mad, Chris!” Sam insisted, scowling just a little before her expression smoothed.

  “How many times have you heard a girl say that and mean it?” Chris winked at the class, drawing laughter.

  “And finally, the duration of a facial expression is particularly relevant,” Sam concluded. “A genuine expression generally lasts about five seconds and very rarely more than ten. Someone who’s holding a fixed smile is likely concealing anger, anxiety, or some other negative emotion.”

  “My mother does that one a lot,” Chris joked.

  “Ms. Wyatt, you’re forgetting a tenth major indicator that has nothing to do with facial expressions,” Professor Hammond called out.

  Sam nodded, knowing where she was going. “So we’ll conclude with one of the most powerful lie detectors you have at your disposal. Many scientists believe that intuition is actually an unconscious response to external stimuli. Just because your eyes or your ears may not immediately recognize that you’re being lied to, doesn’t mean that your brain hasn’t subconsciously picked up on it.”

  “You may not be able to recognize a micro expression off the bat, but your mind is likely picking up on the emotions represented by them,” Chris added, stepping next to her. “In those instances, be aware of your own red flags. Resist the urge to fill in missing or conflicting information in a person’s story out of good nature. If you suspect something is sketchy, really listen to what is and isn’t being said.”

  “There’s a lot more detail in our paper, which you can get a copy of if you want, but you get the general premise,” Sam finished. “The big idea here is that anyone can become a reliable lie detector, particularly if you know what cues to watch for.”

  “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you present good work,” Professor Hammond finished as she stood and gave them a hand as the class joined in.

  Chris caught Sam up in a quick hug.

  “Get your dancing shoes on, Sammy,” he whispered into her ear. “Saturday night, it’s you and me, showin’ ’em how it’s done.”

  *

  September—Early Saturday Night

  Sam’s Apartment, College Station, Texas

  S A M A N T H A

  “So let me get this straight,” Rita said slowly. “You like this Wesley guy, but you’re going out with the Chris guy, because you two aced a paper together?”

  Sam reached into the top of her closet for her hatbox. “A deal’s a deal.” Chris wanted to take her line dancing, so cowboy boots and a cowboy hat it’d be.

  “Yeah, but are you even interested in this dude?” Rita asked, her brows knitting. “I mean, aren’t they roommates? Or are you just going out with the Chris guy to make the Wesley guy jealous?”

  “No,” Sam denied, pulling out her black Stetson, though she felt a pang of guilt as she said it. She wasn’t using Chris to get to Wes. It wasn’t like that. “I like Wes, but it’s complicated.”

  “You like Wes. He likes you. How’s any of that complicated?”

  Sam returned to her closet, picking through the row of jeans and t-shirts and sweaters, half-wondering what to wear out of her fairly generic line-up and half-avoiding Rita’s knowing eyes.

  “I’m not trying to make Wes jealous,” Sam answered, thumbing through the hangers.

  “Then what are you trying to do?”

  Sam shrugged a little. “I guess I’m kind of trying to avoid him.”

  “Kind of?” Rita pressed doggedly.

  “Jesus, Rita!” Sam sighed in exasperation as she tossed a couple shirts on the bed. “Why are you asking me so many questions?”

  Rita sat up on the bed and crossed her arms—a sure sign she was about to light into a speech. “One, you’re avoiding this Wes guy, and I want to know why. Two, you’re going out with this Chris guy even though it’s pretty obvious you just see him as a friend, and three, are you seriously going to go dancing in this shit?” she asked hotly, pointing at the clothes Sam was tossing on the bed. “You are the only chick I know who dresses down to go out with guys!” Rita said picking up Sam’s t-shirts. Sam struggled to snag them back, but Rita sat back on her haunches, holding the offending shirts high up in the air.

  “See? This is how I know you’re not into Chris,” Rita declared, waving the shirts around. “If you were into this dude, you wouldn’t be picking between crewneck and boat neck. You’d be picking between lacey and strapless—”

  “Give me that—” Sam lunged for the shirts.

  Rita laughed, scrambling back. “Not until you tell me why you’re avoiding chico guapo!”

  “Dammit, Rita!”

  “You better tell me, jaina,” Rita cooed. “You know Jesus hates a liar!”

