Island Girls Read Online Free PDF Page B

doubt treasures discovered by grandchildren. She peeked into the kitchen, where the caterers were working hard and fast, and grinned. Ah, what a find. An original kitchen, no doubt a horror to work in, the only new appliances a microwave set on an antique walnut table and a roll-away dishwasher with an adapter at the end of its electric plug. Fire hazard waiting.
    “I know who you are, and I bet I know just what you’re thinking.” The voice was low, sensual, deeply masculine.
    Arden turned. Early thirties, tall and elegant in an expensive pink Brooks Brothers shirt and a Rolex watch.
    Arden asked, “We’ve met?”
    “No, we haven’t met, but I’ve seen you plenty of times on your TV show.
Simplify This
.” Humor brightened his brown eyes, as if he knew exactly what her reaction was and found it amusing.
    “Ah. So that explains why you know what I’m thinking.”
    He leaned forward, ostensibly to survey the kitchen, touching her shoulder with his. “You want to get in there and modernize that kitchen. Am I right?”
    A waiter swung toward them with a giant tray. Arden moved back into the dining room.
    “You’re right,” she admitted reluctantly. He was arrogant, another self-satisfied conquistador. Yet she found him oddly compelling.
    He held out his hand. “Palmer White.”
    His name was familiar. She put her hand in his. “Arden Randall.”
    He took his time about releasing her hand. “How do you know the Beaudreaus?”
    “I don’t. My, um, sister Jenny does. She brought me along.” They slowly strolled through the house toward wide doors opening to the lawn. “How do you know them?”
    “Oh, Ivan’s been a partner of mine in crime for a long time.” A glint of complacence edged his voice.
    “What do you do?”
    “I’m in television. I own air space and so on.”
    Arden’s interest flared. “Do you own Channel Six?”
    “I do now. Among others.” He slid his hand through her arm and bent close to her, whispering in her ear. “I’ll give you a hint. Don’t waste your time on the Beaudreaus. Genevieve Marie is emotionally attached to every dust bunny and paper clip in this house. Plus, they wouldn’t dream of having their home exposed to the public on a show like yours.”
    Arden bridled at his insult and yanked her arm away. “A show like mine?”
    “Aimed at the upper-middle section of the demographic span—and understandably so, that’s your audience. But peoplelike to dream. More than that, they like to see how the rich live. We all do. It’s human nature. Your ratings are beginning to fall—”
    Insulted and frankly shocked that this stranger was so brash about what was intimate professional information, Arden took a step back. “Don’t bother worrying about my television show. I know what I’m doing.”
    “Do you?” Palmer White inquired.
    All Arden’s professional life, she’d been plagued with men who thought because she was good-looking and relatively young, they could tell her what to do. They were wrong. “Excuse me,” she said, and blindly strode away.
    She wove through the crowd, jaw clenched. She didn’t see Jenny anywhere in the crowd. She thought she might just walk home. She didn’t know anyone here, she was tired from packing and making the trip to the island, and Palmer White had started her summer off with a blast of bad juju.
    Somehow she managed to get stuck in the crowd. She turned sideways, trying to squeeze her way through.
    Someone stepped, crushingly, on her foot.
    “Ouch! Holy damn!” Instinctively, she hopped on her good foot, holding the injured one off the ground. Not the most elegant pose.
    “Oh, excuse me,” a man said. “I stepped on your foot. I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
    She looked up. And up. The man had to be six four, his blue blazer marvelously delineating a slim, muscular torso while accentuating his blond hair and blue eyes. He wore a red tie with sailboats on it. She liked men in ties.
    “I’m fine,” she replied