Honey by Jenna Jameson Read Free Book Online Page A

move beyond earshot and then leaned in to say, “So, doctor, we meet again.”
    Marc started, belatedly realizing she’d beaten him to breaking the ice. He hadn’t figured her for the initiator, especially considering the circumstances of their first meeting. But that glowering gaze left no doubt that Ms. Honey Gladwell was not about to stand for being compartmentalized into the narrowly circumscribed role of “victim.” That she actually was a victim, both of Winterthur and of her own dubious life choices, suddenly seemed, if not beside the point, certainly tangential to it. Honey Gladwell was a victim—but the stubborn tilt to that chin and the sparks shooting from her brown eyes assured him she was a hell of a lot more.
    â€œLook, about the other day—”
    â€œYou should know I hate snoops.”
    Jesus, she’d done it again, not just preempted him, but cut him off. What was next? Pull the knife out of the Brie and brandish it to his balls? Shove a discarded champagne cork up his ass? And seriously, snoops? What was up with the vintage vocabulary?
    â€œI wasn’t … that is, I’m not a snoop. I’m a doctor.” At this rate he wouldn’t be one for much longer. “I was concerned for your well-being. If I gave you the wrong impression or made you feel uncomfortable in any way, I’m sorry.”
    The look she sent him could have frozen water. “I suppose this is the point at which you’re going to ask me not to say anything. Don’t worry, I’m not planning to … so long as you let it go. Understood?”
    It really was true. No good deed went unpunished. He’d tried to save her and because of it she had him by the balls.
    â€œOkay, deal.”
    He had no choice. She was an adult woman, apparently fucked in the head but technically of sound mind. If she wanted to stay with someone who periodically pulverized her, neither Marc nor anyone else could make her do otherwise. As Denison repeatedly pointed out, he couldn’t save everyone. For now he changed the subject—sort of.
    Jerking his head toward the bar, he said, “So that’s him, huh? Mr. Single Malt?”
    She cast a disparaging downward look at the Stella in his hand. “If you mean my boyfriend, then yes, he is.”
    Marc took another swallow—from the bottle—the warm beer sliding down his suddenly dry throat. What was it about Honey Gladwell that had him feeling as though he was once more that awkward sixteen-year-old trying to strike up the courage to ask one of the popular girls to the junior prom?
    â€œFinance guy, huh?”
    She lifted her chin, swollen no more but delicate and softly rounded. “Drew manages one of the highest yielding hedge funds in the city.”
    She made the pronouncement with obvious pride. The bastard might have beaten her badly enough to land her in the ER, but it was obvious to Marc that she was still a long way from cutting him loose, if indeed she ever did.
    â€œGood for him.” He slid his gaze over her, not overly long but long enough. “You look nice, by the way.”
    That was a lie. She didn’t look nice. She looked amazing.
    The compliment won him a small smile and a flash of dark, doe-like eyes. “Thank you, by the way.”
    â€œYour arm should still be in the soft cast, though. You shouldn’t stop wearing it until you’re fully healed.”
    â€œI do wear it, just not … tonight.”
    â€œDoesn’t really go with the dress, I guess.”
    She sent him a fleeting smile. “No, it doesn’t.”
    â€œHey, you wouldn’t want to grab a cup of coffee sometime, or maybe a cappuccino? You look like more of a cappuccino drinker.” Whoa, where had that come from? So much for playing things safe.
    â€œTea, actually.”
    â€œOkay, tea then. What do you say?”
    She sent him a suspicious look. Dropping her voice, she said,