Skinny Dipping Read Online Free PDF

look like?” Naomi asked.
    “Smelly.”
    Naomi regarded the child in delight. “What else?”
    Emil-George nodded. “Dirty.”
    “Ah,” Naomi breathed, nodding sagely. “That wasn’t a monster, dear. That was your aunt Mimi.”
    This apparently made sense to Emil-George, for he said, “Oh,” and wandered off.
    Naomi went back to her hammering.

Chapter Three
    Joe Tierney squatted next to the front tire of his rental car, staring at the lug nuts he’d tightened. He’d been squatting for five minutes, his shirtsleeves rolled up, one arm resting on his thigh, a wrench hanging loosely in his hand. He wasn’t staring because he didn’t trust the job he’d done—it wasn’t rocket science—but because as soon as he got up he would be forced to continue the journey that ended at Prescott’s new vacation house.
    It was an obligatory visit, just as it had been an obligatory invitation. Joe could have found a hundred excuses not to go, and most of them would have been valid, but Joe Tierney was nothing if not persevering, and he had not yet reached the point where he was willing to give up on this relationship—despite Prescott’s obvious wishes to the contrary. Joe was unused to failure.
    As a richly endowed venture capital group’s chief field executive, Joe’s job was to go into recently acquired companies, assess, evaluate, and then make a recommendation on the future of those companies. As such, he was used to resentment. He didn’t take it personally. But Prescott’s dislike was of the most personal variety, and Joe had no idea what to do about it. Doubtless, it might help if he understood it. He didn’t. Most people liked Joe. He was poised, polished, and amiable. A little compulsive, perhaps. For example, some people might say his fastidiousness bordered on the obsessive. But Joe preferred to think of himself as tidy. And committed. Which was why he was here on a dirt road in the middle of northern Minnesota; he was committed to connecting with Prescott.
    Commitment, however, did not require enjoyment. The early Christians had probably not been rubbing their hands in anticipation as they stumbled into the Colosseum to face the lions. He had just added “fire jumpers diving out of airplanes into infernos” to his list of the Unhappily Committed when he heard branches snapping in the woods on the other side of his car.
    Joe had no idea what sorts of animals roamed the woods three hundred miles north of Minneapolis and within spitting distance of the Canadian border. Bears? Moose? Wolves? For all he knew, Sasquatch was standing on the other side of the car. He waited. A few seconds later he heard the unmistakable sound of whatever it was moving closer. He quietly bent lower and peered under the car.
    On the other side was a pair of dirty, sand-encrusted, scratched, feminine feet. He knew they were feminine because the nails had been painted a hideous neon pink. They shuffled a bit, and Joe heard his car door open. Joe, much reassured (no one who wore that color nail polish could possibly be a danger to anyone—except possibly the standards of good taste), stood up. “May I…”
    A naked female was on her knees on the front seat of the car, dripping mud and gunk all over it. Weeds caped her shoulders, and twigs and leaves stuck out of curly dark pigtails. Mud caked her from elbow to ankle. For an instant she froze, a pair of wide, startled eyes gleaming up at him through a tangle of wet, dank hair.
    “Jesus Christ,” Joe whispered. “A Wolf Girl.”
    Whoever it was jumped like she’d been hit with a Taser, banging her head on the car roof. She grabbed the top of her head. “Holy Mother! Sonofabitch—”
    She caught the direction of his gaze and looked down. With a sound halfway between a shriek and a squeak, she turned and bolted, crashing headlong into the undergrowth.
    Joe stared, uncertain whether to follow her or call the cops. Obviously she was running away from something, but she hadn’t