Damaged Beauties (Romanced by the Damaged Millionaire (Erotic Romance)) Read Online Free Page B

Coming from downstairs.
    I untangle my legs and dart to the door. I ease myself out of the study.
    “Who?” someone says loudly from downstairs.
    Oh, oh, oh – I recognize that voice!
    I scurry noiselessly to the top of the stairs to listen. After all, I am not forbidden to walk around. If caught, I can always say that I’m bored out of my skull, and I decided to get something to read.
    Ethan Greene is home early.
    “What?” the deep, masculine voice says. Voices don’t change that much, even after ten years. This one is slightly raspier than before, as if he has had a chronic sinus problem. “What did you do that for?”
    Jeffrey’s dulcet tones: “I brought her here to recuperate.”
    “Are you nuts? You should have taken her to the hospital. She could sue, and where would we be?”
    More placating noises. “I thought after what happened the last time, you wouldn’t want her to go to the hospital. Too many questions, remember?”
    “OK. But I want her out of here as soon as she can walk. She can walk, right?”
    “Her legs are not broken.”
    “Good, then she can leave now .”
    Footsteps thud up the stairs.
    I panic. OK, OK, don’t panic. I bolt away from the stairs and towards my room. The diary slips out of my robe and falls onto the floor with a soft plop. Shit. I bend down to scoop it up, aware that the footsteps are now very close. Thank goodness my soles are bare. I run to my bedroom and click the door shut gently.
    I scoot into my mussed-up bed and lie down, my heart drumming for the whole world to hear.
    The footsteps pad up the corridor, coming closer and closer. Oh shoot, he’s coming to visit me! How do I look? Quickly, I pat down my hair and arrange myself artfully against the pillows, trying to dredge up that woozy, just-been-extremely-ill look that I have practiced to a pitch in the past couple of days around Jeffrey.
    I hold my breath to listen.
    Thump, thump, thump , goes my guilty heart. I shouldn’t have taken the diary. He would notice. I slip it under the covers, burying it deep within the folds of the sheet.
    The footsteps stop outside my door. I swallow and brace myself for his entry. How do I look again? Oh yes, I’m not supposed to look carelessly marvelous. I have to resemble a wilting lily. My excitement bubbles despite my attempts to appear ill. I have never seen David Kinney in the flesh. I never had the funds to fuel trips to premieres and stuff like some of the older, richer and crazier fans.
    I tell myself I’m all grown-up now. I shouldn’t be this chuffed to see a (former) celebrity whose posters used to adorn the walls of my bedroom. But I am – God help me, I am!
    I strain to listen. But there is no twisting of the door’s handle. No opening of the somewhat whiny door.
    He’s standing outside. Waiting.
    Not coming in.
    It’s a battle of wills. I’m willing him to enter. (No, I’m not.) He wants to enter . . . but maybe he doesn’t. I don’t know. I don’t know him at all. But I hope to. After I’ve read his diary. Which I will return to his study as soon as he goes away from my doorstep.
    He stands out there for a good five minutes. I can almost hear his breathing. Then again, it might be Jeffrey. No, I’m sure it’s not Jeffrey. Jeffrey would barge right in, usually with a tray of pretty tasty edibles.
    Then the footsteps slowly pad away. I breathe a sigh of relief. I hear the opening of a door down the corridor, and then the quiet shutting of it.
    I hope it’s not the study.
    I shouldn’t have taken the diary. But since I have, I might as well rifle through it. Maybe he will throw me out on my ass if he discovers I have taken it. Maybe he won’t discover I’ve taken it. I don’t know.
    Haste makes me shimmy the diary out from under the sheets and flip through the pages. There are spools and spools of his spiky handwriting. He doesn’t write much. Certainly not every day. My practiced eye glimpses certain phrases that stand out.
    I don’t know how