Maggie's Man Read Online Free PDF Page A

Just look
underneath Godzilla's arm and spot me for one moment.
    "Your parking ticket, sir."
The young man's voice cracked with the impatience. He stared at them both
glumly as if to say, I spent four years in high school and all I got was a
lousy parking-attendant job.
    "Parking ticket?" her captor repeated,
focusing on the attendant for the first time. He gazed around the cab then
straight at her. "Do you see a parking ticket?"
    "No," she whispered. She looked up
the street. She could see blinking lights and the blue-clad police officers
scurrying around like ants. She counted eight of them. Eight cops. So close.
    Honk the horn, Maggie. Hit him in the ribs.
Do something bold and courageous. This man is planning to commit another
murder!
    But she couldn't move. She'd never liked loud
noises, she lived in fear of making a scene. She still vividly remembered her
mother throwing Waterford crystal across the parlor and screaming at her father
that he was nothing but a philandering rat. And she remembered the very late
nights, when the house was finally dark and quiet—sometimes not until 4:00
a.m.—when she would creep downstairs just to sit in the parlor and listen to
the silence. Once, she'd found her father there, sitting in the dark, still and
brooding. Then he'd finally reached over and picked up the phone, speaking in a
hushed, murmuring voice. She'd remained in the hallway, curled up on the
Persian runner, listening to his deep, velvety baritone wash over her like a
soothing wave.
    She had loved him so much and then he was just
gone, off to visit one of his other families where Maggie was sure the mother
didn't scream or throw crystal across the room. Then he was more than gone—his
plane crashed—and all Maggie had left was the locket he'd once given her, and
memories of a midnight phone conversation she'd never told anyone about. That
secret was the only piece of her father, the infamous Maxmillian the Chameleon,
that was solely hers.
    Abruptly, her captor leaned over, violating her
small space and interrupting her thoughts. His lips halted right next to the
corner of her mouth, the way a lover's might, while his keen eyes fired to
life. Maggie's whole body went rigid. She stopped breathing and curled up
inside of herself while the masculine scent of soap and sweat washed over her
cheeks and flared her nostrils.
    "Wh-what?" she asked unsteadily,
unable to breathe, unable to move. Should a felon's eyes be so green? And so …
intelligent, steady, composed? She thought murderers had beady eyes, black
beady eyes that were always darting to and fro. That way you knew they were
trouble.
    He said, "Ten dollars."
    "Huh?"
    "The attendant claims we have to pay ten
dollars," he repeated. He leaned back, his fingers drumming against the
wheel as his gaze returned to the police lights blinking up the street.
"Expensive," he murmured absently.
    She could only stare at him, then belatedly at
the purse beside her. The car behind them impatiently honked its horn.
    The Terminator's attention pivoted back to her
immediately. "Come on, Maggie," he said tersely, his voice so low only
she could hear it. "No games now. There are a lot of people who could get
hurt."
    "I know," she whispered. "I
know." Frustration and humiliation thickened her throat, but she still
couldn't think of anything to do. If she tried to raise a fuss, she'd probably
get everyone killed. Maybe if she just humored him for now. She would
cooperate, they could get beyond the city limits where no one else would suffer
if she did anything rash… She took a deep breath. Okay, she'd get through this.
Just one moment at a time.
    She grabbed her purse and managed to retrieve a
ten-dollar bill with trembling fingers.
    Mr. Escaped Con promptly handed over the money
to the impatient, thin-shouldered attendant. "Sorry about that," he
said politely and beamed a perfectly charming smile.
    Maggie's teeth set painfully as she watched the
black-and-white-striped gate swing up. In