Mad About The Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

didn't know she was alive other than as a maker of baseball caps! "It'll be a cold day in hell," she muttered.
    "I beg your pardon?" Sophie's eyes widened.
    Gaby flapped a hand. "Talking to myself. He told me how he wants to use all the little people in Gold- strike. Give them jobs to make them feel included. My job was supposed to be making baseball caps with dumb logos on the front."
    Now Sophie really stared. "Doesn't he know what you do?" she whispered, almost reverently.
    Gaby grimaced. "Oh, sure. I make hats. Why wouldn't I be delighted to make hundreds of caps with GFTG in Goldstrike on the front … in my little factory."
    Before Sophie could do more than start to respond, the door opened once more and a woman's strident voice announced, "Will you look at this. You didn't tell me it was like this, Bart. Jacques, did he tell you?"
    "No. But I've driven by many times."
    Gaby ducked her head and scooted lower in the seat. The last thing she wanted was another eye-to - eye confrontation with Jacques Ledan, not until she'd decided what her next move would be.
    "Is it them?" Sophie croaked.
    "Mmm."
    "What's the matter, Mom?"
    Gaby aimed a warning frown at Mae, who had taken her burial one stage further and was squishing down the toast with the back of her fork. The child wrinkled her nose and kept quiet.
    "Ma'am." Rita said loudly. "Excuse me, ma'am."
    Sis grunted.
    "Is the floor dry over here now?"
    "Weren't wet," Sis said and continued wiping the counter.
    Clattering followed and Gaby dared a peek toward the window. Rita was pulling the chairs away from The Table. "Let's sit here. More light. I want to show you some of the figures the accountants gave me."
    The three sat around The Table.
    "I saw those two parties you mentioned and they're agreeable," Bart Stanly said. "All we need is the old guy … Damned if I remember his name The one to the north. That'll give us all the space we need to start with."
    "I don't want any hitches now," Jacques Ledan said, his voice deeper than Stanly's and with that quality Gaby had noticed yesterday: soft, yet clear and with a hint of gravel that singed her nerves.
    "They're sitting at The Table, Mommy," Mae said. "Sis is getting real mad. Look."
    Sis being real mad meant her plump face turned red and she stood like a statue with her arms crossed.
    "Mommy," Mae hissed. "If she stays mad I won't get to help make pies!"
    Sophie, clearly unable to resist any longer, craned to see the trio in the window. Returning her attention to Gaby, she asked, "Is that really them?"
    "Uh-huh."
    "And Ledan's the dark one." She sniffed. "French. You can see that."
    "His grandfather was French," Gaby said, keeping her voice low although Rita and Bart were too busy vying for Ledan's attention to be aware of anyone else. "Take it from me. This one's all-American en trepreneur."
    "Been investigating?" Sophie asked. Her mouth had thinned to a pale line.
    "I had a friend in Los Angeles make some enqui ries. The Ledans started making candy in a small way in France. Then the grandfather came to the States and began building the business here. The son built a whole lot more. Four years ago he retired to the south of France, leaving his son, the original Ledan's grand son—Jacques—to run things. They're big in Europe as well as the States."
    "So what does he want with us?" Sophie asked, hardly moving her lips.
    "Who knows?" Gaby responded. "Either he's bored or he's greedy. Probably some of both."
    "Mom, Sis looks funny."
    "I'll see to it," Sophie said, getting up. She inarched to the counter, picked up menus and took them to Ledan and the dynamic duo. "Are you sure you want to sit here?" she asked. "Sun gets hot through the window."
    Gaby looked down into her cup and waited. "We're fine," Rita said. "I'll have decaffeinated. Regular for you two, right?"
    A chorus of masculine grunts followed.
    Gaby suppressed a grin. The arrogant ignorance of these people was amusing—almost.
    Sophie passed the booth, brows