Derik's Bane Read Online Free PDF

of the morning and, incredibly, had the same thing happen. There was a zizzzzzzzz! sound, and then her big toenail ripped a runner through her last pair of panty hose.
    “Right,” she grumbled. “Why is it that when I’m running late, everything goes wrong? More important, why am I talking to myself?” She jerked the nylon torture chamber off her foot and flung it over her shoulder to the floor. “Okay, then . . . it’s gorgeous out. A perfect day to go bare-legged.” She ran a hand down her left leg. A little raspy, but hardly Yosemite Sam whiskers. Note to self: Shave legs more often when low on panty hose.
    She heard the doorbell, that annoying dum-DUM-dum-dum . . . dum-DUM-dum . . . dum-DUM-dum-dum-DUM! Dah-dum-dah-dum-dum. She cursed her late mother’s infatuation with Alex Trebek and Jeopardy . Every time she had a visitor, she felt like phrasing everything in the form of a question.
    I will never see twenty-five again . . . or twenty-eight, for that matter, and I never quite managed to move out of my mother’s house. Nice one, Gunn. Not pathetic at all!
    She slipped her feet into a pair of low-heeled pumps and squinted distractedly at the mirror. Hair: presentable, if not exactly glamorous, caught up in one of those big black clips that looked like a medieval torture device. Skin: too pale; no time for makeup. Eyes: big and blue and bloodshot—damn that Deep Space Nine marathon, anyway. Suit: cream linen, which meant she’d be a wrinkled mess in another hour. Legs: bare. Feet: narrow and stuffed into shoes so pointy, she could see the crack between her first and second toe.
    “Too bad, my girl!” she told herself. “Next time don’t hit the snooze button so many times.”
    Dum-DUM-dum-dum . . . dum-DUM-DUM . . . dum-DUM-dum-dum-DUM! Dah-dum-dah-dum-dum.
    “Be right there!” She hurried out of her bedroom, glanced through the kitchen, and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the loaner car. Finally! David, her mechanic, had at last had a chance to send over a loaner car for her use. A flashy loaner car, at that. Well, beggars can’t be . . . et cetera. The other loaner had conked out after an hour—was it her fault she couldn’t drive a stick?
    She flung the door open. “Thank goodness you’re—whoa.”
    She stared at the man standing on her front porch. He was, to be blunt, delicious. He was to Homo sapiens what a hot fudge sundae was to vanilla ice cream: a complete and total improvement on the original. A full head taller than she was, he practically filled the door frame. His blond hair was the color of sunlight, of ripe wheat, of—of something really gorgeous. He had swimmers’ shoulders and she could actually see the definition of his stomach muscles through the green T-shirt he wore. The shirt had the puzzling logo “Martha Rocks” in bright white letters. He was wearing khaki shorts, revealing heavily muscled legs tapering into absurdly large feet, sock-less in a pair of battered loafers. His hands, she noticed, were also quite large, with squared off fingers and blunt, short nails.
    He was lightly tanned and had the look of a man equally at home camping in the woods, lounging poolside, or hunched over a computer. His eyes were the brilliant green of wet leaves, and they sparkled with turbulence and lusty good humor. His mouth was wide and mobile and looked made for smiling.
    He was smiling at her .
    Get a grip , she ordered herself. She was annoyed to find her pulse was racing. It is unbelievably juvenile to be panting at this man, when all he’s done is ring your bell twice and stand there. He hasn’t even opened his mouth and you’re practically a puddle on your own doorstep. He—oh, oh! He’s talking!
    “—wrong house.”
    “What did you say?”
    “I said, I must have the wrong house.” His smile widened, as his gaze raked her from head to foot, taking in her bare legs, scuffed shoes, rumpled suit, and messy hair. His teeth were perfectly straight, almost blindingly