Mama Dearest Read Online Free PDF Page A

noise. Still nothing. So I took two steps to the car and lowered myself to the window. “Are you gonna move or—” He turned to look at me, and oh, yes, he was fine as a new mohair sweater. I stumbled over my words a moment, regained composure and finished my sentence. “You gonna move or what?” I asked, this time a little sweeter, a lot sexier.
    He turned toward me. “Depends,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone, like the baseline in a quiet storm slow jam. “If you’d rather ride in a taxi or an Aston Martin.”
    I wasn’t sure he was saying what I thought he was saying, so as cool as possible, I said, “Depends. Is this your Aston Martin?”
    He cracked a smile. A deep dimple appeared in his left cheek, and his straight, white teeth seemed to brighten the car’s entire dim cabin.
    My, my, he was phine!
    With a gesture of his hand he said coolly, “Get in.”
    Just like that? Oh no, I had to set him straight. “What?” I said,wondering just who he thought I was. “I’m not just any female on the street a man barks an order to—”
    “Get in,” he said again, more forceful this time.
    I looked at the fine man behind the wheel, and I don’t know why, because I’ve never done anything like this, but there I was pulling on the door handle and lowering myself into his magnificent ride.

    C UT TO AN HOUR later. I’m standing not six inches from the floor-to-ceiling windows of S. Marcus Pinkston’s 54th floor, three-bedroom apartment at the Four Seasons in the Brickell area. The windows wrap all the way around the corner unit, and on one side you can see the sparkling lights of the downtown Miami skyline. On the other side, I’m staring down at the Miami harbor, stretched out, peaceful and placid, dotted with sailboats.
    I’m barefoot on Brazilian wood floors, a glass of champagne with a splash of pomengrate juice in my hand. I’m with a man I don’t even know. I guess I trust him. I know it’s crazy. I trusted him enough to get in his car, and when he suggested he take me to his home instead of my hotel, I trusted him enough to agree. I guess he trusted me too, not knowing if I could be some Glenn Close
Fatal Attraction
–type stalker, for all he knows. Maybe he could be that stalker that I needed.
    Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s all the drinks I’d consumed or his unquestionable good looks, or the fact that I’m tired of counting dimes and quarters to make ends meet, denying myself all the finer things I’ve been accustomed to. He seems to have the means and is prepared to let me experience all those things for just one night.
    And if I lay it on him right, maybe he’ll be my ticket back into the glamorous life that I deserve. Not to mention, he’s so fine, I have nodoubt he’ll satisfy the craving for love that’s been making my body ache for far too long.
    I take a tiny sip of my drink. It splashes over my palate like sweet nectar. I’m in the house of a man I don’t know, yet I feel totally comfortable. He had an aura about him that soothed me from the moment I jumped into his car.
    “Tell me your name again, beautiful,” he says, extending a hand and leading me to a low black leather couch.
    I place my hand in his and follow, saying, “Yancey Harrington Braxton.” His hand is soft as a velvet glove. “You must have rich blood by the feel of your hand. I bet you haven’t worked a day in your life.”
    His voice is deep and seductive as he says, “I use my brains, sweetheart, not my hands. I save them for other things.”
    The look in his eyes tells me it’s not for praying. I decide to probe. “So how old are you?”
    “Thirty-something,” he says quickly.
    “So what do you do? I mean, to be able to afford all this?” I asked as I waved the champagne flute like it was a conductor’s baton.
    “I used to manage a hedge fund and dabble in the futures market. It’s the family business. Do you consider that working?”
    “Yeah, I guess,” I teased and turned up my