Glitter Baby (Wynette, Texas #3)(98)

Fleur held herself stiffly and stared at Belinda. Gradually her mother wilted. “I’ll go now. Watch out for Alexi.” She walked to the door. “And remember. I never meant to cause you hurt. I love you too much.”

Even after all this time, Belinda still didn’t understand that what she’d done was wrong. Fleur gripped the edge of her desk. “You pimped me.”

Belinda looked confused. “The man was Jake Koranda, baby. I would never have given you to anyone else.” She hesitated for a moment and then slipped out the door.



Fleur was exhausted by the time the last of her guests left, but the open house had been a huge success, worth every tired muscle. She slipped into the front hallway and passed through the door that led to her private living quarters in the back of the house. She smelled the eucalyptus she’d piled in wicker baskets, the only decorating touch her bank account permitted for now. Walking into the living room, she flicked on the lights, then collapsed on her secondhand couch. A fringed paisley shawl only marginally disguised its shabbiness, but the peaceful room began to soothe the jagged edges of her tension.

The two-story expanse of metal-paned windows in front of her had come from an old New England textile mill. Through them she saw her small, sunken garden with its lacework of tree branches. Pyracantha bearing bright orange berries climbed the high brick walls. Someday this nearly empty room would be a true haven. She imagined a warm combination of rich walnut furniture, cozy rugs, and antique tables topped with flowers.

The second-floor living room was an open loft fronted by a railing. Fleur wandered over to the railing in her stocking feet. She gazed down the expanse of industrial windows to the kitchen and dining area below. The weathered brick floor held the antique cherry harvest table Michel had given her as a housewarming gift. Now it was surrounded with mismatched chairs, but someday she’d own beautiful old ladder-backs and nubby hand-woven rugs.

She flicked off the living room lights and made her way to her bedroom. On the way, she unzipped her dress and stepped out of it. Wearing her bra and a pair of tap pants, she walked across her bare bedroom floor to her closet. The most beautiful couture wardrobe in New York was stashed away in a bedroom with only a secondhand chest of drawers, a creaky chair, and a double bed missing a headboard. She switched on the closet light and hung up her dress. While she gazed at the array of beautiful clothes Michel had made for her, she took the pins from her hair. As she shook it out, something in the periphery of her vision caught her eye. She gasped and spun around.

Jake lay asleep on her bed.

He lifted his arm and covered his eyes. “Do you have to make so much noise?”

The jeweled hair ornaments fell from her fingers. She stalked over to the bed, her hair flying. “What are you doing here? Get out! How did you get in? I swear—”

“Your secretary let me in.” He yawned. “She thinks I’m a better actor than Bobby De Niro.”

“You’re not. All you know how to do is snarl and squint.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “And you had no right to turn your cheap charm loose on my secretary.” First the basement fire, then Belinda, and now this. She kicked the mattress. “Out of here! This is my house.”

He flipped on the bedside light, and her body—the same body that refused to wake up for any of the men she dated—stirred to life. Although he’d shaved his mustache and cut his hair since the beach party, Jake didn’t look any more civilized. He looked rough and male and infinitely desirable.

He rested his weight on his elbow and performed his own inspection, which reminded her she was standing before him in a vanilla demi-bra and matching satin tap pants. He rubbed the corner of his mouth. “Does all your underwear look like that?”

“Except for my Strawberry Shortcake panties. Now haul your ass out of my bed.”

“Could you maybe put on a robe? Something flannel that smells like bacon grease.”

“No.”

He sat up and dropped his rangy legs over the side of the bed. “I understand you’re pissed I didn’t make your party, but parties aren’t my scene. Still, it was nice of you to invite me.”

“I didn’t invite you.” Will must have. She snatched up her robe from a chair next to the bed and shoved her arms into the sleeves.

Jake’s eyes slid over her. “Is it too late to change my mind about the bacon grease?”

She remembered what Kissy had said about the cool, blond bitch-goddess. She crossed her arms over her breasts and tried to look the part. “What do you want?”

“I’ve got a business deal for you, but you don’t seem to be in the mood to talk.” He rose and stretched. “We can discuss it in the morning while you fix me breakfast.”

“What kind of business deal?”

“In the morning. Where do you want me to sleep?”

“On a park bench.”

He sat back on her bed. “Thanks, this’ll be just fine. Nice, firm mattress.”

She gave him her coldest stare and tried to figure out how to handle this. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t ignore his comment about a business deal, and he obviously wasn’t saying any more tonight. “Take the room at the end of the hall,” she snapped. “The bed’s too short for you and the mattress is lumpy, but if you bang on the wall, the rats will hardly bother you.”