Dangerous Ladies Read Free Page B

trophy wife, and he’d left her and the quietly anguished eleven-year-old Brandi for his twenty-three-year-old secretary and a new baby, a son guaranteed to give him what he needed—a football-uniformed mirror image of his youthful self.
    Except, of course, Brandi’s half brother was now thirteen and supremely uninterested in sports. Instead Quentin was a brilliant computer programmer.
    Brandi felt sorry for Quentin; she knew what it was like dealing with a panicked mother who was losing that dewy glow of youth, a father who didn’t bother to hide his disappointment in his child, and their rapidly disintegrating marriage.
    “I’m sorry, Mother. I’m a bitch.”
    “No, you’re not.”
    “I’m pretty sure I am.” Not always a bad thing, in Brandi’s opinion. “Let’s face it, with his current troubles Daddy has proved he doesn’t know what he wants. Not in a wife. Not in his kids.”
    “Your father is a good man.”
    Brandi smiled bitterly and stroked the slick scales of her treasured old dragon. No matter how much Daddy screwed Tiffany over, she never said a nasty word about him. When Brandi was a teenager she might have been conflicted if Mother had badmouthed him, but those days were long gone.
    Daddy was not a good man. He was self-centered, abusive, and manipulative, and no one knew that better than Brandi.
    “When you get off the phone with me, call him. He’ll want to hear that you got there safely.”

    “Oh, Mother. He’ll barely remember I moved.”
    “And tomorrow’s his birthday.”
    “Oh. I forgot.” He’d probably forgotten, too, but Tiffany kept up the pretense that he was a normal man who celebrated special occasions, probably because that way Brandi was forced to communicate with him on a semiregular basis.
    When Brandi thought of talking to him, of the chance that he would yell at her, or, worse, of the possibility that he wouldn’t have time to speak to her, her stomach hurt. She always put it off as long as possible.
    That was why she’d gotten engaged to Alan. He might not be a man of fire and passion, but he was steady and dependable—or he had been until she needed him.
    And Mother was right about that, too. He probably had a whopper of an excuse. But Brandi—who’d broken a fingernail down to the quick, whose deodorant had failed hours ago, who was dehydrated and didn’t dare drink her bottled water because she couldn’t flush—wasn’t in the mood to hear it right now.
    “Alan’ll be by soon.” Mother used a conciliatory tone. “Maybe he’ll come tonight to take you out to dinner.”
    “I don’t want him to take me out. I want him to help me unpack.” Yep. Definitely bitchy.
    “No, go out! You should seize every chance for a good time right now, while you’re young.” About this, Tiffany sounded fierce.
    And that made Brandi squirm with guilt. The reason Tiffany hadn’t been out there kicking up her heels was because she’d been trying—not succeeding, but trying—to make a living for Brandi. “Mother, you’re not exactly old. You’re not even fifty. You could get out there and have a good time.”
    “Men my age want women your age, and men who want women my age are too old to have a good time. In every way.” Tiffany’s voice was droll. “But actually, I’ve been thinking. . . .”
    “What?”
    Tiffany hesitated.

    “What?” It wasn’t like her mother to be coy. Quite the opposite.
    “I wish I could be there to help you!” Tiffany burst out. “I miss you!”
    Brandi would have sworn that wasn’t what Tiffany intended to say. But she was too tired, too dirty, too disheveled to dig for the truth. “I haven’t lived at home for seven years. You can’t miss me that much.”
    “I know, but it’s different with you so far away. When you were at Vanderbilt you were right across town, and I thought if you needed me, I could get to you right away. Now . . .”
    “I’m okay, Tiffany. Really. I’m good at taking care of myself.” A lot