Foxy Roxy Read Online Free PDF Page B

absorb the clear air. But she shouldered her bag and got into the line to board.
    Although she hadn’t really enjoyed the many pleasures of her family’s fortune—no boats, no long visits to lavish vacation homes, no cosmetic surgery, no runway shows or lunches with movie stars—the one thing Arden might actually mind losing would be the Hyde family art collection. Or perhaps—if she were truthful with herself—the right to bask in the glow of the reflected good taste of her relatives. It was easier to enjoy the company of art than the people who’d collected it.
    But it was very trying to spend more than an hour with her grandmother Dorothy, fondly known as Dodo. Too many questions, too many expectations. Uncle Julius’s death was going to send everyone scrambling to restructure the family hierarchy, too.
    The dread of seeing everyone again bubbled up in Arden’s throat like bile.
    She closed her eyes and tried to conjure up the soothing Van Gogh. And the Calder mobile that slowly spun in the sunlight cast from the skylights at the family’s island getaway. Dodo’s Rauschenberg hung in the corporate headquarters of Hyde Communications, where it was hardly appreciated by the employees, but served its purpose when competitors needed to be impressed. While they admired the painting, they often didn’t notice they were being consumed by her father, absorbed into the massive corporation, stripped of their own identity, eaten alive.
    So why had Julius died? Why hadn’t Arden’s father been the one murdered instead? Quentin was the ruthless corporate raider with enemies all over the globe. Julius had become little more than a harmless, aging playboy.
    “Miss?”
    Arden woke and handed over her ticket.
    “Have a nice flight.”
    She shuffled onto the plane and found her seat. The man in the window seat looked pleased to see a well-dressed young woman stowing her Gucci carry-on next to his, but she ignored him as she settled in.
    The flight attendant appeared with a tray of beverages. “Something to drink, miss?”
    “Yes, a vodka rocks, please. Just a small one.”
    “Right away.”
    As the steward went away, Arden groped in her bag for that other half Xanax. She found a stray Ativan, too. A lucky, just-in-case find. By the time she had to face her family, she would be fully anesthetized.

4
    It was late when Roxy helped Nooch stash the statue in a back corner of her warehouse—a damp and smelly area so skeezy where even the most determined snoopers were unlikely to explore. They threw a tarp over the statue, bound it loosely with twine, and walked away.
    With a feeling she might score big with this find, Roxy happily filled various buckets of water for Rooney while Nooch scattered chewie bones and nuggets of kibble around the perimeter of the chain-link fence to keep the dog roaming throughout the night.
    She was reaching to haul down the garage door when a small, dented pickup fishtailed into the yard and slid to a stop on the gravel in front of her. The driver’s window was down, and the shriek of guitars burst into the night air. Some crazy Irish punk rock. Punching off the CD player, the driver leaned out the window.
    “Flynn,” she said when she recognized him. “Shouldn’t you be washing dishes?”
    “Shouldn’t you be home in bed?”
    “Sorry to spoil your fantasy.” Roxy sauntered over to the pickup, but didn’t lean down to get intimate.
    The light from the dashboard illuminated the sharp cut of Patrick Flynn’s cheekbone and the stubble on his jaw, but his eyes were in shadow, so she couldn’t gauge his mood. He probably wanted to keep it that way.
    The back of his truck was cluttered with a bunch of little cages full of straw that had a definite stink. Roxy took a step away from it. “What the hell are you doing? Hauling livestock?”
    He grinned a little. “Free-range chickens.”
    “You’re kidding, right? You’re a farmer now?”
    “I’m experimenting for the restaurant. Fresh