Jane Bites Back Read Online Free

mouth moved to her neck.
    As his teeth pierced her flesh her eyes flew open.

Chapter 3
    As the gardener turned away and walked in the direction of the potting shed, something slipped from his pocket. Constance stepped forward and took it up, surprised to find that it was a copy of Milton’s
Paradise Regained
prettily bound in green leather. It was clearly much read, and as she turned the pages Constance found herself wondering if perhaps Charles Barrowman’s thoughts encompassed more than just the removal of hedgehogs and the planting of hydrangeas
.
    —Jane Austen,
Constance
, manuscript
    J ANE WALKED INTO F LYLEAF B OOKS CARRYING THE VERY LARGE, very hot, and very black coffee she’d picked up to banish the headache left behind by the wine. Worse than the headache was the lingering memory of her dream.
I behaved so badly
, she thought.
Not at all like a lady
.
    “Nice of you to come in,” Lucy teased. She pushed a lock of long, curly black hair behind her ear.
    In her early twenties, Lucy Sebring was sarcastic, funny, and fiercely intelligent. At her interview two years ago she’d told Jane that she’d left college to play in an all-girl punk rock band whose song titles were lifted from well-known feminist works. After six months on the road together the four of them had all started to get their periods at the same time. They’d broken up one night when, in front of an audience, the bass player deliberately launched into “The Female Eunuch” while the singer shouted the opening lyrics of “Ain’t I a Woman?” The resulting name-calling soon escalated into accusations and tears and ended spectacularly when the drummer, a mousy former philosophy major who had long passages from Valerie Solanas’s
SCUM Manifesto
tattooed on her body, stood up and screamed, “Betty Friedan can’t write for shit!” Lucy had related the story with such skill that Jane had hired her on the spot.
    “By the way,” Lucy said as Jane took off her coat and hung it up, “you might want to take a look at today’s paper.” She nodded to the copy of the
Daily Inquirer
, which was open on the counter.
    Jane picked it up and scanned the front page. “Meade College receives endowment from retired state senator?” she asked, reading the lead.
    “Below that,” said Lucy.
    Jane looked. “Brakeston Lady Beavers advance to district playoffs,” she read.
    “Give me that,” said Lucy, snatching the paper from her. She began to read. “‘Noted author Melodie Gladstone was found wandering down Main Street early this morning after police received calls from several concerned citizens. According to Officer Pete Bear, one of two officers who responded to the scene, Gladstone appeared to be intoxicated or perhaps under the influence of an unknown substance. Gladstone is the author of the bestselling
Waiting for Mr. Darcy
and was in town for a reading at Flyleaf Books.’”
    Lucy flipped the page. “There’s a picture,” she said.
    Jane looked at the shot of Melodie Gladstone. She was in the street, flanked by the two police officers, each of whom gripped one of her arms. Her hair was a rat’s nest, and her eyes were ringed with mascara and eye shadow. Her face wore a lost expression, and her mouth was slightly open.
    “Good heavens,” said Jane. “It looks as if they’ve caught a rabid raccoon. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that they’d had her stuffed and mounted on the wall at the station.”
    “You drove her back to the hotel,” Lucy said. “Did anything happen?”
    Jane shook her head. “I dropped her off and went home,” she replied. “Although now that I think of it, she did say something about wanting to get a drink.”
    “Well, I’d say she got more like six or seven drinks,” Lucy commented. “Just wait until this story gets out. Little Miss Perfect is going to lose a lot of readers.”
    “The poor dear,” said Jane.
    “Yes,” Lucy agreed. “I weep for her.”
    The two exchanged a glance, and Jane