The Saint Read Online Free Page A

An unobtrusive Luther slipped a glass of tea in front of her, and she smiled in thanks while her agent glared and shook a nearly empty bottle of wine. She hoped that Ben tipped well. Perhaps bad manners were easier to take if one left thirty percent.
    â€œSo, are you ready or not?” Ben demanded.
    â€œ
You
don’t tell jokes.
I
don’t hurry my decisions,” she answered. “This sounds very weird, and I have some questions.”
    â€œHmph! So ask.”
    Right. But where to begin when it was all so weird?
    Ben drummed his fingers on the table while he watched her, making Adora want to swat them. She also wanted to tear off his tie pin, which was probably very fashionable but was made of some bright plastic and looked like a tub toy. Ben chased fashion trends, and his tie was a reminder that he had never quite matured into an adult—meaning compassionate and responsible—human being. Instead of giving in to impulse, she sat calmly, saying nothing while he sulked and she thought the matter through.
    There were many things to consider, but what interested her most was why she had been approached for this job. It probably wasn’t because her prospective employer had actually read her work. After all, almost no one had. She supposed it might be a case of having tried everyone else and failed. Or maybe they had approached Ben and asked—discreetly—if he had any writers desperate enough to take this project on. Ben would have heard the word “desperation” and naturally thought of her. After all, she badly needed money. And she wasn’t married—wasn’t even currently involved with anyone—had no pets or other dependents to object if she took the job. Also, she didn’t share normal people’s interests. To her, ancient scandals were more interesting than current ones. She often found dead guys of more interest than live ones. To her, a deceased, crazed poet was more attractive than a live movie star, so perhaps Ben had a valid reason to believe that this project was one that would appeal to her.
    On the other hand—Santa Claus? How big a kook did he think she was?
    Even before she’d heard the outline of this job, Adora had had reservations about working for another supposed philanthropist. She hadn’t known many people who worked full-time doing nothing but good deeds—only two, in fact—but two was plenty. “Old money” was peculiar—reserved, even hostile. She had always suspected that, had she made her request for their family historical documents—which might as well be called
Scandalous Family Secrets I’d Rather Die than Reveal
—in some lonesome library instead of a well-lit office with lots of witnesses, those so-called philanthropists would have ordered their loyal family retainers to bludgeon her to death with their sterling silver candlesticks, or to flatten her body with their Rolls-Royce limos.
    They always questioned why she would want to hear the sordid details of past scandals. All she could think was,
were they kidding?
Any man on the street could tell them that the sordid details of past scandals were the mortar that held the dry bricks of a person’s life together. And it was their foibles and flaws that made mythical beings back into humans, made them appealing to Joe Everyman.
    Still, not everyone wanted to be descended from mere mortals, and many of the rich would do anything to see that their ancestors’ legends remained just that. It was a free country, though, and so all they could do was refuse access to their archives— which they usually did. Not that such actions stopped Adora from getting at the truth—once focused, she was like a hungry wolf after its lunch. But it certainly slowed her down and caused her a lot of headaches.
    Of course, not everyone was publicity shy. A couple of times she had been courted by the rich and famous who were finally feeling death’s icy