For Love Or Money. Elizabeth BevarlyЧитать онлайн книгу.
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For Love or Money
Elizabeth Bevarly
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
About the Author
Coming Next Month
Chapter One
Dinah’s fingers convulsed on the telephone. For once in her life, luck seemed to be on her side. Maybe moving to San Francisco hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all.
The lottery ticket she was holding in her hand had come to her attention while sorting through all those as-yet-unpacked boxes that had been stacked in her spare room since moving from Atlanta three months before.
In hindsight, she supposed it would have made sense to call about the tickets before she’d left Georgia—after all, some of them had been months old when she moved. But it had never really occurred to her that one of them might have been a winning combination. Who ever really thought they’d win the lottery?
Still, she must have some deeply buried optimistic streak if she’d packed the tickets along with the other nonessential odds and ends from her kitchen, instead of tossing them out. That same streak must have caused her to call the toll-free number now, to double check—just in case—instead of throwing the tickets into the garbage with all the obsolete business cards and expired coupons amid which they’d been mingling.
Funny, her being a closet optimist, Dinah thought. Her family did, after all carry the infamous Curse of the Meades.
“So how many of the numbers did I get right?” she asked the faceless Georgia Lottery representative on the other end of the line. Her fingers trembled now as she threaded them through her straight, pale blonde bangs.
If she’d gotten three of the six, she’d won enough to treat herself to a nice dinner, she thought. That might be nice. She could take Marcus. And if she’d matched four numbers, she might just cover a month’s rent, which would be really nice. And if she’d matched five—which she dared not even wish for, because that would be asking too much—Dinah could clear a few thousand dollars. Oh, what a luxury that would be. She crossed her fingers as she waited to hear.
From nearly a continent away, the woman from the Georgia Lottery told her, “No, Ms. Meade, you don’t understand. I mean you picked some winning numbers. All the winning numbers. You’ve just made yourself a cool five million dollars.”
Thunk.
It took Dinah a moment to realize it was the phone that had made the sound as it hit the floor, and not her head. Though she had landed on her fanny when her knees buckled beneath her. Five million dollars? she repeated to herself. Five million dollars?
Five Million Dollars!
“Yes, ma’am. Five million dollars.”
Only when she heard the fuzzy reply did Dinah realize she must have shrieked that last out loud. Even so, the voice reassuring her seemed to be coming from a million miles away. Or, at the very least, three feet away, because that was where the cordless phone had skittered when it slipped from Dinah’s fingers.
Hastily, she scrambled across the kitchen floor on her hands and knees and jerked the phone back up to her ear.
“Are you sure?” she asked the woman. She repeated the numbers again for verification.
“That’s the winning combination,” the woman assured her. “We thought you’d never come forward.”
Dinah recalled her bad habit of buying tickets and magnetting them to the fridge, then forgetting about them. Thank goodness her move had made her check the tickets!
“But as long as you’re at lottery headquarters in Atlanta by closing on Monday,” the woman said, “you’ll collect your money with no problem.”
Dinah halted mid-vow. Monday. That was only three days away. And Georgia was…well, more than three days away. At least it was if she drove the distance alone by car or took a train. It would be even longer by bus. But those were her only travel options. No way was she getting on an airplane.
“I’ll be there,” she reiterated firmly.
She scribbled down the instructions, then hung up the phone. Holy moly. She was a millionaire. Or, at least, she would be. In three days. If she made it back to Georgia in time. And, of course, she would make it back to Georgia in time.
She hoped.
A millionaire, she thought again, still numb from the news. She had to tell someone. She had to call someone. She had to shout it to the world. She had to—
A familiar sound out in the hallway caught her attention then, and hastily, she unbolted her back door and jerked it open wide. And when she did, her across-the-hall neighbor, Marcus Harrod, jumped about a foot in the air.
As he always did when returning home from work, he looked like a walking/talking advertisement from GQ, wearing a flawless charcoal suit, crisp white dress shirt, and expertly knotted and discreetly printed Hermès tie.
Dinah bit back a wistful sigh when she noted how perfectly his attire complemented his silky black hair and luminous blue eyes. He smelled marvelous, looked fabulous, made her little heart go pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pit-ter-pat-ter. Too bad he wasn’t her type. Or, more correctly, too bad she wasn’t his type.
Damn. All of the good ones were taken. Or else all the good ones were gay.
When he saw that it was Dinah, Marcus fell back against his own door and expelled a gasp of relief. “Jeez, Dinah. I hate it when you do that. You nearly gave me a coronary.”
“Marcus!” she cried, ignoring his condition. “I have got the most unbelievable news to tell you!”
“Okay, Dinah, let me get this straight.”
Marcus Harrod tipped the bottle of single-malt Scotch over a cut crystal tumbler, and tried to digest everything his across-the-hall neighbor—and the object of most of his sexual fantasies these days—had just told him.
But instead of processing her news about winning the lottery, all he could do was think about how incredibly sexy she looked. Even in ragged jeans and slouchy yellow sweatshirt, with her blond hair bound haphazardly atop her head in something vaguely resembling a ponytail. If you disregarded all those straggly pieces framing her face. Although, even those straggly pieces were awfully sexy. Made a man want to lift a hand and skim it oh-so-slowly over her—
“I know it’s hard to believe,” she said, interrupting what had promised to be a damned nice fantasy. She paced restlessly from one side of his living room to the other, her sock-clad feet silent on the expansive, expensive, Aubusson.
“But it’s true. It’s true!” she cried again, pivoting around to smile at him. “I won the lottery, Marcus! I’m rich! I’m rich! I’m rich!”
“You’ll be rich,” he reminded her. “On Monday.”
“Right,” she agreed, sobering. Some. For a second or two.
Then she started bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, her smile dazzling. She paced to the other side of the room, perched herself on the edge of an exquisite Chippendale chair for a nanosecond, then shot up and started pacing again.
“You have to help me, Marcus,” she told him as she passed by him quickly enough to create a breeze.