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

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.
    “You’re home, Mr. Clifton.”
    “Home?”
    “Belle 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.
    “Well, you’re a sorry sight,” Max said, then turned to R. J. “Thanks for bringing him home.”
    “No 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.”
    “Sure thing.”
    The front door closed in R. J.’s face, effectively dismissing him. What had he expected? He was nothing more than a servant who’d done his job. Hell, at least Max Devereaux had said thank you, which was more than most of his kind ever did.
    R. J. headed down the steps to Eartha’s car, but before he reached the bottom step he thought he heard someone crying. Stopping abruptly, he listened. The sound came from the side of the house. A rather loud, mournful weeping. So what? he thought. The lord of the manor has just died. It was only natural that the family would be mourning. But what the hell was somebody—some woman from the sound of the crying—doing outside on such a hot, humid night?
    Get in the damn car and go back to town. Whoever is crying has nothing to do with you. This is none of your business .
    Instead of following his own good judgment, he walked back up the steps and around to the side veranda, searching for the source of the pitiful crying. Huddled against one of the one-story columns that supported the veranda, R. J. saw the shadow of a woman. Her black hair shimmered in the moonlight, which outlined her slender curves. He knew he was asking for trouble if he spoke to her, but damn if he could just walk away and leave her.
    “Hey, there. Are you okay?”
    She jumped and gasped simultaneously, jerking her hand to her mouth. “Who are you?”
    “R. J. Sutton,” he replied. “I work at the Sumarville Inn. Miss Eartha asked me to drive Mr. Clifton home.”
    “Is Uncle Parry all right?”
    Uncle Parry? That meant this woman was Clifton’s niece, sister to Max Devereaux no doubt. “He had a little too much