Read Online Fool Me Once by Fern Michaels - Free Book Online Page A

tasted dry. She lifted off the top slice of bread. Her father had forgotten the lettuce and mayo. He must really be upset with her. Dutifully, she ate the sandwich anyway and washed it down with coffee. All the while her gaze stayed on the white envelope.
    Clarence.
    Cecil.
    Adrian Ames.
    She was getting a headache.
    Olivia picked up the letter by the corner, as if touching it would somehow contaminate her. She walked through the house till she came to a small room that at one time had been a guest room and was now her in-home office. She had a desk, a computer, two colorful, small canvas chairs, a fax machine, and a state-of-the-art color copier. The first thing she did was drop the envelope on the desk. Then she settled herself in her ergonomic chair, turned on the computer, and headed for the Net. She typed in the name Adrian’s Treasures, figuring there was a Web site. She remembered ordering from the catalog before but had never been to the Web site. It was impressive, definitely a high-end one. She reared back in her chair when the screen in front of her flashed her mother’s picture. It was a close-up, airbrushed, to be sure. Olivia leaned closer to see if she could see any resemblance to herself. She couldn’t. The woman didn’t look anything like her or the woman in the picture she’d removed from the mantel. Thank God she took after her father. Adrian Ames didn’t look the least bit like a mother—not even coming close to looking like Mrs. Pellecone. Adrian Ames was hard-looking, with bleached hair and too much makeup. She had small eyes and thin lips and a real honker for a nose. Not any kind of pretty.
    Olivia scanned the categories on the side of the screen. She checked them all. Her mother’s history, presented in an interview format, was a short summary of how she had gotten started in the business and the trials and tribulations of a woman trying to make it in a very tough market. She catered to housewives. Women who had to watch their pennies. She herself, she declared, liked fine things and had found a way to sell cheap imitations the housewife could afford. No, she wasn’t a housewife, but she understood the mind-set of a woman both raising children on a limited budget and wanting fine things. On holidays, the interviewer said, Ms. Ames offered free shipping.
    How had it all started? Baby bracelets. Those little beads new babies were given at birth to identify them. “I took it one step further by making the beads colorful and sizing them accordingly, with a tough, resilient elastic,” Ames said. “A money-back guarantee was offered. One has to stand behind one’s products. The bracelets led to other articles until I had enough for a full-featured catalog. I bet my shirt and gambled. It worked.”
    The article went on to ask if she’d ever married. Ms. Ames said she was married to her business. Did she regret not having children, a family? She said her customers were her family, and one couldn’t miss something one never had.
    And the rest was history.
    There was a little more to the article. The long hours, doing things herself. Her confidence. Her philanthropy. Her collection of cars, her many houses. Her incredible wealth. How her employees adored her. The lavish Christmas presents she bestowed on her faithful staff. She had no immediate family.
    â€œWhat a crock.” Olivia clicked on a button to bring up pictures of the home of Adrian Ames, a.k.a. Allison Matthews Lowell. She whistled approvingly. “Way to go, Mommie Dearest,” she mumbled as she scanned the lavish estate and its designer rooms. Obviously mail-order was the way to go.
    Olivia clicked on the BACK button and proceeded to print out the articles and pictures for her father’s benefit. Certainly not hers. After he looked at them, she’d toss them into the fireplace.
    Olivia reached for the envelope. It felt heavy. Great. It was probably Adrian Ames’s life