Read Online The Virgin and the Vengeful Groom by Dixie Browning - Free Book Online Page B

woman who’s been dead for at least a century. And you think you’re sane? Forget it, Lily, your last marble just rolled down the storm drain.
    They took the elevator. Lily preferred the stairs, having an aversion to small, enclosed spaces, but she could hardly ask the man to hump the heavy cart down three flights, then return for the rest of the boxes. They’d left four of them outside her door, along with her suitcase. She had her laptop and her canvas tote with her. The tote was never out of sight. It was her survival kit.
    â€œStand guard over this one while I get the rest.”
    She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it again. “This is a very safe neighborhood,” she replied, and he just looked at her. No words needed.
    â€œSafer than most, anyway,” she called after him as he disappeared inside the old brick apartment house. Something was definitely wrong with his leg. Or maybe his back. He didn’t like elevators any better than she did; didn’t much care for stairs, either, but he wasn’t about to let on. Self-confidence was one thing. Pigheadedness was another. She wasn’t yet sure into which category Powers fell, but she had a feeling she’d soon find out.
    â€œYou do have juice, don’t you?” she asked when the rest of the load had been relayed outside to the parking area.
    â€œJuice?”
    â€œYou know, electricity?”
    Except for his eyes, his expression remained unchanged. Lily could almost swear it was amusement she saw lurking in the dark-blue depths. Lord help her if the man had a sense of humor. She could resist almost anything but that.
    â€œI’ve got juice.” He swung the first box up into the back of his pickup, grimaced and reached for the next one. She said, “We could fit all six boxes in my car if we puttwo in the trunk, three in the back seat and one in the passenger seat.” She’d insisted on driving her own car. He hadn’t argued.
    â€œWhat, you don’t trust me?”
    â€œThe last man I trusted was Santa Claus. I pretty much lost faith when Santa got stoned and forgot what day of the year it was.” Clamping her lips shut, she thought, why didn’t I use that duct tape on my mouth instead of the boxes?
    â€œWe’ll haul ’em in my truck.”
    Lily took one last look at the old brick building, the first place she had ever truly thought of as home. For months she had practically camped out here, refusing to buy anything but the bare necessities in case her luck changed and she had to go back to scrounging to make ends meet. A writer’s income, she’d quickly learned, came in spurts, if at all.
    But her luck had not only held, it had continued to improve. Gradually she had dropped her guard and settled in. First she had bought plants. Next she’d furnished her office. Then she’d bought a faded, but beautiful, old fake Oriental rug, had bookshelves built and quickly filled them. Other touches—chairs and tables—had been added each time she finished a book. The antique doll, a few small, inexpensive paintings, each one representing another small triumph. Until recently it had been her haven, her reward, her favorite place in the world.
    â€œReady to ride?”
    She lifted her chin and tilted her head slightly, the way the photographer had showed her the last time she’d had publicity shots done. It was supposed to imply self-confidence imbued with a hint of mystery. The real mystery was why she was doing this. As for self-confidence…
    â€œReady to ride,” she said.

Four
    C urt handed her a map in case they got separated in traffic. “Just follow the course I’ve marked, watch for the turnoff onto Highway 12 to Hatteras, and keep going until you come to the bridge. I’ll wait there for you.”
    â€œFollow the yellow-marked road? Is that a bit of whimsy? I’d never have suspected it.” If her tone sounded mocking, it