Read Online Hex and the Single Girl by Valerie Frankel - Free Book Online
Authors: Valerie Frankel
Ads: Link
to
us—and to the bewitched Brit who’s been searching for her ever since.
“He’s searching for me?” she whined. “How am I supposed to sneak up on him now?” Much as this complicated her case, Emma’s pulse was doing the tango. She couldn’t help remembering their kiss, and a wave of heat careened south.
“Bewitched Brit,” read Victor. “Apropos word choice.”
Ring. Landline. It had to be either Daphne or Susan, and Emma didn’t want to speak to either one. She let her machine get it.
The message: “Emma. Daphne Wittfield. I hope you approve of the photos. You’ll get to put them to use tonight.
William is having a party to preview ArtSpeak, his new software package. It’s at Haiku on 14th Street and Ninth Avenue. I’ll be working the event. I expect to see you there at eight o’clock sharp. Your name is on the guest list.”
Click. Message over.
“She didn’t say goodbye,” said Emma.
“I love Haiku,” he said. “I’ll be your date.”
“I love haiku, too,” said the Good Witch. “Here’s one:
I am not
A brunette;
But I do
Concede
Buxom.”
“Any shade of brown—including bronze—falls under the category of brunette,” said Victor. “And your poem does not follow the haiku format.”
“Daphne’s voice rings in my head like warning bells. And, because of my sensitive hearing, the bells are very loud.”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting a feeling about her,” said Vic.
“I’m not feeling, ” corrected Emma. “I’m hearing.”
“She’s not so bad—for an egomaniacal control freak. I know you like to provide clients with your ’emotional
services.’ Just forget that part. This case is all mind, no heart. Daphne hired you to do a job. Do it, take the money, and be done with it.”
“A job. That’s really all my matchmaking is,” said Emma. “The thing is, I’ve always thought of it as a personal involvement. Like I’m part of something larger than myself.”
“I feel sorry for Dearborn,” said Victor. “You’ve got Daphne for two weeks only. If you succeed, he’ll have to deal with Daphne for a lot longer. Once she reels him in, she’s not going to let him go.”
An image flashed in Emma’s mind. William, naked (as usual), with a rope around his waist. Daphne was pulling the rope, drawing him toward her. William struggled, not understanding why he couldn’t overpower her. He stared at his captor, eyes wild. Then he turned his head and his eyes seemed to look right at Emma, the audience. He said, “What are you waiting for?”
Vic chuckled suddenly, bringing her back to the living room. “I just got an idea for your costume. I can guarantee you he won’t look at you.”
Her heart still pounding from imagined eye contact with Dearborn, Emma said, “Ladies’ room attendant?”
He shook his head. “Considering your history with him, and his history with women, we have only one option.”
“Which is?”
He put down the paper and stood up. “I’ll be back in a few hours with everything we need.”
“Just tell me,” she said impatiently.
“And ruin the surprise?” he asked.
Victor left and Emma was alone with the photos of Daphne. She couldn’t bear to look. Instead, Emma reached for the phone to call Susan. But what would she say? Jeff proved himself a scumbag by touching her and a paranoid maniac by accusing her of spying? It was all too weird. And for Emma, who was weird by any conventional standard, that was saying a lot.
Emma’s mind kept going back to Dearborn. What would he make of these odd images of Daphne when Emma popped
them into his head? Would he think the sun shone out of Daphne’s ass, as the client intended? Or would he be
mystified by Daphne’s apparent cumulous flatulence? What would happen if Emma put herself in his mind? If she did self-serve? For one thing, she couldn’t easily do it. Since she avoided being photographed and hardly ever gazed at herself in mirrors for long languid minutes, she
us—and to the bewitched Brit who’s been searching for her ever since.
“He’s searching for me?” she whined. “How am I supposed to sneak up on him now?” Much as this complicated her case, Emma’s pulse was doing the tango. She couldn’t help remembering their kiss, and a wave of heat careened south.
“Bewitched Brit,” read Victor. “Apropos word choice.”
Ring. Landline. It had to be either Daphne or Susan, and Emma didn’t want to speak to either one. She let her machine get it.
The message: “Emma. Daphne Wittfield. I hope you approve of the photos. You’ll get to put them to use tonight.
William is having a party to preview ArtSpeak, his new software package. It’s at Haiku on 14th Street and Ninth Avenue. I’ll be working the event. I expect to see you there at eight o’clock sharp. Your name is on the guest list.”
Click. Message over.
“She didn’t say goodbye,” said Emma.
“I love Haiku,” he said. “I’ll be your date.”
“I love haiku, too,” said the Good Witch. “Here’s one:
I am not
A brunette;
But I do
Concede
Buxom.”
“Any shade of brown—including bronze—falls under the category of brunette,” said Victor. “And your poem does not follow the haiku format.”
“Daphne’s voice rings in my head like warning bells. And, because of my sensitive hearing, the bells are very loud.”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting a feeling about her,” said Vic.
“I’m not feeling, ” corrected Emma. “I’m hearing.”
“She’s not so bad—for an egomaniacal control freak. I know you like to provide clients with your ’emotional
services.’ Just forget that part. This case is all mind, no heart. Daphne hired you to do a job. Do it, take the money, and be done with it.”
“A job. That’s really all my matchmaking is,” said Emma. “The thing is, I’ve always thought of it as a personal involvement. Like I’m part of something larger than myself.”
“I feel sorry for Dearborn,” said Victor. “You’ve got Daphne for two weeks only. If you succeed, he’ll have to deal with Daphne for a lot longer. Once she reels him in, she’s not going to let him go.”
An image flashed in Emma’s mind. William, naked (as usual), with a rope around his waist. Daphne was pulling the rope, drawing him toward her. William struggled, not understanding why he couldn’t overpower her. He stared at his captor, eyes wild. Then he turned his head and his eyes seemed to look right at Emma, the audience. He said, “What are you waiting for?”
Vic chuckled suddenly, bringing her back to the living room. “I just got an idea for your costume. I can guarantee you he won’t look at you.”
Her heart still pounding from imagined eye contact with Dearborn, Emma said, “Ladies’ room attendant?”
He shook his head. “Considering your history with him, and his history with women, we have only one option.”
“Which is?”
He put down the paper and stood up. “I’ll be back in a few hours with everything we need.”
“Just tell me,” she said impatiently.
“And ruin the surprise?” he asked.
Victor left and Emma was alone with the photos of Daphne. She couldn’t bear to look. Instead, Emma reached for the phone to call Susan. But what would she say? Jeff proved himself a scumbag by touching her and a paranoid maniac by accusing her of spying? It was all too weird. And for Emma, who was weird by any conventional standard, that was saying a lot.
Emma’s mind kept going back to Dearborn. What would he make of these odd images of Daphne when Emma popped
them into his head? Would he think the sun shone out of Daphne’s ass, as the client intended? Or would he be
mystified by Daphne’s apparent cumulous flatulence? What would happen if Emma put herself in his mind? If she did self-serve? For one thing, she couldn’t easily do it. Since she avoided being photographed and hardly ever gazed at herself in mirrors for long languid minutes, she
Similar Books
