Read Online Miranda's Revenge by Ruth Wind - Free Book Online

hot beneath her fingers, and it made her think of other flesh, rigid and ready to plunge into her, dive—
    â€œMadre,” he whispered, a soft curse.
    Miranda realized that he could see down her blouse—as he had yesterday, and hadn’t she sort of planned this, hoped she would meet him?—to the thin lace clasping her breasts. She certainly could feel the rigidness of nipples shoving at that lace, and could only imagine what he saw.
    And he, too, was aroused, the weight of his sex filling—
    Miranda looked away, her face burning. What was wrong with her? “I’m sorry…I’m…this is…”
    â€œYou all right now?”
    â€œYes. Yeah.” She nodded. Shifted her weigh to demonstrate, brushed hair off her face. Which was probably as red as a tomato.
    â€œI need your help with something,” he said. “I’ll find you later today.”
    â€œAll right.” Miranda waved a hand toward town. “I’ll be around. You have my cell number.”
    For one more moment, he stared at her, his eyes un-readable, then lifted a hand and ran toward the top of the hill.
    In other circumstances, Miranda might have let her knees buckle. Instead she walked shakily toward a bar of shade nearby the building and leaned there, waving a hand. It was the heat, she told herself. That was all.
    After a minute, her limbs felt normal and she looked up the hill the way he’d run. I’ll find you later today. Maybe she’d do better to make sure he didn’t find her.

    Miranda couldn’t find anything for Desi at the St. Vincent de Paul’s, or the secondhand shop. None of the boutiques had had anything. She’d even combed the weekly paper for garage sales, and looked for a costume shop where she might be able to buy something to make over.
    No luck.
    Frustrated, tired and thirsty, she ducked into ReNew, the coffee shop she so enjoyed. The faint smell of patchouli mingled with freshly baked blueberry scones and the dense siren call of freshly ground coffee beans. Miranda halted just inside the door and inhaled deeply. “Heaven,” she said.
    Sarah, a sturdy blond ski bum with bright blue eyes in her tanned face, grinned. “Nothing like the smell of fresh coffee.”
    â€œI’ll have a latte,” Miranda said. “And whatever scone you think is best today.”
    â€œYou got it,” Sarah said. Her voice was low and cracked, a sexy sound that made her seem more worldly. As she measured coffee with efficient movements, she inclined her head. “You’re looking bummed, lady. Everything all right?”
    â€œYeah. Well, aside from my sister being up for murder and all.”
    â€œThat sucks, dude.”
    Miranda nodded, wandering over to the CDs while she waited. Something with a faintly Persian sound played on the overhead speakers. Above the racks was a scarf, beaded and gossamer, and a light flashed in Miranda’s brain. “A sari!” she said aloud, snapping her fingers.
    â€œI’m sorry?” Sarah asked, revealing her upper middle class roots.
    â€œMy sister needs a dress for the wedding. I haven’t been able to find anything decent. A sari would be perfect.”
    The girl poured milk into a pitcher. “Isn’t the wedding in, like, a week?”
    â€œYeah, that’s a problem. Maybe I can find somebody to deliver.”
    â€œThey probably have something in Denver.” She put the milk beneath the steamer and raised her chin toward a bank of computers against the wall. “Check the Internet.”
    The only other person on the computers was a boy with a stocking cap and grimy fingernails, a large backpack at his knee. He typed in some language Miranda didn’t recognize, not quite German. Maybe Danish. She slid into a seat and brought up the Internet and found three places that sold saris in the Denver area. She drank her latte and gobbled the scone, and punched the numbers to each