Read Online Fiancé at Her Fingertips by Kathleen Bacus - Free Book Online
Authors: Kathleen Bacus
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say in her defense is that this is very much out of character for her. Very much. Although she has always been encouraged to speak her mind, I have never known her to be deliberately cruel until today. Under the circumstances, Debra, I think it would be best if you left.”
Debra stared at her father. “What? You’re asking me to leave?”
Logan stood. “That’s all right, Stu. I should be the one to go.”
Debra’s father shook his head. “No, Logan, my daughter is leaving.” He turned back to Debra. “When you’ve remembered how to treat a guest in this house, Debra, you’re welcome to return. Until then, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
Debra couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her fatherwas throwing her out in favor of this…this brazen barrister who had invaded their home and her life? She fought the sudden impulse to break into tears, and straightened her shoulders. “Fine, I’ll leave. When you’ve come to your senses and are willing to listen to my side of this horror story, you know where to find me. Bye, Mom.” She walked to the door, then pivoted to face her folks. “Just one thing. Don’t turn your back on Lawyer Logan there for a second. And you might want to consider locking up your valuables and the family silver, because whether you believe it or not, you’re harboring a lying opportunist in your midst.”
Debra slammed out of the house. She stomped to her car and opened the door. She stopped. What was she thinking? She couldn’t just leave. At this moment her unsuspecting parents could be dining with a serial stalker or a certifiable loony tune. Then again, maybe he was just a pumped-up pinup with an overinflated ego who got his jollies using his physical attractiveness to hawk novelty gifts to desperate old maids. Either way, she was not budging until Lawyer Logan vacated the premises. If her father didn’t like it, well, he’d just have to have her hauled off by Springfield’s finest for trespassing.
She shut the door of her red Pontiac and leaned against the car. It was times like this that she wished she smoked. She could blow smoke rings in the air and watch them rise and dissipate. She could study the ash on the end of her cigarette and delicately tap it now and again, sending white-gray ash to the ground while contemplating how her life had become a freaking Stephen King novel.
She stomped her foot against the cement driveway. What on earth could they be talking about in there? She looked toward the street, and her eyes came to rest on the shiny, immaculate Chevrolet Suburban sitting in her parents’ drive. Her eyes narrowed. She glanced back toward the house, then over at the buffed and polished vehicle. With a casual move she pushed away from her car and ambled down the drive, whistling “Secret Agent Man” as she made her way tothe four-wheel-drive vehicle. She snorted when she read the vanity plate.
“‘Made4U’? Yeah, right. In your dreams.”
Debra cast a look back toward the house before she reached out to grab the driver’s door handle. It was unlocked. “Yes!” She slid behind the wheel and looked for the ignition key. Rats . He must have pocketed it.
She examined the interior of the vehicle. It was ultraneat and clean. She sniffed, envious. It still had that new-car smell. Her own car smelled of stale fries and wet dog. She slid the ashtray open. It was spik-and-span. No smoking allowed here. She flipped the visor down to reveal a lighted mirror.
Sliding along the dark gray leather seat, she opened the glove box and pulled out the contents: three road maps— Illinois, Missouri, and a city map of Springfield. A State of Illinois vehicle registration for the 2005 Suburban made out to one Logan Tyler Alexander, 1300 State Street, Springfield—the site of a high-rent high-rise, if Debra’s memory served her right. She tossed the papers aside and continued her search of the glove compartment. Her efforts yielded nothing more
Debra stared at her father. “What? You’re asking me to leave?”
Logan stood. “That’s all right, Stu. I should be the one to go.”
Debra’s father shook his head. “No, Logan, my daughter is leaving.” He turned back to Debra. “When you’ve remembered how to treat a guest in this house, Debra, you’re welcome to return. Until then, don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
Debra couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her fatherwas throwing her out in favor of this…this brazen barrister who had invaded their home and her life? She fought the sudden impulse to break into tears, and straightened her shoulders. “Fine, I’ll leave. When you’ve come to your senses and are willing to listen to my side of this horror story, you know where to find me. Bye, Mom.” She walked to the door, then pivoted to face her folks. “Just one thing. Don’t turn your back on Lawyer Logan there for a second. And you might want to consider locking up your valuables and the family silver, because whether you believe it or not, you’re harboring a lying opportunist in your midst.”
Debra slammed out of the house. She stomped to her car and opened the door. She stopped. What was she thinking? She couldn’t just leave. At this moment her unsuspecting parents could be dining with a serial stalker or a certifiable loony tune. Then again, maybe he was just a pumped-up pinup with an overinflated ego who got his jollies using his physical attractiveness to hawk novelty gifts to desperate old maids. Either way, she was not budging until Lawyer Logan vacated the premises. If her father didn’t like it, well, he’d just have to have her hauled off by Springfield’s finest for trespassing.
She shut the door of her red Pontiac and leaned against the car. It was times like this that she wished she smoked. She could blow smoke rings in the air and watch them rise and dissipate. She could study the ash on the end of her cigarette and delicately tap it now and again, sending white-gray ash to the ground while contemplating how her life had become a freaking Stephen King novel.
She stomped her foot against the cement driveway. What on earth could they be talking about in there? She looked toward the street, and her eyes came to rest on the shiny, immaculate Chevrolet Suburban sitting in her parents’ drive. Her eyes narrowed. She glanced back toward the house, then over at the buffed and polished vehicle. With a casual move she pushed away from her car and ambled down the drive, whistling “Secret Agent Man” as she made her way tothe four-wheel-drive vehicle. She snorted when she read the vanity plate.
“‘Made4U’? Yeah, right. In your dreams.”
Debra cast a look back toward the house before she reached out to grab the driver’s door handle. It was unlocked. “Yes!” She slid behind the wheel and looked for the ignition key. Rats . He must have pocketed it.
She examined the interior of the vehicle. It was ultraneat and clean. She sniffed, envious. It still had that new-car smell. Her own car smelled of stale fries and wet dog. She slid the ashtray open. It was spik-and-span. No smoking allowed here. She flipped the visor down to reveal a lighted mirror.
Sliding along the dark gray leather seat, she opened the glove box and pulled out the contents: three road maps— Illinois, Missouri, and a city map of Springfield. A State of Illinois vehicle registration for the 2005 Suburban made out to one Logan Tyler Alexander, 1300 State Street, Springfield—the site of a high-rent high-rise, if Debra’s memory served her right. She tossed the papers aside and continued her search of the glove compartment. Her efforts yielded nothing more
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