Mine by Brenda Huber Read Free Book Online Page A

beat up old truck.
    Trying not to let herself think about what waited for her on the other side of those wide double doors, she withdrew her keys from the ignition and deposited them inside her sleek black purse.
    Alex ran a hand through her hair once more, trying to tame some of the wildness. She stole one last, fleeting glimpse in the rearview mirror, and then closed her eyes.
    Cowboy up, Alex, it’s show time…
    She slid from the car and tread across the loose pebbles with extreme caution, wishing she’d worn more sensible shoes. Gravel and spiked heels did not mix. She ascended the steps, and, with a slight tremor, lifted her hand to ring the doorbell. Then Alex waited, nerves strung tight as watch springs.
    And she waited.
    Frowning, Alex rang the bell once more, nerves relegated to the back burner. And still no response. Music drifted from somewhere near the back of the house. Gunnarrson had enough cars in the drive to start his own dealership. His agent had assured her he’d be expecting her today.
    Somebody could at least answer the damned door. She jabbed a finger at the doorbell one last time, scowling now.
    Evidently she’d set the old expectation bar a little too high in assuming he’d at least strive to make a good impression, given that his agent had 42

     

    stalked her with such diligence.
    Grinding her teeth together, she let annoyance get the better of her. Backing off the front steps, she looked first to one side of the house, then to the other. Stiffening her spine, she set off around the north corner, and skidded to a stop, grimacing.
    He would have to live in a house the size of a bloody football stadium. Squaring her shoulders, bracing herself for an unpleasant afternoon, she began the trek to the back of the house, aiming for the heavy blast of music.
    As she tramped across the lawn, her eyes trailed over the scrupulously groomed grounds, skimming down the classical lines of the house itself with grudging appreciation. Roses and jasmine, lavender and lilies adorned the many flower gardens sprawling throughout the estate. A gardener knelt in one such paradise near a monster of a garage, tending the thriving foliage with gentle hands. Gunnarrson possessed some sense of taste, at least. But then, out of sheer spite, she decided to reserve judgment until she had the chance to view the inside of this mausoleum, convinced it was nothing more than party-central…a puffed up, moneyed version of a frat house, swimming in empty alcohol bottles and half-naked women.
    Alex smoothed her hand over the hip of her trim, black skirt, suddenly wishing she’d worn a pair of slacks instead, or a skirt with more of a conservative hemline. She’d just always liked this skirt, with its feminine lines and daring slash up the front right thigh, and she’d wanted to feel at the top of her game when she faced the determined stranger who’d uprooted her nice, tidy, content life.
    Groaning aloud, she screwed up her courage.
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    She was being a coward. She was overreacting, finding fault with anything and everything, just looking to find any excuse why this wouldn’t work. There was nothing wrong with her clothing.
    She’d worn this outfit half a dozen times to the office—granted, she often wore a jacket to cover the sleek, red silk blouse, but it was just too hot today. There’d been nothing wrong with the security gate, a perfectly reasonable security measure for someone of Gunnarrson’s position.
    And there was nothing wrong with Gunnarrson’s house. It wasn’t overly flamboyant or sexist, nor was it creepy, although the fact that all the windows were securely covered did give her pause.
    Why then did a chill skate down her spine, as if an icy hand had feathered a warning over her back?
    Run, while you still can…
    No, she’d made this commitment—at least for the next three weeks—and she would damned well see it through. Determination lifted her chin.
    She’d be damned if she’d let them see how