Wild Child Read Online Free PDF

tragically aware of all the sex he wasn’t having.
    Her black hair was thick, nearly blue it was so dark, and in the humidity the curls were teasing her chin and the corners of her eyes. Something tickled in the back of his head. Some memory. Those purple eyes were familiar … very familiar.
    “Monica Appleby?” His famous graciousness fled the scene. “What the hell are you doing here?”
    Her heavy black eyebrows practically hit her hairline and her mouth fell open, revealing the tips of white teeth. The fact that he found her teeth erotic only proved how distressing his sex life was. “You invited me.”
    “You work for America Today ?”
    “The TV show? No.”
    “Then what—” He stopped, suddenly realizing what must have happened. “There’s been a mix-up with the notes.”
    “If only there was a more reliable mode of communication.”
    He took her sarcasm in stride. “Good point.”
    For no good reason, he remembered the one time he’d seen Monica in person. Three days after the shooting. Jackson, at five, hadn’t been able to put into words the sick feeling in his stomach, watching Simone and Monica, beaten and bruised and terrified, get into their car and drive away, but he knew he had no business seeing that private moment. It was why he’d never watched that horrible reality show Simone and Monica had been a part of sixteen years ago. Or Simone’s more recent show. It was also why he didn’t read Monica’s blockbuster book, Wild Child , that everyone else on the planet seemed to have read last year.
    Looking at her now, at her beauty and poise, it was hard to believe she’d been that girl—so lost and scared. It was even harder to believe that she was here, at his home. Beautiful and erotic, a postcard from the outside world.
    Suddenly the night took on new dimension and he was thrilled that it wasn’t Dean Jennings on his porch.
    “Let’s try this again, shall we?” he asked. “I’m Jackson Davies.” He held out his hand and she laughed, though her tone was suspicious.
    “Monica Appleby.” When they shook hands, he found himself unwilling to let go of hers. It was soft, her palm warm in his hand. His blood began to pound through his veins.
    “A pleasure, Ms. Appleby.” He stepped to the side. “Perhaps I can better explain the problem with the notes over a cocktail.”
    For some reason his invitation made her frown, which set off a whole domino effect in him. Women didn’t frown at him, as a rule. They smiled, and cooed. They ingratiatedthemselves with their casseroles and secret spring wedding plans.
    “You’re awfully polite, aren’t you?” she asked. “Do they have a section in the Southern Manners Handbook about how to deal with guests when they aren’t who you were expecting?”
    “I haven’t looked at the handbook in years, but I imagine they do.” He smiled. “Does polite bother you?”
    “It does. People rarely mean what they say when they’re being polite. I find that they usually mean the opposite.”
    Jackson laughed, charmed and at the same time poised on the edge of himself, ready for anything. It was an intoxicating feeling. “You’re not wrong,” he said.
    She snorted and he loved it. So disrespectful that snort, so honest. He loved it so much that he acted on impulse, stuck his toe off the path he’d so carefully created for himself and this town. There was no room in his life for detours; it was win the contest, get his sister safely to school, and get the hell out of Bishop. That was the path.
    But when Monica Appleby showed up at a guy’s door, he would be an idiot to turn her away.
    He held out an arm, ushering her in.
    “Please. Join me for dinner.”
    It took her a second to respond; whatever her misgivings were, they were serious, which was intriguing on a whole different level. Jackson was a man people trusted. It was exciting to be unknown to her. Perhaps dangerous.
    “All right.” She stepped into his stale and stagnant home loaded