Plain Jane Read Online Free PDF Page B

face growing hot with embarrassment. This was not the way she wanted Mike Sorenson to see her. Annoyed with the picture she knew she was presenting, she yanked the stuffed dog out of her mouth and quickly got to her feet. “We were ah . . . playing,” she said.
    â€œI can see that. Who was winning, you or . . . Olive, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, it’s Olive, and I was definitely winning.” Jane straightened her shoulders and dusted off her hands. “It can’t be seven o’clock yet. I just got home.” She glanced down at her watch and saw that it was indeed only six-thirty.
    â€œMy last patient canceled. I didn’t think you’d mind if I showed up a little early. I was prepared to sit on the porch and wait.” He moved past her into the parlor. “You’ve really done wonders with the place, but—” Jane watched as he made a telescope of his left hand and peered through it. “Who was your carpenter? You need to sue him!”
    Olive sniffed Mike’s shoes and trouser legs. She was probably smelling his cat.
    â€œWhy would I want to sue the carpenter?”
    â€œIt looks like the crooked little man’s house—everything’s crooked, and the corners don’t meet. I know a good lawyer.” He marched over to the bookshelves. “Good God, do you have the whole set?”
    It was a moment before Jane could get far enough past the crooked little man to answer. “Whole set of what?” she asked coolly.
    â€œDingle. It looks to me like you have the whole set, and they’re in mint condition. I only have about sixty in my own library, but I’ve read every single one of his books, some more than once. I’d kill for these. Did you pick them up at a garage sale or what? I never would have figured you to be the blood-and-guts type,” Mike said all in one breath.
    â€œReally. What type books did you think I would read?” Olive’s head jerked upright as she listened to her mistress’s frosty voice. She slunk closer to Mike, her tail between her legs.
    â€œThat sappy romance stuff all women seem to read. These are guy books. You know, murder and mayhem, blood and guts. T. F. Dingle was one of the first authors I read just for myself back in school. The whole set! I can’t believe it. I don’t suppose you want to sell them, do you?”
    â€œNo, I do not want to sell them.”
    â€œOver the years I must have written a hundred letters in care of his publisher. He didn’t respond to even one of them!”
    â€œHe who?”
    â€œT. F. Dingle. The author. I think he must be some kind of recluse. I heard he lives in a shack somewhere and pounds out his novels on an old Underwood. Can you imagine that? Now there’s a guy whose head I’d like to get into to know his thoughts. How about you?”
    Her annoyance dissolved into smug satisfaction. “No. I can’t say that’s one of my top priorities,” she said, enjoying that she finally had one up on him.
    Mike stood back from the bookshelves and did that thing with his hand again. “The whole thing is off a good half inch. How can you showcase T. F. Dingle’s books on a crooked bookshelf? Who’s Stephen Rhodes and why does he get a shelf all to himself?” he asked, walking over to the shelves to inspect the books. Velocity of Money, The Money Trail. “Are they any good?” Little Women, Gone With the Wind, the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew? “You do have an interesting list here. Don’t you get dizzy when you come in here?”
    â€œShut up, Mike,” she said, surprising herself at her boldness. “I don’t want to hear any more. For your information, Stephen Rhodes writes about money. I like reading about money. He’s very good. No, you can’t borrow them, buy your own. Authors depend on royalties and frown on their books being loaned to other people. He has a shelf to himself