Read Online Billionaire on Her Doorstep by Ally Blake - Free Book Online

“Have you ever been flung, Maggie-Moo?”
    One thing Maggie-Moo hadn’t ever been was flung. She’d been a good daughter, a caring girlfriend and a loving wife. And had been let down on all counts. Until the day came when someone could promise her a fling would end any differently, she would remain unflung.
    She tucked her legs beneath her and sat up straighter. “I’m here to work, ladies,’she said, “and to take a little time for me, just as Freya said. Not to be flung, or flinged or whatever the correct grammar for such a thing might be. Tom’s here for another week and a half and then he’s off to be someone else’s handyman.”
    “In the meantime, he’s your handyman,” Sandra said.
    “In the meantime nothing. End of discussion.”
    Sandra harrumphed and pouted. Freya gave a self-satisfied smile. And Maggie noticed that Ashleigh had been dead quiet throughout.
    “So,” Maggie said, purposely avoiding Ashleigh’s pale piercing eyes. “Someone else’s turn in the hot seat. Progress report. “What are we all working on this week?”
    Tom turned off the chainsaw. The late spring sun beat down on his back. His muscles ached. He was sweating so much he wished that the way to Maggie’s potential beach was already clear so he could run down the steps and straight into the surf below.
    But, despite the thick clustering branches still between him and the big blue sea, all in all he felt mighty good. Mighty pleased with himself. And mighty hungry.
    It was after midday. He was surprised Maggie hadn’t come down at some stage that morning. With coffee. Or with an excuse for a chat.
    “What was going on in that tangled mind of hers this fine day? He looked up at the large windows in Maggie’s great room, but the sun only created an opaque reflection of ocean and scrub.
    He wiped his hand on an old rag and straightened his T-shirt as much as he could, then jogged up the stairs, two at a time.
    Maybe today he could ask her more about her career. That would be a neat segue into offering to make dinner at his place, where he could show off his collection, including the Sidney Nolan in his bedroom. Hey, that could be his opening line: Come up to my place and check out my Nolan.
    Grinning, Tom called out, “Hey, Maggie, I’ve got leftover fettuccine in the fridge. Prepare your taste buds - “
    But he stopped short when he found himself face to face with Maggie’s back while three other women, all sitting in various stages of repose on an odd assortment of seats, all drinking red wine, all looked back at him with varying levels of interest.
    “Afternoon, ladies,” he said.
    At the sound of his voice, Maggie scrambled to her feet. “Tom! Hi. Umm. Heck, what’s the time? Is it after midday already?”
    “So my stomach tells me.”
    An unlikely femme fatale in combat boots and pigtails pulled herself out of a deep beanbag and sauntered his way. She held out a hand and followed through with a nubile body until she was all but bodily against him.
    “Sandra Klein,” she said. And all he could think was; girls like her get younger every year.
    Tom Campbell,’he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
    “Sorry. I should have introduced you,” Maggie blustered, her grey eyes bright, her cheeks flushed. Too much red wine? Or had he walked in on something she’d rather he hadn’t?
    Tom, this is Sandra. She’s a cartoonist.”
    “Anything I might have seen in the funny papers?” he asked.
    “Hardly,” Sandra huffed, affronted with him, which he had kind of hoped would happen, and slumping back down into her beanbag. Was it leather?
    “She has her own comic. It’s huge in the feminist fiction market,” Maggie explained, her tone hushed, warning him that she of the suggestive eyes might claw his eyes out with her black painted fingernails if he wasn’t careful. “Each of these talented women is a member of the fertile Sorrento artists’ community. Not one of them paints beach huts.”
    That was code just for