Mail-Order Millionaire Read Online Free Page A

anywhere in her life. It was warm, it was bright and it was dry. She pulled her hat off and her hair tumbled to her shoulders. She stood in the middle of the room, panting from the climb up the ladder, and stared at the man across the room who was staring at her.
    “You certainly aren’t Fred,” he said.
    “Miranda Morrison, from Green Mountain.”
    His eyes traveled the length of her black stretch pants to her lined boots and back up to her face. “I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”
    She felt the heat rise to her face. “I brought the boots. They’re in the tractor.”
    “Where’s Fred?”
    “He couldn’t make it. His wife’s having a baby.”
    “So he told you to drive up here by yourself?” Max was still staring at her as if she’d materialized out of the mist, although he was quite sure she was flesh and blood.
    “It was my idea,” she confessed. “You said you needed the boots. He said you needed food.”
    She looked as if she needed food herself, this woman who’d just driven a two-ton tractor up a mountain in the fog. She looked as if she were going to keel over if he didn’t do something fast.
    “Sit down.” He pointed to the daybed in the corner and he was glad he’d taken the time to drape it with the brown plaid cover it came with. She sat down gingerly, as if she were afraid it would collapse under her, and he saw her gaze sweep over his desk in the corner, scattered with papers, books and, in the middle, the Green Mountain catalog. She turned her head toward the window that faced east and regarded what would have been an awesome view of the White Mountains if it hadn’t been for the fog.
    He crossed the room and went to the built-in shelves above his desk, casually shoving the catalog under a stack of papers. “What can I get you, a brandy, some sherry? I usually have a drink before dinner. It’s a little early, but under the circumstances...”
    “Nothing, thanks,” she said, straightening her spine. “I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.”
    With a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other, he paused. “No, you don’t. I thought I mentioned that you couldn’t leave. Not tonight. There’s fog out there so thick you could cut it with a knife.”
    “Oh, but I have to leave tonight. Right now, before it gets dark.”
    “Is someone expecting you, your husband?”
    “No.”
    “No, you don’t have a husband, or no, he isn’t expecting you?”
    “I don’t have a husband, but there are people who will worry if I don’t get back.”
    He poured two glasses of an old mellow sherry he’d been saving for some special occasion. “Who?”
    “My sister.”
    He handed her the glass of amber liquid. “You can call her. Tell her there’s zero visibility and that you’re safe.” He watched her eyes narrow as she looked him over. “You are safe,” he assured her, taking the swivel chair and straddling it. “I’m not a sex maniac or a serial killer.”
    A nervous smile played at the corner of her mouth. “How do I know that?”
    “I’ve got letters of recommendation from respectable scientists and even one from the president of the American Chess Association.”
    She pulled the zipper of her jacket up to her chin. “Some of the most devious people in the world are chess players.”
    “Are you?”
    “What, devious?”
    “No, a chess player.”
    “Yes, but I’m not very good at it.”
    He felt the sherry slide down the back of his throat. “We’ll see after dinner.”
    “Dinner?”
    “You didn’t think I’d let you starve, did you?” He stood up and handed her the phone. “Call your sister and I’ll go get the stuff.”
    “You have a service all the way up here?”
    “If not, we’ve got a shortwave radio for emergencies. All the comforts of home.”
    Miranda held the telephone in her hands. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Max’s dark blond head bending over to snap his boots on, his old worn rubber boots. She wanted to wait until he