Diary of an Ugly Duckling Langhorne, Karyn (reading rainbow books txt) 📖

not

the words of a movie script. “I didn’t think anyone

knew that scene but me.”

Bradshaw shrugged. “I love movies,” he said, his

deep voice soft. “Had a film noir phase. A few years

back. Double Indemnity is one of my favorites.”

“Mine, too,” Audra agreed. “I love the banter.

And it’s kind of a love story—”

“Pretty sour ending, though.” Bradshaw grimaced.

“Not many people know the old black-and-whites.

Nice.”

“Yeah . . .” Audra said, and before she knew it,

her face had gone all gaga and gushy and she was

staring at him like he was dessert and she hadn’t

had chocolate in over a year. “Nice for me, too.”

In the pause that followed, Bradshaw’s eyes slid

off her face and focused so steadily on a spot over

her shoulder that Audra turned. There wasn’t any-

thing behind her but wall.

“What are you looking at?”

He hesitated again, and for a flash of a second,

Audra feared her mother might be right. After all,

he’d heard the inmates’ remarks—heard the litany

of fat, black and ugly—and he had eyes after all. For a

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

41

moment her mask of bravado slipped and she

wanted to cover herself head to toe like the Muslim

women in the foreign land where Petra was now

stationed.

“Uh . . . nothing,” he said. His eyes snapped back to

her face and Audra’s concerns were swept away again,

lost in those bright, honeyed orbs fringed by black

lashes. “I . . . uh . . .” he hesitated until Audra quirked

a curious eyebrow at him. “Forget Haines,” he offered

in his clipped, not-a-single-unnecessary-word way.

John Wayne, Audra thought. He talks like John Wayne.

“Warden’s right: be cleared up in a few days.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him—”

“You’re a tough woman. Strong,” Bradshaw said

with a nod.

“Is that a good thing . . . or a bad one?” Audra

laughed, rolling her eyes girlishly.

Bradshaw considered for a long time before reply-

ing, “Good. If you’re a corrections officer,” in a tone

as serious as if she’d asked him to opine on death.

“Which you are.”

Audra stared at him, parsing through the words

fifteen different ways before she decided to just

mark it down as a compliment and move on. She

gazed up into Bradshaw’s eyes, a grin spread over

her face like margarine on burnt toast, and he

stared back, looking unsettled and nervous, like he

was waiting for something to happen and wasn’t

sure it would. They stared at each other a good ten

seconds past the comfortable point as Audra

racked her brain, trying to think of just one of the

clever lines she’d practiced all night—just one fa-

mous movie quip or quote to fill the space—but

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Karyn Langhorne

now that he was standing right in front of her, it

was as if she’d never seen a movie in her life. But it

didn’t matter. Stupid and awkward as she felt,

there was a part of her that would have happily

stayed rooted to this spot, staring at Bradshaw and

dreaming that Fred-and-Ginger ballroom dream

all over again.

As if reading her thoughts, Bradshaw opened his

mouth.

“Do you like parties?” he blurted out in a rush of

words.

Yes! Audra’s soul jumped to her throat, dancing,

and she had to struggle to keep her feet from joining

it. A prayer of gratitude sprang to her lips and she

imagined herself sauntering home just as fat, black

and ugly as she’d left it, and dropping this piece of

news on her mother’s dinner plate.

“You really came through, Bradshaw, you know

that?” she murmured, beaming at him. “I knew you

were different. I just knew it—”

Bradshaw blinked at her in surprise. “What?”

“Forget it,” Audra said quickly. Calling upon the

ghosts of dead divas, she cocked her head and met

his gaze with an expression she hoped said some-

thing sassy and seductive at the same time. “What

did you have in mind?”

He hesitated a little, a puzzled expression gleam-

ing out of those honey-colored eyes. “Having a little

get together. Saturday. For my daughter. Sweet six-

teen.”

Daughter?

“Oh . . .” Audra said, feeling a little like she’d

been doused in cold water. “I—I didn’t know you

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43

had a daughter that old. I guess you and your

wife—”

“Not married . . . and I was a father young. Too

young.” They stared at each other again, each ap-

parently waiting for the other, until he said, “You’ll

come?” he asked sounding suddenly urgent. “I was

hoping you’d . . . talk to her.”

Talk to his daughter? Audra frowned. “You want

me to talk to your daughter ? About what?”

Art Bradshaw’s amber eyes gleamed down at her.

“Girl stuff. The stuff girls have to deal with,” he fin-

ished hurriedly, as if just naming the things girls

had to deal with were too much for him.

Audra shook her head. “This sounds like a job for

her mother—”

“No,” Bradshaw’s voice sharpened to dangerous.

“No help there.”

“Is it just the two of you?”

“Just the two.” He hesitated a moment, then

stepped closer to her, filling the space between them

with warmth and heat. “So you’ll come? Saturday.

Eight o’clock—”

Audra was almost swept away by the despera-

tion radiating in his handsome face, while movie

titles flickered through a mental catalogue in her

brain. There were dozens of mother-daughter

films—but father-daughter? The only one that came

to mind was Father of the Bride . . . and that hardly

suited the circumstance Bradshaw was describing.

Audra shook her head. This was sounding less like

a date and more like a babysitting gig with every

second . . .

“She wanted a party,” Bradshaw said suddenly,

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Karyn Langhorne

sounding almost as though he were talking to him-

self. “A fancy one. To help make friends.”

“I seriously doubt your daughter wants me at her

party—”

“I want you there,” Bradshaw said and now those

lovely golden eyes fixed on her, igniting a fire inside

Audra that erased all of her questions and reserva-

tions. “I need you there, Marks,” he repeated and

Audra stared into those eyes, seeing herself re-

flected in their amber pools, not as fat, black and

ugly, but as a princess as lovely in the eye of the be-

holder