Stranger in Camelot Read Online Free PDF Page A

in five years ago. For that reason, she treasured it.
    She’d named it Al, for Al Sheffield, the tough little Hollywood agent who had put an end to what was left of her career, at her request. Because Al had been good at breaking contracts, she’d been able to move here beforethe last of her pride was gone. Every year she sent Al a birthday card and in his honor kissed his stuffed reptilian namesake on its scaly nose.
    She took off her T-shirt so that she could strap her generous breasts into an industrial-strength sports bra. She jerked the T-shirt back into place and glowered at her chest. Let John Bartholomew have fun staring at this shield of cotton-polyester.
    Brushing past Al to the collection of bandannas hanging from her dresser mirror, she chose a faded blue one then pulled her tangled black hair back with it. Next she belted baggy khaki work shorts over torn white panties that the dogs had stolen from the laundry and used for a tug-of-war. The panties were comfortable and they still did their duty. That was all that mattered. Finally she stuck her feet into tall white crew socks and ankle-high hiking boots, with bright orange laces that she wound around the tops.
    Clumping outside to the porch, she opened the big metal trash can where she stored dry dog food and scooped the chow into the dogs’ communal pan, spilling food on the warped wooden floor as she did. Her attention was on the barn a hundred yards away. The open doors, twice her height and swathed in delicate jasmine vines, resembled the entrance to a dark cave. Now it had a bear inside.
    She wiped damp palms on her shorts. Drawing a deep breath of dewy, sunshine-filled air, she marched to the barn. Inside, sunlight filtered through cracks in the boards, and the only sound was the resident mouse scratching around in its cranny along the feedroom wall.
    In the last stall she found his sleeping bag and backpack. So he hadn’t faded into the night’s mist without a trace.
    She stopped in the center of the hallway, listening with taut nerves and looking toward the other set ofdouble doors that led to the corral and pasture. One door stood open. She cocked her head and heard the low hum of the barn’s water pipe as it strained to full throttle.
    Aggie jumped when a loud growl of masculine discomfort sounded outside, followed by the splashing of water. She hurried into the corral, the soft sand sucking at her shoes as if reluctant to let her see what was around the corner of the barn.
    Aggie sprang to the wooden fence where it butted against the building then craned her head around.
    He might as well have been naked, considering how the swim trunks were plastered to him and how low they’d settled on his lean hips. He had his eyes shut and his head tilted back to catch the full force of the water hose he held above him. Water drenched him, splattered off the chiseled nose and roughly planed cheekbones, and ran in frothy torrents down a broad chest covered in dark hair.
    When the streams reached his stomach they snaked along smooth, honey-colored skin with a converging trail of dark hair at the center. At the top of his trunks the hair spread out again and hinted at the different coarseness farther down. Not very far, considering how little of his belly was left to the imagination. It was obvious that his trunks were held up only by the part of him that refused to remain flat, even when doused with cold water. The water was innocent, but the way it caressed him was a lesson in intimacy.
    Aggie clenched the top of the fence and studied him raptly, telling herself she was only responding to what Madison Avenue advertising companies had discovered long ago, that water streaming down a handsome male body was one of the most provocative sights in the world. Millions of women had bought extra soap because of commercials based on this.
    Well, not quite like this, because commercials were never X-rated.
    Aggie couldn’t help noticing that his trunks trapped water