Heather Graham Read Online Free PDF Page B

false eyelashes. No amount of mascara should rightfully give such a golden blond woman such incredibly dark, thick lashes.
    Irritation and aggravation flashed through her provocative amber and green eyes at his question. “Mr. D’Alesio, I must get through to see Ali Sur Sheriff. And I understand that you’re one of the few people—”
    “Why?”
    “Pardon?”
    Pardon? She issued “pardon” so politely while she interrupted his bath …
    “Why do you want to see Sheriff?”
    “Because of Dr. Crosby. You see, Ali Sur Sheriff was, I believe, the last known contact with Jim Crosby and—”
    Dan’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed the woman. Crosby, he knew, wasn’t married; he was widowed or divorced or some such. Who was she? No one too close; Jim had mentioned in his hotel room that although he was as fond as any man of the fairer sex, he liked being free as a bird and had no intention of making any commitments. The marble-perfect little doll reigning over the toilet seat had mentioned that she was a doctor. A Ph.D.? An Egyptologist? A beautiful parasite trying to hone in on Jim’s successes?
    “Listen, Miss—” Dan interrupted, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the rim of the tub.
    “Doctor, ” she interrupted in turn, with a core of steel in the cool tone of her voice. “Dr. Randall.”
    His eyes flew open again. “Miss—Mrs.— Doctor —it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to me. I wouldn’t take a simpering rose like you out into the desert to meet Ali if I thought you had a legitimate reason—which I don’t. Now get the hell out of my bathroom.”
    It appeared the simpering rose had a bit of a temper. He saw her eyes narrow sharply, her slim gamine chin protrude at a strong angle as her head tilted. She stood, long fingers curling into fists at her sides as she lashed back at him. “You listen to me, D’Alesio! I am not any simpering rose, I’m a damned good Egyptologist and I’d weigh my desert knowledge against yours any day. And I’ll tell you another thing, Mr. World Famous Journalist—I know Jim Crosby a hell of a lot better than you do and I don’t care if you’re Walter Cronkite and Henry Kissinger rolled into one, I can guarantee you will never get an interview with Crosby when he’s found if you don’t—”
    His eyes had slowly become dangerous, obsidian slits as she spoke, and he broke into her speech with a soft, cutting disdain that seemed to fill the room. “Sorry, Dr. Randall, but I believe Jim Crosby is a man of his word. I think you should reassess the situation. I just don’t see Jim Crosby breaking his word over any bedroom antics.”
    “Bedroom antics …?” She echoed his words with confusion; then comprehension filtered into her flashing eyes, to be followed by indignant outrage. “How dare you—”
    Suddenly he’d had enough. He was dead tired and worried half sick. All he’d wanted out of the night was a bath and some sleep—and relief from the anxiety caused him by the puzzle of Jim Crosby.
    And instead he’d gotten this—this powder puff barging into his bathroom and issuing threats. And making him feel uncomfortably like some nude centerfold in a woman’s magazine.
    His irritation and wrath reaching a breaking point, he suddenly stood up. He noted with perverse pleasure that she blanched slightly and took a step backward, her eyes involuntarily taking in his body before latching on to his eyes again.
    “Mr. D’Alesio,” she snapped. “Your sense of decency is about on a par with that of a desert goat!”
    “Mine!”
    It was absolutely the last straw. He stepped out of the tub, no longer aware of his nudity, and moved menacingly toward her, the water sluicing from his body. His temper had simply snapped, and before either of them could say more, he grasped her cream-sleeved arms, lifted her bodily a foot off the floor and started striding through the bedroom to the parlor—and the door.
    She gasped with outrage at his forceful