Paradise Burning Read Free Page A

who had dug in her
heels and clung to AKA as if it were the only safe place on earth .
. .
    Mandy stalked into the suite’s bedroom, slung
her overnight bag onto one of the two queensize beds, and turned to
find herself reflected in a bank of mirrors filling the wall above
an oversize dresser. Face crumpling, she sat abruptly on the end of
the bed.
    Double shit .
Could she look any worse? Lank brown hair scraped into a pony tail
that probably hadn’t looked neat since five minutes after she
popped on the scrunchie this morning somewhere in Virginia. Not a
drop of make-up. Like there was some rule that female computer
nerds didn’t even own lipstick. Nose too small, mouth too big.
Cheekbones . . . not bad. Eyes . . . gold-flecked green that would
look a hell of lot better enhanced by eye shadow and mascara.
Figure? Tallish, slim, with boobs that had never blossomed no
matter how many hot tears she’d shed in teenage agony.
    And then there were the frayed jeans
and ancient KISS T-shirt from Goodwill. The leather jacket,
however—Mandy stroked its soft black sheen—now that came from Neiman-Marcus, one of few
fashionable items in her current wardrobe.
    But even back in the days when she’d made an
effort, she hadn’t exactly been a fashion plate. No wonder Peter
had called her Mandy Mouse.
    How much of her clothing choice was flat-out
rebellion? she wondered. How much simply giving up? After all, what
did it matter?—her computer didn’t care what she wore. And her
colleagues most definitely didn’t want a mini-Eleanor in their
midst. So she’d fitted herself to AKA’s control room, by personal
choice and by calculated design.
    But now . . .
    Now she was going to be working
for—working with —Peter. No way
was she going to show up looking as jarringly out of place as she
did in this elegant suite of rooms designed for the ease and
comfort of successful business types. It wasn’t as if she didn’t
know about make-up. She’d sneaked in beauty makeovers at Saks
nearly every time she made it into Boston. Amazing what those
cosmetic specialists could do. And she got a kick out of their
crows of triumph when they’d worked their magic and transformed
such unpromising material into something surprisingly close to a
runway model.
    Oh, yeah. Mandy knew her makeup. And as for
clothes . . . She reached for her overnight bag, drew out the two
catalogs she had brought from home. Last night, at her motel in
Virginia, she’d studied the pages, carefully marking numbers on the
front covers. Tonight . . . tonight she’d winnow her list and take
the plunge. Money was not a problem. Eleanor and Jeff believed in
paying their employees commensurate with their skill, and Mandy was
very skilled indeed.
    She’d have supper, then come back to her room
and let the fun begin. The cream of the catalog fashion world was
about to descend on General Delivery, Golden Beach, Florida.
    Or . . . or was that too obvious?
    Pride was a hell of a motivator—she couldn’t
let Peter see how she’d gone to seed. Yet to Peter . . . all those
fine new clothes might look like she was trying too hard. Chasing
him.
    But he didn’t know she’d gone completely
scruffy. He expected her to look at least half-civilized. And with
dewy youth no longer on her side, she needed costly props to
bolster her still-shaken ego.
    Peter should never have left her.
    Half-truths, deliberate self-delusion, could
be so comforting.
    Speaking of self-delusion . . . Mandy raised
her head, once again staring at the disheveled washout in the
mirror. Just where was she expected to live while she worked for
Peter? Everything was arranged, Eleanor had assured her. But
there’d been a strange gleam in her usually cool gray eyes. And the
only instructions Mandy had were directions to Peter’s new
house.
    Grandchildren. That could have accounted for
Eleanor’s look.
    Mandy groaned, plunged her head into her
hands. If they—Eleanor, Jeff, and/or Peter—actually thought she