One of Those Malibu Nights Read Online Free PDF Page A

pristinely white, Mac figured she must have bought them specially for the occasion. He corrected himself quickly. A woman like Allie Ray probably had a dozen pairs, all new, sitting in her closet, and she probably never wore them twice.
    Allie stared back at him, waiting for him to take it in that it was really
her
standing on his doorstep. Then she gave him the smile that had charmed moviegoers for over a decade.
    “I’m so sorry,” she said, “I must have caught you in the shower.”
    Brought back to reality, Mac hitched up the towel. Heapologized for his appearance and invited her into the tiny square that constituted his front hall.
    Allie stared at the dog as it bounded lopsidedly toward her. Pirate gave her the usual investigative sniff, then sat back on his haunch, allowing her a full view of his one eye and goofy smile.
    Catching her shocked look, Mac said quickly, “His name is Pirate. After Long John Silver. In
Treasure Island
. Y’know: the wooden leg, the eye patch.” She frowned and he added, “Hey listen, it was better than the alternative. He was almost dead when I found him.”
    Allie bent to pat Pirate’s head. Sliding the cashmere hood from her pale blond hair, which was pinned in a loose ponytail, she walked into the living room.
    With her hair like that, Mac thought she looked like the college version of Barbie. Except for those eyes of course, which when she fixed them on him, had a haunting quality, like diving into a turquoise tropical sea where troubling undercurrents tugged at you.
    Excusing himself, he hurried to put on shorts and a T-shirt.
    When he came back he found her looking round his comfortable, if shabby, domain. At the squashy old sofas covered in a variety of plaid rugs, most of which Pirate called home, when he wasn’t sleeping on Mac’s bed that is. At the beat-up black leather La-Z-Boy with a cup holder where Mac stashed his beer and pretzels, with the flap onthe side for the remote, and that little leg-lifting device that, if the Lakers game wasn’t so hot, relaxed a guy so much it could put him right to sleep.
    Allie’s gaze moved to the old surfboard that in a fit of artistic triumph Mac had painted gold and converted into a coffee table. Then on to the mélange of wicker chairs surrounding the squat, solid-looking oak table, bought by Sunny at a flea market and which she swore was a valuable antique. Mac had told her he was hanging on to it so when that rainy day came he could make his fortune.
    Allie had moved on to his eclectic art collection, if so proper a term could be used for the colorful canvases on Mac’s walls, most of which he’d picked up on visits to new young artists in their Venice Beach studios, at prices that had left him worried, and wondering if he’d left them starving in their garrets.
    Allie took in the sea grass rugs on the wooden floors, the shutters flapping at the window, the faux-zebra rug in front of the fifties white-brick fireplace, the unmatched lamps, and the collection of candles and votives, courtesy of Sunny.
    She gave Mac that haunted turquoise look again. “I envy you,” she said, surprising him. “You have exactly what you want. You’re a lucky man.”
    “There’s no need for envy, particularly coming from a woman like you.”
    She perched on the edge of the dog-hairy sofa, lookingup at him. “Tell me, Mr. Reilly, what exactly do you know about women like me?”
    She had put him on the spot. Did he tell her the truth about what he’d heard she was? Or did he go for the comfort factor? Tactfully, he took the middle path.
    “I know you came from a poor background, that you married well. Several times. I know that you’re a famous actress.”
    Allie ran a hand through her pale blond hair, lifting her ponytail and shaking it free from the folds of the cashmere hood. “Do you know what despair is, Mr. Reilly?” she asked quietly. “Do you know what it is to arrive at the realization that there is only one way you are going