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

fallen asleep. The snoring was a great improvement over the jabbering. R. J. instinctively didn’t like the man. His drinking and womanizing reminded R. J. too much of his own worthless father. After his mother’s death when he was six, he’d been at his old man’s mercy. He’d learned to steer clear of him as much as possible, to become invisible. That way, he didn’t get knocked around as much. He had no idea if Jerry Sutton was alive or dead and didn’t give a damn either way. He’d run away at fifteen and had stayed on the move ever since. For the past seven years, he’d drifted from one town to another, picking up whatever job he could. He’d lucked out when he arrived in Sumarville. Eartha Kilpatrick’s bartender had up and quit on her that very day. Fate had dealt him a winning hand three weeks ago.
    The huge white wrought-iron gates came into view, the entrance to Belle Rose. He could see the old plantation house from the road, although it set way back at the end of a long tree-lined drive. He’d learned pretty fast once he arrived in Sumarville that a couple of old families still ruled the roost in these parts. He hadn’t learned all the players or their roles in this antiquated Mississippi town’s drama, but he knew that Louis Royale was the richest and most respected man in the county and that his stepson, Max Devereaux, wielded the power of a prince.
    When he drove up to the gate, he noticed the security cameras and realized he’d have to identify himself before he would be allowed inside. He rolled down the car window and said, “I’m delivering Mr. Clifton home.”
    Suddenly, without any response or any warning, the gates opened. He shifted gears on the five-speed sports car and zipped through the entrance and up the drive. As he drew closer to the house, he noted the grandeur of the mansion. Tall double columns flanked the two-story portico that divided the two wings of the house. A huge wraparound veranda spread out across the front and down the sides. The twin second story balconies, graced with intricate white wrought-iron latticework topped the veranda. He knew what kind of people lived in houses like this. Over the years he’d picked up odd jobs from the rich snobs who lived in luxury and were suffocating from breathing such rarified air. These people were wealthy, ancestor-worshiping snobs who considered themselves better than the rest of the world.
    R. J. stopped the car in front of the house, right in the middle of the circular drive. He hopped out, rounded the hood, and opened the passenger door. Mr. Clifton sat there, his head thrown back, his mouth wide open. R. J. shook the guy. His eyelids fluttered several times before he forced open his bleary gray eyes and glared at R. J.
    â€œYou’re home, Mr. Clifton.”
    â€œHome?”
    â€œBelle Rose.”
    Parry Clifton struggled to get out of the car, bumping his head in the process. “Damn!”
    R. J. slid his arm around the man’s waist and lifted him to his feet. Where the hell was Max Devereaux? He sure could use some help with this guy. Clifton was six-feet tall and probably weighed a good two-sixty. R. J. headed Clifton toward the veranda. Thank God, there were only half a dozen steps up to the porch.
    When he finally managed to half-carry half-lead the guy up on the veranda, the massive double front doors opened and Max Devereaux appeared. Devereaux sized up the situation and seeing his uncle’s condition, scowled before he came forward.
    â€œWell, you’re a sorry sight,” Max said, then turned to R. J. “Thanks for bringing him home.”
    â€œNo problem. He slept most of the way.”
    Placing his arm around Clifton’s waist, Max took his uncle from R. J. and all but dragged him into the house. Max paused in the doorway, glanced over his shoulder, and said, “Tell Eartha thanks.”
    â€œSure thing.”
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