Hideaway Hero. Kathleen O'BrienЧитать онлайн книгу.
Maybe not mink, after all. More like cougar.
He thanked his lucky stars the reporter wasn’t on-site yet. What a great photo this would make for the Bay Beauty magazine spread! The cornered hunter run up a tree by the hungry predator.
He stuck the hammer into his belt like a gun and stepped onto the ladder with a sigh. His to-do list was already long enough without adding pest control to his chores.
No choice, though. Somehow, without wounding her self-esteem, he had to maneuver her back into her room before her husband woke up.
And before he found out what, if anything, she had on under that coat.
As his foot hit the ground, the perfect idea came to him. “I’m sorry you can’t sleep,”he said as he picked up his tool bag and headed her way across the pool deck. “But I’m actually glad to see you.”
“Ditto,”she said, her eyes half closed and a smile like the Cheshire cat playing on her full lips.
“I don’t know if you heard about the magazine reporter coming tomorrow.”He didn’t wait for an answer. “But just my luck—the garbage disposal chose tonight to go kaput. I could really use someone to help me clear out the gunk.”
Her eyes widened suddenly. Somehow, he managed not to laugh.
“Well, I’d love to, of course I would.”She licked her lips nervously. “But if I were gone that long, my husband might—”
As she fumbled her way through her excuses, Gabe could hardly bring himself to pay attention. All he could think was…
Greta would have said yes.
“What’s wrong with me?”
The face in the mirror repeated Greta’s question back to her, like some annoying elementary school monkey-see-monkey-do game. As she lifted her hair and piled it on her head, the woman in the mirror did the same with her own dark red hair—which, in all honesty, seriously needed brushing. Greta stuck out her tongue, and the mirror woman did the same.
“This is not a joke. He dumped me in a card. And he didn’t even write the card himself. He dictated it to the florist. What’s wrong with me?”
The woman in the mirror just blinked stupidly.
About half an hour ago, Greta had realized that opening the bottle of champagne and drinking two-thirds of it had been a mistake. Especially with only strawberries and cream in her stomach to absorb the alcohol.
But hey. No use crying over spilled milk.
Spilled champagne.
Whatever.
She sat on the big canopied bed, cross-legged, wearing nothing but her underclothes, a slip and the beautiful green scarf she’d bought herself after last week’s triumphant closing. Frivolous, her father would have said about the purchase, if she’d mentioned it to him. Plow the money back into the business, and you’ll have time for self-indulgence later.
“Well, I needed it now,”she told him, or at least an imaginary version of him. “Later I’ll be a dried-up, lonely spinster, and no one will care that I absolutely rock this scarf.”
The woman in the mirror rolled her eyes and chose that moment to speak. “Well, no one cares now, either. I don’t see anyone else in this bed. Do you?”
To her horror, her eyes started to glisten. She put her hands up to her face, hard, as if they could form a dam to hold the tears in. She wasn’t going to cry over Franklin Marks. She wasn’t going to cry over anything or anyone.
And not because, for as long as she could remember, her father had always called weeping a form of cowardice. Your mother died bringing you into this world, he’d say coldly. And you’re going to repay her with whining?
She wasn’t going to cry because…
Because it was ridiculous. She hadn’t even loved Franklin.
And because suddenly she felt a lot more like getting sick than crying. She flattened her hands against her stomach, groaning. She needed food. She hadn’t eaten all day…except for the strawberries.
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