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Back The Runaway Heiress Save as PDF
Chapters (75)
  1. Cover
  2. PRAISE FOR MEG TILLY AND HER NOVELS
  3. TITLES BY MEG TILLY
  4. Dedication
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
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  62. 57
  63. 58
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  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  69. Excerpt from SOLACE ISLAND
  70. 1
  71. 2
  72. 3
  73. 4
  74. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  75. What’s next onyour reading list?

He shoved her away. Not hard, but she must have been off-balance, because she gave a little cry as she fell to the floor. And the guilt of accidentally hurting her made him angrier still. “Who is he? You slut. You whore.” As soon as those words were out of his mouth, the caring, pleading expression on her face slammed shut like a steel door. All that was left was a blank, numb sort of grief. A sorrow. As if he had once again disappointed her. But he didn’t care. He was hurting too bad. Needed her to hurt, too. “And to think,” he said bitterly, “that I left my wife for you. What a fool I am.” She was sobbing now, and he was glad. “Tell me who he is!”

She didn’t answer, so he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head up so he could see her lying, duplicitous face. “Who is he, goddammit?!” That was where he had made his mistake. Got too rough. Should have known better, because her leg shot out and swept his feet out from under him. He landed flat on his back with a thud, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Vicki stood towering over him now, filled with all the fury of Medusa herself, and he’d never loved her more.

“Don’t you ever,” she spit out, her eyes narrow slits, “ever lay a hand on me again, old man, or I will beat the crap outta you. Capisce?” She jabbed a deep-red manicured finger into his bony chest. “You. Don’t. Own. Me. No man does.”

Logically, he knew he should probably shut up, but he couldn’t help himself. “Are you fucking him?” He knew he sounded pathetic, but he didn’t care. He needed to know.

She bent even closer, her beloved face twisted in a sneer. “Look, you.” She said it as if he were dog shit on her shoe. “I could welcome the entire male population of New York City between my thighs, and it would be none of your business. Now . . .” She yanked him to his feet, then stormed to her front door and opened it wide. She was magnificent in her rage. “Get out. Of my. House!”

21

Monday, Mick arrived at his office to a shitstorm. The phones were ringing. Lois wasn’t at her desk. Bob, Paul Peterson’s new intern from USC, was running around like a chicken with his head cut off. He was banging cupboards open, rifling through them, letting out a groan and then racing to the next one to repeat the process.

Ring . . . Ring . . .

“What the hell are you doing?”

Bob froze. Then slowly pivoted and swallowed hard. His eyes wide, hands up in the universal gesture of don’t-want-no-trouble-here. What does he think? I’m going to body-slam him to the floor? Mick sighed wearily. “Why are you rummaging through my office?”