Dangerous Ladies by Christina Dodd Read Free Book Online

rearview mirror one last time, and something of her simmering rage must have shown through her still mask, for he slammed it in reverse and got her to the right spot.
    A man in a long, dark coat and dark hat decorated with an escutcheon waited to assist her. Was he . . . a footman?
    He was.
    He opened the door.
    A blast of cold air hit her.
    He extended his gloved hand. “Welcome, Miss . . . ?”

    “Miss Michaels. Miss Brandi Michaels.”
    He touched his gloved hand to his hat. “Miss Michaels, Mr. McGrath asked that I extend a special welcome to you. He’s looking forward to seeing you.”
    “Thank you.” Oh, yes, Tiffany would definitely enjoy this.
    Brandi handed him her brand-new Louis Vuitton duffel bag and shoved two twenties at the cabdriver. “Keep the change.”
    “Hey, that’s only three bucks tip. I got you here in a hurry!”
    “And I wanted to be late.” Taking the footman’s hand, she lifted herself out of the warm cab and into the frigid Chicago winter.
    In these shoes she was over six feet tall—five inches taller than the footman and two inches taller than Alan. Not that she cared about that , but for the first time in four years she didn’t have to cater to some man’s ego.
    She looked up at the well-lit exterior of the stone English Tudor home.
    The house spread its wings wide in both directions. Its conical towers rose four stories, and the stones were arranged in fantastic patterns, with half-timber work and roofs and gables that swooped and rose to delight her eyes.
    She knew Uncle Charles’s history; he’d bought the house for his wife—they’d delighted in decorating and entertaining—and when she’d passed away over ten years ago, he’d mourned sincerely. He’d called to talk to Tiffany occasionally; he seemed to feel she understood, and in some ways Brandi supposed she did. After all, death was a kind of abandonment, too.
    “Go on in, Miss Michaels,” the footman advised. “It’s thirty below and the wind’s starting to kick up.”
    She shuddered at the report and hurried up the steps. A tall, burly man with a shaved head and frosty blue eyes surrounded by pale eyelashes held the wide door open for her. She sighed in delight as the heat of the foyer enveloped her.
    “May I see your invitation, please?”
    Brandi glanced at his name tag. Jerry. Security. And everything a
security man should be: He was muscled, his suit was black, his shirt was white, his tie was gray. Two black men and one Asian woman, all dressed precisely like him and with similar impassive expressions, stood in the foyer waiting to welcome other guests.
    That, more than anything, told Brandi how many important people were attending this event to raise money for the Art Institute of Chicago. Uncle Charles feared party crashers, and wanted no violent incidents involving his very wealthy clients and friends.
    Brandi stood, poised and calm, while Jerry examined her invitation, the guest list, and her face.
    Behind her, a well-groomed older Hispanic couple stepped into the door and were treated to the same scrutiny by another security man.
    “Miss Michaels, would you mind if I went through your, er, satchel?” Jerry indicated her bag.
    “Feel free.” She handed him her duffel.
    The other couple shed their coats and watched curiously as her guard placed her bag on the elegantly fragile Queen Anne table against the wall and popped the latch.
    This place was beautiful. Everything was big, tall, expansive—the shining parquet floor, the Old World portraits of stiffly posed, bewigged nobles, the wood-paneled walls. As she admired the newly discovered mahogany on the curved stairway, the crystal chandelier sparkling two stories above her head, and the carved Chinese rugs, her toes curled. The house was as glamorous as Tiffany had hoped.
    She made note of the details to tell her mother—the mother she had yet to inform of her broken engagement.
    Of course, Brandi had spent the day luxuriating in a much-needed