Not Just For Christmas. Debbie MacomberЧитать онлайн книгу.
competition.”
“Want to join forces and bid together?”
Live with a complete stranger? “I don’t know. I…”
“Smart girl. Someone warned you about the big, bad city.” A.J. reached into her purse. “I just heard that the bidding might be brutal and I intend to win. Think about it.”
The elevator doors opened on the sixth floor and Claire dragged her suitcases into the crowded hallway. There were two other apartments on the floor, but it was obvious which one belonged to McLain. Dozens of people jammed around the open doorway.
“I think it’s going to take more than cleavage,” Claire muttered to herself. A dog growled and she turned to see a poodle in the arms of a woman wearing a pink caftan and matching pink bouffant hair.
“Hush, Cleo,” the older woman crooned to the dog. “That mean Mr. McLain is going away soon. Then you’ll have somebody new to take you on walksies.”
Claire and A.J. squeezed their way into the apartment just in time to hear the bidding war start. There were blondes in all shapes and sizes. Claire sank down on her big suitcase, wondering how could she possibly compete.
“This is ridiculous,” A.J. muttered, then whipped out her cell phone.
Claire looked up to see a tall brunette approaching them. At least she wasn’t the only nonblonde here.
The brunette glanced at A.J., then turned her attention back to Claire. “This is really something, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly what I expected.” She motioned to the suitcases. “I was planning to move in here today. Now I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
The brunette shifted the package she held from one arm to the other. “This is your lucky day. I work for a hotel. Therefore, I can promise you won’t sleep on the street tonight. And you can treat yourself to a nice, hot bubble bath.”
Yikes. Maybe Claire wasn’t the only one who could smell the Dumpster on her clothes. But she wasn’t quite ready to declare herself a charity case yet. “I can’t—”
“Oh, I got that part,” the brunette said, lowering her voice. “You’d be in one of the unrentable rooms. No charge.”
This woman was trying to change the reputation of uncaring New Yorkers in one fell swoop. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”
“Because I can. Because helping the sisterhood was something my mother drilled into me. And, hey, I get off on warm, fuzzy feelings in my tummy.”
A.J. laughed. “So do I, but they don’t come from giving away freebie hotel rooms.”
The brunette grinned at her. “Samantha Baldwin.”
“A. J. Potter.” The two women shook hands. “You sounded like a madam gathering the poor waif into her house of ill repute. I think you scared her.”
“I’m not scared,” Claire said, “just fascinated by abnormal human behavior. Abnormal for a New Yorker, anyway.”
She thought of Mitch’s behavior this afternoon and a flush of heat washed up her neck. Could the man have been any more oblivious to her? No one had ever called her a beauty, but men hadn’t run screaming from her, either. She was average weight and height, taller than A.J., but shorter than Samantha. She’d been tempted to highlight her long brown hair, but simply hadn’t found the time after taking over her father’s class schedule. Her unusual topaz brown eyes were her best feature and she often wondered if she’d inherited them from the mother who had given her up for adoption. She glanced down at the emerald ring on her right hand, the vibrant color reminding her of her father’s eyes. He’d given her the ring on her sixteenth birthday. They’d been on a research trip in South America that summer and she’d had a crush on one of his graduate students, but the man had been oblivious to her.
A disturbing trend.
For the first time, she wondered if there was something wrong with her. She hadn’t dated much at Penleigh, but she’d assumed that was because most of the men on campus knew about her father’s illness.
What if there was another reason? Claire mentally shook herself, realizing now wasn’t the time to obsess about her love life, or lack of one. She needed to focus on this research project and try to find some way to bring a fresh twist to the subject of dating. Strangers in the Night had been one of the first of its kind to study the effect of the sexual revolution on young singles. So many similar studies had followed that Claire couldn’t imagine finding anything new to add to the field. Something she tried to communicate to the board of directors at Penleigh, but they hadn’t wanted to listen.
Which just made it all the harder to prove herself in the anthropology world, though not impossible. But first she had to find a place to stay.
Maybe she should accept Samantha’s offer of the free hotel room, then move in with Petra when she returned from Bermuda. Unfortunately, Claire had no idea when that might be. Knowing Petra, it could be next week or next year.
“What’s your name?”
Claire blinked, then noticed both women looking at her. She’d completely lost track of the conversation. “Claire Dellafield. Why?”
Samantha gestured to her. “Get with the program. We’re forming a rental coalition. You want in?”
Claire rose off her suitcase, sensing her luck was about to change. “You mean we’d room together?”
“Mental functions appear to be intact,” A.J. said. “You smoke?”
Claire shook her head. “But I can learn.”
Samantha laughed. “She’s in for the entertainment value alone.”
Claire looked at both of them, realizing it would be the first time in her life she’d ever lived with women close to her own age. As much as she’d loved her father, she couldn’t help but feel that sometimes her life had been laid out like a map, with all the routes already chosen for her. Now she was charting new territory. It was both thrilling and terrifying.
“How much can you contribute to rent?” A.J. asked.
Claire did a quick calculation of her bank account. “Eight hundred.”
“That’s forty-six hundred,” A.J. exhaled. “Surely the rent won’t go as high as that.”
The door opened and the crowd turned in unison to see two men walk into the room.
Several people cried out a name. “Tavish!”
“Let’s play this out,” A.J. advised under her breath.
Claire noticed several of the blondes adjusting their blouses as Tavish moved to the center of the room. He reminded her of a medicine man she’d seen once in Central America. He’d worn a putrid green robe, almost the same shade as Tavish McLain’s faux leather vest. They both shared the same cocky walk, too. As if they believed they controlled the universe. Or at least their own small portion of it.
“Stand in front of me,” Samantha ordered, suddenly reaching around her back to unzip her skirt.
Claire watched in disbelief as the woman shimmied her skirt down her legs. “What are you doing?”
“I think I may have something that will persuade Mr. McLain to give us anything we want.”
“What?” A.J. asked. “A gun?”
“Even better,” Samantha replied, unwrapping the package in her arms, then pulling out a wad of silky black fabric. “A magic skirt.”
Claire and A.J. exchanged skeptical glances. Then Claire cleared her throat. “Did you say a magic skirt?”
“I know it sounds crazy.” Samantha shook out the wrinkles. “But it’s a man-magnet. The skirt apparently originated from the Caribbean,