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Authors: Karyn Langhorne
Tags: Romance
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. . . one that
suited her, conjuring as it did the very kind of
smoky, distant beauty this woman was in possession
of. Audra stared at her, drinking in every detail of
her features, from the perfect café au lait of her skin
64
Karyn Langhorne
to the sculpted bones of her cheeks and the way the
designer blouse hung as perfectly off her shoulder
as it had on the boutique mannekin. Audra realized
that the top she’d wanted to buy wasn’t a top at all,
but a tunic—and Esmeralda wore it like a dress,
with nothing beneath it but a pair of stiletto heels.
Audra watched her green eyes, shadowed with dra-
matic makeup as they flickered with some unspo-
ken thought and wondered if there were enough
makeup on the planet to make her own face look
like that.
Esmeralda Prince appraised Audra dispassion-
ately as she quirked an exquisitely shaped eyebrow
over a lovely sea-green eye, then shook her dark
tresses.
“Nice to meet you,” she said in a husky, sexy
voice.
With a fresh stab of ugliness, Audra felt the con-
trast. Standing side by side, Esmeralda was like a
sunrise and Audra the deepest midnight; Esmeralda
was a leggy twig . . . and Audra a dumpy donut, a
hole in her center where her heart should have been.
But it wasn’t the voice or the woman’s obvious
beauty that made a sharp pain skewer her heart like
a shish kebab. It was the way Art Bradshaw’s hand
curved over the woman’s shoulder, the way his eyes
locked on her face when she spoke, even though she
wasn’t looking at him.
Art Bradshaw was completely in this elegant
woman’s thrall . . . in the same fascinated way Au-
dra was in his.
Queen of Denial . . . her mother murmured in her
ear. Queenie D . . .
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
65
Looking at the two of them was like a rock in the
face of her perfect fantasy. Audra watched her illu-
sions fracture and shatter like so much glass.
But there they were, staring at her, waiting for her
to say something. Audra suppressed the thousand
needles of mortifications prickling beneath her skin,
and tossed her head, diva-style.
“Charmed, darling,” she purred, offering a limp
hand in perfect imitation of the silver screen legend.
“Bette Davis,” Bradshaw said immediately, his
smooth low voice rumbling over the hip-hop beat
surrounding them. To Esmeralda: “Audra’s a fan of
the old movies.”
Esmeralda’s eyebrow arched even higher as she
said in a not entirely pleasant tone: “You two would
be perfect for each other.” She reached for a small,
shimmery handbag resting on the table. “I’ll be in
the ladies’.”
There was an awkward pause as she shrugged
Bradshaw’s hand from her shoulder and stalked
away.
Art Bradshaw frowned. “Don’t mind her,” he be-
gan, his eyes following the sway of the woman’s
hips as she disappeared. “She’s—”
“Rude,” a youthful voice completed the sentence,
replete with attitude.
Bradshaw turned toward the table behind him. In
the dim candlelight, a teenage girl in a relatively de-
mure black dress hunched over a soda, her shoul-
ders drawn tight to her shoulders, as though trying
to blend into the scenery.
“Cut it out, Penny,” Bradshaw said, warning in
his tone.
66
Karyn Langhorne
“But it’s true, Dad—”
“No, it’s not—”
“She only gets away with it because she’s pretty,”
Penny insisted. “The rules are always different if
you’re pretty enough—”
“That’s enough, Penny,” Bradshaw snapped,
sounding at the crust of his patience. “Now come
and say hello to Ms. Marks.”
“Do I have to?”
“Now!” Bradshaw barked, making it clear that
that remaining crust of his patience had now been
consumed. Even over the loud music, several youth-
ful heads turned toward them.
Penny slid out of her chair, rolling her eyes. “Gee,
thanks, Dad,” she hissed. “It’s bad enough we’re
throwing this stupid party in the first place, do you
have to humiliate
suited her, conjuring as it did the very kind of
smoky, distant beauty this woman was in possession
of. Audra stared at her, drinking in every detail of
her features, from the perfect café au lait of her skin
64
Karyn Langhorne
to the sculpted bones of her cheeks and the way the
designer blouse hung as perfectly off her shoulder
as it had on the boutique mannekin. Audra realized
that the top she’d wanted to buy wasn’t a top at all,
but a tunic—and Esmeralda wore it like a dress,
with nothing beneath it but a pair of stiletto heels.
Audra watched her green eyes, shadowed with dra-
matic makeup as they flickered with some unspo-
ken thought and wondered if there were enough
makeup on the planet to make her own face look
like that.
Esmeralda Prince appraised Audra dispassion-
ately as she quirked an exquisitely shaped eyebrow
over a lovely sea-green eye, then shook her dark
tresses.
“Nice to meet you,” she said in a husky, sexy
voice.
With a fresh stab of ugliness, Audra felt the con-
trast. Standing side by side, Esmeralda was like a
sunrise and Audra the deepest midnight; Esmeralda
was a leggy twig . . . and Audra a dumpy donut, a
hole in her center where her heart should have been.
But it wasn’t the voice or the woman’s obvious
beauty that made a sharp pain skewer her heart like
a shish kebab. It was the way Art Bradshaw’s hand
curved over the woman’s shoulder, the way his eyes
locked on her face when she spoke, even though she
wasn’t looking at him.
Art Bradshaw was completely in this elegant
woman’s thrall . . . in the same fascinated way Au-
dra was in his.
Queen of Denial . . . her mother murmured in her
ear. Queenie D . . .
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
65
Looking at the two of them was like a rock in the
face of her perfect fantasy. Audra watched her illu-
sions fracture and shatter like so much glass.
But there they were, staring at her, waiting for her
to say something. Audra suppressed the thousand
needles of mortifications prickling beneath her skin,
and tossed her head, diva-style.
“Charmed, darling,” she purred, offering a limp
hand in perfect imitation of the silver screen legend.
“Bette Davis,” Bradshaw said immediately, his
smooth low voice rumbling over the hip-hop beat
surrounding them. To Esmeralda: “Audra’s a fan of
the old movies.”
Esmeralda’s eyebrow arched even higher as she
said in a not entirely pleasant tone: “You two would
be perfect for each other.” She reached for a small,
shimmery handbag resting on the table. “I’ll be in
the ladies’.”
There was an awkward pause as she shrugged
Bradshaw’s hand from her shoulder and stalked
away.
Art Bradshaw frowned. “Don’t mind her,” he be-
gan, his eyes following the sway of the woman’s
hips as she disappeared. “She’s—”
“Rude,” a youthful voice completed the sentence,
replete with attitude.
Bradshaw turned toward the table behind him. In
the dim candlelight, a teenage girl in a relatively de-
mure black dress hunched over a soda, her shoul-
ders drawn tight to her shoulders, as though trying
to blend into the scenery.
“Cut it out, Penny,” Bradshaw said, warning in
his tone.
66
Karyn Langhorne
“But it’s true, Dad—”
“No, it’s not—”
“She only gets away with it because she’s pretty,”
Penny insisted. “The rules are always different if
you’re pretty enough—”
“That’s enough, Penny,” Bradshaw snapped,
sounding at the crust of his patience. “Now come
and say hello to Ms. Marks.”
“Do I have to?”
“Now!” Bradshaw barked, making it clear that
that remaining crust of his patience had now been
consumed. Even over the loud music, several youth-
ful heads turned toward them.
Penny slid out of her chair, rolling her eyes. “Gee,
thanks, Dad,” she hissed. “It’s bad enough we’re
throwing this stupid party in the first place, do you
have to humiliate
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