McCloud's Woman Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Patricia Rice
you’re the next best thing to anorexic.”
“I eat like a horse,” Mara shouted, tired of hearing about her faults. “I’m naturally thin. It goes with the height.”
“That’s why you’re supposed to wear skirts.” Constantina
gestured angrily. “You make men nervous when you tower over them and
wear pants. They hide your femininity.”
“Spoken like a short person.” Political correctness be
damned. She didn’t even know the wives of the town council, and she
hated them already. Shoving her bare feet into a pair of high-heeled
snakeskin mules, Mara grabbed her portfolio off the dresser and headed
for the door. She’d spent over half her life worrying about her looks.
She was damned well tired of it.
Constantina threw an Italian curse after her as Mara
slammed the bedroom door. Nothing like a good fight to start the
day—just like home.
Clattering down the stairs of the antebellum B&B, Mara
waved at Katy Richards, the proprietress, and hurried out the front
door before being forced to indulge in chitchat. She’d rented the entire
establishment for her staff so they wouldn’t have to run a gauntlet of
sightseers every time they left their rooms.
Leaning against the limo door, her driver snapped to attention at sight of her striding down the drive, but she waved him off.
“I’m walking, Jim. I’ll call if I need you.”
This wasn’t Hollywood. She didn’t need bodyguards.
Striding briskly from beneath the elongated limbs of Spanish-moss-draped
oaks, she donned her sunglasses and headed in the direction of TJ’s lab
on the quaint street of old storefronts and new boutiques leading down
to the harbor. Surely, they could reach some rational agreement. What
were old friends for?
Might depend on the definition of friends, she admitted.
Sid had always said that the Hollywood kind of friends were good for
publicity or parties or stabbing a person in the back. In that vein, she
supposed the Brooklyn kind could be considered good for resentment and
prejudice. TJ was from Long Island, but that didn’t mean he had a higher
standard.
So, all right, she didn’t have any real friends. Maybe
only stupid, naïve people actually believed in friendship. She’d live.
There were far worse things in the world than not having friends. Her
mother was one of them.
Wow, why did she keep heading down that tangled path? Had
running into Tim reminded her too much of home? She shivered at the
picture of her future in Brooklyn if she didn’t make this film work.
Glancing in a darkened store window, Mara caught her blond
reflection and let her mood swing upward again. For thirty-three, she
looked damned good in jeans. Let’s see what her old teenage idol
thought.
Whistling, she swung around—and slammed straight into TJ McCloud’s impressive chest.
Chapter Three
Catching the long-legged femme fatale felt as familiar as
looking at her. A memory tugged at the back of his mind, but TJ didn’t
have time to pin it down. He had to conquer an armful of pliant female
curves and a starving libido run amok.
Slanted, cat green eyes peered up at him, and for one dread moment, he thought she purred.
“Well, hello, handsome. Imagine running into you like
this.” She didn’t immediately step back, but lightly rested her long
fingers on his shoulders, and regained her balance with a little shimmy
that brushed her breasts close enough to smoke his shirt buttons, and
slid her feet more securely into her shoes. Then she released him but
didn’t step away.
The fragrance of gardenias lingered. The women TJ knew
tended to smell of chalk dust or musty books or, in Cleo’s case,
mechanic’s grease. Overseas, in the pits of hell he’d lived in, they
tended to smell of sweat or fear. Gardenias were as foreign to him as
wedding bouquets.
“Excuse me,” he said politely, stepping to one side. If nothing else, he’d learned the value of self-discipline.
“Excuse you for what? Living?”
“I eat like a horse,” Mara shouted, tired of hearing about her faults. “I’m naturally thin. It goes with the height.”
“That’s why you’re supposed to wear skirts.” Constantina
gestured angrily. “You make men nervous when you tower over them and
wear pants. They hide your femininity.”
“Spoken like a short person.” Political correctness be
damned. She didn’t even know the wives of the town council, and she
hated them already. Shoving her bare feet into a pair of high-heeled
snakeskin mules, Mara grabbed her portfolio off the dresser and headed
for the door. She’d spent over half her life worrying about her looks.
She was damned well tired of it.
Constantina threw an Italian curse after her as Mara
slammed the bedroom door. Nothing like a good fight to start the
day—just like home.
Clattering down the stairs of the antebellum B&B, Mara
waved at Katy Richards, the proprietress, and hurried out the front
door before being forced to indulge in chitchat. She’d rented the entire
establishment for her staff so they wouldn’t have to run a gauntlet of
sightseers every time they left their rooms.
Leaning against the limo door, her driver snapped to attention at sight of her striding down the drive, but she waved him off.
“I’m walking, Jim. I’ll call if I need you.”
This wasn’t Hollywood. She didn’t need bodyguards.
Striding briskly from beneath the elongated limbs of Spanish-moss-draped
oaks, she donned her sunglasses and headed in the direction of TJ’s lab
on the quaint street of old storefronts and new boutiques leading down
to the harbor. Surely, they could reach some rational agreement. What
were old friends for?
Might depend on the definition of friends, she admitted.
Sid had always said that the Hollywood kind of friends were good for
publicity or parties or stabbing a person in the back. In that vein, she
supposed the Brooklyn kind could be considered good for resentment and
prejudice. TJ was from Long Island, but that didn’t mean he had a higher
standard.
So, all right, she didn’t have any real friends. Maybe
only stupid, naïve people actually believed in friendship. She’d live.
There were far worse things in the world than not having friends. Her
mother was one of them.
Wow, why did she keep heading down that tangled path? Had
running into Tim reminded her too much of home? She shivered at the
picture of her future in Brooklyn if she didn’t make this film work.
Glancing in a darkened store window, Mara caught her blond
reflection and let her mood swing upward again. For thirty-three, she
looked damned good in jeans. Let’s see what her old teenage idol
thought.
Whistling, she swung around—and slammed straight into TJ McCloud’s impressive chest.
Chapter Three
Catching the long-legged femme fatale felt as familiar as
looking at her. A memory tugged at the back of his mind, but TJ didn’t
have time to pin it down. He had to conquer an armful of pliant female
curves and a starving libido run amok.
Slanted, cat green eyes peered up at him, and for one dread moment, he thought she purred.
“Well, hello, handsome. Imagine running into you like
this.” She didn’t immediately step back, but lightly rested her long
fingers on his shoulders, and regained her balance with a little shimmy
that brushed her breasts close enough to smoke his shirt buttons, and
slid her feet more securely into her shoes. Then she released him but
didn’t step away.
The fragrance of gardenias lingered. The women TJ knew
tended to smell of chalk dust or musty books or, in Cleo’s case,
mechanic’s grease. Overseas, in the pits of hell he’d lived in, they
tended to smell of sweat or fear. Gardenias were as foreign to him as
wedding bouquets.
“Excuse me,” he said politely, stepping to one side. If nothing else, he’d learned the value of self-discipline.
“Excuse you for what? Living?”