Read Online Five's A Crowd by Kasey Michaels - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kasey Michaels
Ads: Link
he said evenly.
“Uh-huh, sure, feed me that same tired line. I’ll bite,” the reporter answered archly, scribbling on a steno pad. “Now, Ms. Angel—how do you feel about Holden’s good friend Amanda?”
“Well, for one, Nancy, I think she’s much more well-mannered than you,” Taylor responded, smiling directly into one of the television cameras.
“Easy, Taylor,” Holden whispered. “Not nice to poke sticks in reporters’ cages. Even the baby ones have big teeth.”
“Maybe it’s not,” Taylor answered, also in a whisper, and also while still smiling, “but it’s fun. What’s she going to do, tell her readers I said she was rude?”
“You’ll wish that was all she writes,” he said against Taylor’s ear, hearing the click of the cameras as the photographers snapped pictures of the two lovebirds as if they were whispering sweet nothings to each other. “All right, guys,” he said then, as the questions started all over again, “if you want anything else, you’ll have to go through Sid. He knows everything. For now, how about you give us a little break and a little privacy?”
Just as Holden was guiding Taylor past the line of cameras, thinking they had come away from their first confrontation with the press relatively unscathed, a car pulled to a screeching halt at the curb and Rich “The Nose” Newsome hopped out, as welcome as a plague in May—or any other time.
“So what did you do, Rich?” Holden asked, looking at his longtime nemesis, the sports columnist who had taken an instant dislike to Holden—why, he’d never know—the minute he’d signed with the Philadelphia team eleven years ago. “Rent a helicopter?”
“Ha-ha, Masters. You’re a funny man,” New-some responded nastily, bounding over the curb and across the grass to stick a miniature tape recorder right up under Holden’s nose. “Before you go scurrying back to your love nest, how about you explain why Ms. Taylor Angel is listed in the New York City telephone directory as a professional masseuse?”
“Who is this guy?” Taylor snapped, and Holden felt the first small ground-shakings of rapidly impending doom. “Look, buddy,” she said before he could stop her, pointing a finger at Rich Newsome, “that’s licensed physical therapist and licensed massage therapist, and that’s what it says both in the Manhattan phone book and on my licenses. Get your facts straight, okay?”
“Massage therapist, huh?” Newsome countered, his grin so oily Holden was surprised it didn’t slide right off his face. “From Manhattan, too, just where I found your name when I did a little quick research. So, tell me again, off the record, of course—what block of Forty-second Street do you work on, honey? I might want you to run those pretty hands over me someday. How much? Fifty bucks cover an hour alone with the lovely Ms. Angel?”
T AYLOR KEPT MASSAGING Holden’s right hand, gently pulling on his fingers one at a time, working the soreness out of his knuckles. “You shouldn’t have hit him, you know. That was really dumb, dumber than my dig at that Nancy woman. And it was all my fault. I shouldn’t have gotten angry in the first place. After all, I’m used to snide remarks from jerks when my profession is mentioned.”
Holden pulled his hand away from hers and fell back against the couch, looking so sweet and vulnerable that she longed to kiss him. Which was a dangerously stupid reaction. “He as good as called you some sort of hooker, Taylor. And not even a high-priced one. What did you expect me to do—give him a cookie?”
She reached up to begin working out the knots in his right shoulder, although he hadn’t complained about any soreness. She just knew his body now, knew it probably better than he did himself, and although he’ had delivered a remarkably fine right across to Rich “The Nose” Newsome’s kisser, his arm still wasn’t in any shape for such heroic displays. “It’s too late for a
“Uh-huh, sure, feed me that same tired line. I’ll bite,” the reporter answered archly, scribbling on a steno pad. “Now, Ms. Angel—how do you feel about Holden’s good friend Amanda?”
“Well, for one, Nancy, I think she’s much more well-mannered than you,” Taylor responded, smiling directly into one of the television cameras.
“Easy, Taylor,” Holden whispered. “Not nice to poke sticks in reporters’ cages. Even the baby ones have big teeth.”
“Maybe it’s not,” Taylor answered, also in a whisper, and also while still smiling, “but it’s fun. What’s she going to do, tell her readers I said she was rude?”
“You’ll wish that was all she writes,” he said against Taylor’s ear, hearing the click of the cameras as the photographers snapped pictures of the two lovebirds as if they were whispering sweet nothings to each other. “All right, guys,” he said then, as the questions started all over again, “if you want anything else, you’ll have to go through Sid. He knows everything. For now, how about you give us a little break and a little privacy?”
Just as Holden was guiding Taylor past the line of cameras, thinking they had come away from their first confrontation with the press relatively unscathed, a car pulled to a screeching halt at the curb and Rich “The Nose” Newsome hopped out, as welcome as a plague in May—or any other time.
“So what did you do, Rich?” Holden asked, looking at his longtime nemesis, the sports columnist who had taken an instant dislike to Holden—why, he’d never know—the minute he’d signed with the Philadelphia team eleven years ago. “Rent a helicopter?”
“Ha-ha, Masters. You’re a funny man,” New-some responded nastily, bounding over the curb and across the grass to stick a miniature tape recorder right up under Holden’s nose. “Before you go scurrying back to your love nest, how about you explain why Ms. Taylor Angel is listed in the New York City telephone directory as a professional masseuse?”
“Who is this guy?” Taylor snapped, and Holden felt the first small ground-shakings of rapidly impending doom. “Look, buddy,” she said before he could stop her, pointing a finger at Rich Newsome, “that’s licensed physical therapist and licensed massage therapist, and that’s what it says both in the Manhattan phone book and on my licenses. Get your facts straight, okay?”
“Massage therapist, huh?” Newsome countered, his grin so oily Holden was surprised it didn’t slide right off his face. “From Manhattan, too, just where I found your name when I did a little quick research. So, tell me again, off the record, of course—what block of Forty-second Street do you work on, honey? I might want you to run those pretty hands over me someday. How much? Fifty bucks cover an hour alone with the lovely Ms. Angel?”
T AYLOR KEPT MASSAGING Holden’s right hand, gently pulling on his fingers one at a time, working the soreness out of his knuckles. “You shouldn’t have hit him, you know. That was really dumb, dumber than my dig at that Nancy woman. And it was all my fault. I shouldn’t have gotten angry in the first place. After all, I’m used to snide remarks from jerks when my profession is mentioned.”
Holden pulled his hand away from hers and fell back against the couch, looking so sweet and vulnerable that she longed to kiss him. Which was a dangerously stupid reaction. “He as good as called you some sort of hooker, Taylor. And not even a high-priced one. What did you expect me to do—give him a cookie?”
She reached up to begin working out the knots in his right shoulder, although he hadn’t complained about any soreness. She just knew his body now, knew it probably better than he did himself, and although he’ had delivered a remarkably fine right across to Rich “The Nose” Newsome’s kisser, his arm still wasn’t in any shape for such heroic displays. “It’s too late for a
Similar Books
