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Authors: Karyn Langhorne
Tags: Romance
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around her consciousness
like a shield. She strode deeper into the place, her
too-round hips bumping and jostling against the
sharp angles of the dancing young people, scanning
the corners of the room for her host’s broad-
shouldered silence. She had already decided: She’d
greet him with that famous line from All About Eve :
“Fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy
night!” and see what developed from there.
“Marks!”
Audra turned toward her name and saw him,
standing in a dark crevice of the room where
the stone bar curved toward darkness. “Marks!”
Bradshaw shouted again over the music, waving his
arm. “Here!”
The sound of his voice erased her carefully pre-
pared dialogue, but the awkward memories of
teenageness also dissipated, so Audra wasn’t en-
tirely mad at him. Her heart skipped a quick beat
as a feeling of excitement and eagerness replaced
the unease that had been there a moment before.
She waved back, smiling, and began her approach,
62
Karyn Langhorne
moving determinedly through the dancing bodies
toward the rear of the room.
He looked delicious: like the sweetest bar of milk
chocolate, luscious from the gleaming skin of his
head to the tips of his toes, and Audra could imag-
ine gobbling him up in a single serving as she took
in the pure sexiness of the man. He looked like he’d
just stepped out of a magazine, from his crisp
seventies-style butterfly-collared shirt in a soft fab-
ric that looked like linen, opened to the smooth
mocha of his perfect throat. He wore dark slacks
and shoes. But it was his face that most capti-
vated Audra’s attention: those liquid eyes, strong
cheekbones—and those lips! Audra imagined her-
self getting a nibble of those beautiful bow-shaped
lips and just the thought of it was better than the
thought of a bag full of Oreos—with a candy bar on
the side.
She pulled at the yellow shawl, baring a bit more
rounded, ebony shoulder, and willed the butterflies
in the pit of her stomach to stillness as a wide,
happy grin spilled across her face.
“Hi, Bradshaw—”
“Art,” he corrected, blessing her with a curve of
those luscious lips.
Audra’s heart did another desperate flutter up
her windpipe and then down to her kneecaps before
she panted out, “Art.”
“Glad you could make it. You look . . .” his eyes
swept over her. Audra gave the yellow top another
tug, showing even more plump shoulder, before he
finished, “nice.”
“Thanks. So do you.” She glanced around. “Looks
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
63
like your daughter has a good turnout.” She peered
around the dance floor. “Which one is she—?”
A woman approached them, gliding confidently
up to Bradshaw and slipping her arm through his
with a certain possessiveness that couldn’t be mis-
taken for anything else. At first, Audra thought she
must be Bradshaw’s daughter, but in another instant
she realized her mistake.
Her skin was the shade of roasted almonds—fair
and smooth. Her hair, long and dark, burnt straight
and smooth by the latest chemical process, gleamed
off her forehead until it disappeared down her back
in a tumbling wave that brushed against the soft
fabric of her blouse. Audra’s breath caught in her
throat: She was wearing the same top Audra had
struggled so mightily to fit into the day before, but
clearly, based on the delicate bones of her shoulders
and the thinness of her, in a very much smaller size.
A tiny flare sprang to life in Audra’s soul, burning
with the unfairness of it all . . . and then the woman
locked eyes with her.
“Audra Marks,” Art Bradshaw turned toward the
woman, his eyes shining with an emotion Audra
thought must be desire, but she couldn’t be certain
in the low lights. “I’d like you to meet Esmeralda
Prince.”
Esmeralda Prince. Esmeralda Prince. The name
tripped off the tongue, made little skipping sounds
through the mind. It was a pretty name
like a shield. She strode deeper into the place, her
too-round hips bumping and jostling against the
sharp angles of the dancing young people, scanning
the corners of the room for her host’s broad-
shouldered silence. She had already decided: She’d
greet him with that famous line from All About Eve :
“Fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy
night!” and see what developed from there.
“Marks!”
Audra turned toward her name and saw him,
standing in a dark crevice of the room where
the stone bar curved toward darkness. “Marks!”
Bradshaw shouted again over the music, waving his
arm. “Here!”
The sound of his voice erased her carefully pre-
pared dialogue, but the awkward memories of
teenageness also dissipated, so Audra wasn’t en-
tirely mad at him. Her heart skipped a quick beat
as a feeling of excitement and eagerness replaced
the unease that had been there a moment before.
She waved back, smiling, and began her approach,
62
Karyn Langhorne
moving determinedly through the dancing bodies
toward the rear of the room.
He looked delicious: like the sweetest bar of milk
chocolate, luscious from the gleaming skin of his
head to the tips of his toes, and Audra could imag-
ine gobbling him up in a single serving as she took
in the pure sexiness of the man. He looked like he’d
just stepped out of a magazine, from his crisp
seventies-style butterfly-collared shirt in a soft fab-
ric that looked like linen, opened to the smooth
mocha of his perfect throat. He wore dark slacks
and shoes. But it was his face that most capti-
vated Audra’s attention: those liquid eyes, strong
cheekbones—and those lips! Audra imagined her-
self getting a nibble of those beautiful bow-shaped
lips and just the thought of it was better than the
thought of a bag full of Oreos—with a candy bar on
the side.
She pulled at the yellow shawl, baring a bit more
rounded, ebony shoulder, and willed the butterflies
in the pit of her stomach to stillness as a wide,
happy grin spilled across her face.
“Hi, Bradshaw—”
“Art,” he corrected, blessing her with a curve of
those luscious lips.
Audra’s heart did another desperate flutter up
her windpipe and then down to her kneecaps before
she panted out, “Art.”
“Glad you could make it. You look . . .” his eyes
swept over her. Audra gave the yellow top another
tug, showing even more plump shoulder, before he
finished, “nice.”
“Thanks. So do you.” She glanced around. “Looks
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
63
like your daughter has a good turnout.” She peered
around the dance floor. “Which one is she—?”
A woman approached them, gliding confidently
up to Bradshaw and slipping her arm through his
with a certain possessiveness that couldn’t be mis-
taken for anything else. At first, Audra thought she
must be Bradshaw’s daughter, but in another instant
she realized her mistake.
Her skin was the shade of roasted almonds—fair
and smooth. Her hair, long and dark, burnt straight
and smooth by the latest chemical process, gleamed
off her forehead until it disappeared down her back
in a tumbling wave that brushed against the soft
fabric of her blouse. Audra’s breath caught in her
throat: She was wearing the same top Audra had
struggled so mightily to fit into the day before, but
clearly, based on the delicate bones of her shoulders
and the thinness of her, in a very much smaller size.
A tiny flare sprang to life in Audra’s soul, burning
with the unfairness of it all . . . and then the woman
locked eyes with her.
“Audra Marks,” Art Bradshaw turned toward the
woman, his eyes shining with an emotion Audra
thought must be desire, but she couldn’t be certain
in the low lights. “I’d like you to meet Esmeralda
Prince.”
Esmeralda Prince. Esmeralda Prince. The name
tripped off the tongue, made little skipping sounds
through the mind. It was a pretty name
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