A Woman To Blame Read Online Free

moved downstairs to the storage room. Someone's coming over from Grassy Key to look at it tonight." She leveled a look at him that was meant to tell him she wasn't backing down. "Does that meet with your approval?"
    "You're selling the jukebox?" Before she could reply, he gestured toward the empty corner with his sunglasses. "That jukebox is not leaving Malabar Key," he said, his voice climbing again.
    "Is that an order, Mr. Parrish, or an offer to buy it?" she asked. Picking up the basket of napkins, she walked calmly toward the kitchen door, her bejeweled sandals making slow, soft tapping sounds. Once inside she waited for him, certain that he wasn't going to give up. Not like some men she'd had to stand up to in her career. Not with his fiery personality. Rick Parrish didn't disappoint her, and that made her feel all the more triumphant when she heard him approaching.
    "It's the truth," he bellowed, slamming the door back against the kitchen wall.
    Bryn set the basket on the butcher-block table, slid it back a few inches, and took a measured, calming breath before facing him again. She would have missed the tremor in his hand if she hadn't looked at the door first. He was holding his fingers flat against the wood panel, but lowered his arm when he stepped into the room. If this had been any other man, she would have been impressed with her ability to illicit such a show of emotion. But Rick Parrish had bypassed that kind of self-indulgent reaction and hit her where it mattered. In her reawakening libido. The burst of energy was invigorating. "You're walking around here like the man in charge, but you're not in charge. Not here anyway." She tapped that place below her breasts. "I am. And my eyes are open. This place was in shambles. The accident opened Grandfather's eyes too. He realizes it's time for a change. And I'm only too happy to be the instrument for that change."
    "Change?" Shoving his sunglasses into his shirt pocket, he rested his hands on his hips and lifted his chin toward her. "Except for a few minor repairs, there wasn't a need for this much change. This is a local bar, for locals. Friends. Real people."
    "I have no problem with that. They'll be more than welcome at Chez Madison," she said, folding her arms as she backed up and bumped into the butcher block. "As long as they don't insist on a bucket of peanuts for an appetizer."
    "Look," he said, his voice searching for a reasoning tone. The muscles of his jaw twitched with effort. "I know these people and I know Pappy. I think you ought to stop all of this remodeling business and wait until Pappy sees how far overboard you've gone."
    "Pappy knows what I have in mind. What I want to know is, how does this concern you?"
    "I'll tell you how," he said, tapping his chest with his fingertips. "Anything that happens on Malabar Key is my business." Striding to the opposite side of the butcher block, he leaned over it toward her. "Lady, wake up. People here don't want or need a formal, fancy-ass fern grotto with an unpronounceable menu, expensive wine list, or," he said, taking a folded napkin from the basket, "these toy sailboats, for crissakes."
    She tugged the napkin from his hand. "This one is not a sailboat."
    "Well, pardon me. A bird."
    "It's a bishop's hat. But more importantly, it's made of cloth and has no dirty limericks printed on it." She made a face to lighten the tension, but he wasn't nibbling. Sighing audibly, she allowed a frown to replace her attempt at humor. "Can't you give Chez Madison a chance? I'm not closing the place, I'm simply giving it style."
    "Pappy's Crab Shack had style," he said dryly.
    "Well, now it will have a different style," she said as evenly as she could manage. "This key needs an upscale restaurant, and not only for the pleasure it will bring to the people living here. It's bound to attract tourists, seasonal residents, and perhaps locals from some of the other keys."
    "More outsiders are not what we need around here."
    "If it