What She Doesn't Know Read Online Free PDF Page A

the floor and set the tables for breakfast the following morning. Only two customers remained at the bar, which would close in thirty minutes. A couple of regulars, both middle-aged men who didn’t want to go home to their wives.
    â€œWhat’ll it be, boss lady?” R. J. Sutton, her recently hired young bartender asked.
    She smiled at him. The guy was damn good looking, and if her instincts were right, a bad boy to the core. If she were a few years younger, she’d be tempted to find out just how bad he was. Perhaps that was the reason she found Max so irresistible—she’d always had a weakness for hellions.
    â€œWhiskey and water.” Eartha watched R. J. as he lifted a bottle of Jack Daniels from the shelf. He was tall, lanky, and broad shouldered, with thick blond hair that hung almost to his shoulders.
    After he filled her glass halfway and added the water, he turned and set it in front of her. Just as she started to say thanks, she noticed his gaze leave her face and settle at the restaurant’s entrance.
    â€œTrouble’s back,” he said.
    She glanced over her shoulder, then groaned when she saw Parry Clifton, shirt halfway unbuttoned and dark hair rumpled, leading a woman half his age through the doorway. “Well, that didn’t take long.” She’d checked Max’s uncle and his latest “lady friend” into the hotel less than an hour ago.
    â€œThat guy’s been here a couple of times a week since you hired me,” R. J. said. “Why do you put up with him? You’ve got to know that the women he brings here are hookers.”
    â€œSumarville doesn’t have hookers. Our little town has two-bit whores. Well, actually, probably twenty-dollar whores might be more accurate.” As Parry approached, Eartha took a couple of sips from her glass, then turned to face him. “The bar’s closing in a few minutes. Maybe you should take your friend over to the Firewater since they stay open until one o’clock.”
    â€œTrying to get rid of me?” Parry plopped down on a bar stool, then yanked his companion down onto the stool next to him. “Candy here will think we aren’t welcome.”
    With an aggravated expression forming on her face, Eartha glanced at R. J. “Get Mr. Clifton and his guest a drink, then close the bar for tonight.” With her glass in her hand, she rose from the stool, made her way around to inspect each table, then headed for the kitchen.
    Sipping leisurely on her drink, she surveyed the entire room, checking to make sure everything was clean and sanitary. Here she was going through her nightly routine, bogged down in mundane chores, when what she wanted—what she’d always wanted—was to run away to Nashville. Silly woman! She was too old to start a singing career. All the new country singers were young, just kids. She’d lost her chance, thrown it away in the backseat of Trent Kilpatrick’s daddy’s old Mercury more than twenty years ago.
    On Friday and Saturday nights when the restaurant provided live entertainment, she always sang a couple of songs to an appreciative audience. And every time she heard the applause, she pretended she was at the Grand Ole Opry.
    â€œMiss Eartha?” R. J. cracked open the kitchen door and peeped inside. “Phone call for you.”
    â€œWho is it?”
    â€œMr. Devereaux.”
    â€œI’ll be right there.” Why would Max be calling her on a Thursday night at nearly eleven o’clock? Her heart caught in her throat. Lord, maybe old man Royale had died. Poor Max would take it hard when his stepfather passed away. He thought the world of his mama’s husband.
    Eartha entered the restaurant, slipped behind the bar, set down her glass, and lifted the receiver from the counter. “Hello.”
    â€œIs my uncle there?” Max asked.
    â€œYes, he’s here.”
    â€œDo me a favor, will you? Get one of your guys