Cavanaugh’s Woman by Marie Ferrarella Read Free Book Online Page B

could see that the answer didn’t sit well with Shaw. “When the time came,” she assured him, “I took an equivalency test. Passed with flying colors, too.” He looked surprised. She realized that she liked surprising him. “Like I said, my father was very, very smart.” There was still skepticism in his eyes. “Ask me anything.”
    He wasn’t about to play a lightning round of Jeopardy with her. In his experience, people didn’t put out challenges like that unless they could live up to them. Besides, there was something else he wanted to know about her. “What made you get into acting?”
    It wasn’t the question she’d expected. She thought he’d take special pleasure in trying to find a question she couldn’t answer. “Natural transition, I guess. I was used to pretending.”
    He came to the only conclusion he could. “Your father used you in his scams?”
    He made it sound so sordid. It hadn’t been anything of the kind. They’d lived in some of the best hotels, and she and Carrie had never wanted for anything. Except, maybe for the traditional life they’d lost.
    In response, she shook her head. The maternal feelings that had her looking after her father as well as her sister kept her from answering his question.
    “See, I told you you were too much of a policeman to hear this. It wasn’t your jurisdiction, Detective. No sense in getting worked up.” She nodded at his empty plate. “So, how was it?”
    He glanced down at the plate and raised a shoulder in a half shrug. “Not bad.”
    Moira splayed her hand across her chest and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Oh, please, sir, you flatter me too much.”
    He didn’t know whether to be irritated or amused. He settled for a mixture of both. “Okay, good. It was good. Satisfied?”
    “It’ll do. For now.” Rising, she picked up both cups and the dish. Instead of depositing them in the sink and leaving them there the way he would have, Shaw watched her wash the cups and plate, then set them on the rack to dry. Since there was no dish towel available, she dried her hands off on the back of her jeans, then turned around to face him.
    “Now what do you do?”
    He frowned, aware that he’d watched her—a bit too intently—wipe her hands off. “Wonder how the hell I got myself into this.”
    She stood over him. Cutting into his space. “Besides that.”
    He glanced at his watch. Instead of answering, he got up and strode to the phone. He flipped open the small phone book he had beside it. Finding his brother’s new number, he tapped it out on the cordless receiver, then waited for Clay to pick up.
    He got the answering machine instead.
    “Damn,” he muttered, hanging up. So much for shooting hoops. He’d waited too long to call. Clay was probably already on his way to the house.
    Moira came up behind him. “Anything I can help with?”
    He spoke before he could censor himself. “Not unless you know how to play basketball.”
    The moment the words were out, he saw her smiling broadly at him. What?
    “This is your lucky day,” she informed him.
    Right. She could play competitively. There was more to basketball than pretending to be a player. “You’re only, what, five-two?”
    Moira drew herself up a little. “Five-four and a half.” She saw that the increased height had no effect on him. “One stick of dynamite can do a lot more damage than a charging rhino.”
    What was that supposed to mean? “Neither of which is known for its skill with a basketball,” he pointed out. His eyes narrowed as he regarded her. “You expect me to believe you play basketball?”
    “No, I expect you to come to that conclusion after we do a little one-on-one. That was what you were trying to do, wasn’t it, find someone to shoot a few hoops with you?” she guessed, then spread her arms out wide. “Well, here I am.”
    Yes, here she was, he thought darkly. A five-foot-four-and-a-half blond thorn in his side. He supposed the best way to get her to stop