  “Jesus couldn’t care less what I wear tonight, and you know it,” Sam sassed, hands on her hips. “If I’d known you were going to be such a giant pain in my ass, I’d have never invited you over to help me get ready.”

  “You invited me over because you know you’re absolutely hopeless when it comes to dressing yourself for the opposite sex,” Rita pointed out. “And because you’re dying to tell me why you’re going out with Chris when you really want Wes to be the guy who tries to take you home tonight.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Bull crap, it’s absolutely the truth,” Rita snorted. “Now spill.”

  Sam tossed her hands up in exasperation. Rita wasn’t going to let up, and they both knew it. Besides which, her friend was more than a little right. But Sam already knew what she was going to say—Rita was going to tell her exactly what she would do in her place, which was drop poor Chris like a bad habit and go after Wes like her pants were on fire.

  But Sam just wasn’t like Rita. Not by a long shot.

  “I don’t trust Wes,” she confessed after a moment.

  Rita blinked back in confusion. “Why not?”

  “He’s—I don’t know…” Sam trailed off, rubbing her brow. “He’s wily.”

  Rita’s mouth curved into a slow grin. “And that’s bad?”

  “And he’s kind of slutty.”

  Rita’s brows rose.

  “And he’s sort of cocky,” Sam continued, though her protests sounded weak to her own ears.

  “I’m waiting for you to get to the really bad stuff,” Rita drawled, unconvinced. “Most of us prefer guys with some cajones—so go on.”

  “And he makes me uncomfortable,” Sam finally admitted, chewing her lip.

  Understanding dawned in Rita’s eyes. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Sam shifted on her feet. “Wes is more trouble than he’s worth.”

  “Or you’re worried he’s more trouble than you know how to handle,” Rita surmised, crossing her arms with a knowing smile. “And you’re not sure you know what to do with this guy because with Wes, you don’t think you have the upper hand.”

  Sam debated arguing the point, but she figured she might as well come clean. “I look at Wes, and I can’t help but wonder what the heck he sees in a girl like me—”

  Rita looked startled. “What the hell do you mean, a girl like you?”

  “Come on, Rita—I’m not the sort of girl a guy chases after,” Sam replied, turning back to her closet. “I know that. I’m a tomboy, I dress like—well, you said it. And I’ve seen the slutty bimbos Wes goes after. He dates the kinds of girls who are about a thousand times more likely to put out.” Sam pulled out a jean skirt and her favorite black cowboy boots. “So that leaves only a couple reasons he’s remotely interest in me: I’m a challenge and I
’m rich. What else is there?”

  “What else is there?” Rita asked, incredulous. “Jesus Christ, for a smart girl, Sammy—you sure are a stupid bitch.”

  Sam shot her a look.

  Rita shook her head. “Sam, you really have no idea, do you?” she asked in consternation. “You’ve got a wicked sense of humor, you’re easy to get along with, and you’re freaking hot, despite the fact that you wear the most boring outfits possible. And yeah, you just happen to be a challenge because you require more than a wink and smile to get into your pants. So what guy wouldn’t want to go out with you?”

  Sam remained quiet.

  “Jaina, you can’t seriously be worried about the money,” Rita continued. “Because even if this Wes dude is a gold digger, it’s not like he needs to sign a prenup or something to get to first base with you, right? I mean Jesus—when you gonna live a little?”

  “I live,” Sam protested.

  “Sam, you went on four dates last year. I counted,” Rita pointed out. “That’s like…so incredibly sad for a hot freshman girl. And now you’re going into your sophomore year already ass-backwards.”

  “I don’t want to be used,” Sam countered.

  “Well, hell, honey—none of us want to be used,” Rita replied, tart. “But maybe it’s not about that, huh? Maybe it’s about going out with someone who makes you feel all hot and bothered and living to gossip about it the next day. What’s wrong with just going out and having fun?” Rita crossed her arms and sat back. “But if you’re really worried about who’s using who, isn’t that what you’re doing tonight?”

  Startled, Sam caught her eyes. “What?”

  “Aren’t you using Chris to ‘Wes-proof’ yourself?” Rita pointed out.

  “That’s not what I’m doing,” Sam insisted. “I just don’t need any added complications right now—and Chris is just easy and fun to be around. He’s playful and light-hearted—”

  “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Rita interrupted, sitting back.