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TitlePersonal Assets
File Size838.6 KB
Total Pages233
Table of Contents
                            Best Friends
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Document Text Contents
Page 116

the bouquet of baby yellow roses he held. "Hang on to those. I'll get you a vase."

He followed her into a big, airy apartment. The space was almost entirely open.
Cast-iron columns, each a soft dove gray, supported a cavernous ceiling. The
cement floor was scattered with threadbare but lovely rugs. She didn't have
much furniture: a couch, a few chairs and tables, an eccentric collection of
lamps, a platform bed in the loft. Her plank and cinder-block shelves overflowed
with spy novels and travel books, many of them coffee-table size, their tattered
covers suggesting she'd bought them secondhand. The largest book, a real
monster, featured pictures from the Louvre. A gift, he thought, since it looked
pristine. Turning, he took in the colors of the room. They were subtle but warm:
peach and gold, mahogany and cream. They blended well with the scent of
frying garlic.

"I'm making spaghetti," she said, disappearing around a wall that hid what had to
be the kitchen. "I usually make lasagna when I want to impress a man, but we'd
be eating at midnight."

He wasn't sure he should follow so he stayed where he was.

"Spaghetti is fine," he said. "I like spaghetti."

A stack of Paris fanned across her coffee table. Could she speak French?
Would she speak French to him? The possibility sent a thick pulse of feeling to
his groin. He turned, seeking distraction. A plastic head with an anatomic cross-
section of a brain sat atop her television. Perhaps it was a reminder not to watch,
or a gift from a medically inclined beau. If that was the case, Simon didn't want
to know. He never wanted to know about his lovers' former partners, beyond the
necessary, of course.

He frowned at the color-coded brain. Apathy didn't explain his reluctance to hear
about Lela's past. He was feeling possessive. He was wanting her too much. If he
wasn't careful, all his good business sense would go flying out the window.

, his father always said,

With a rueful grimace, Simon drifted toward a wall of black and white photos.
Most were of the same plump, curly haired woman. She had a face like a
Renaissance angel. Cheekbones like trowels. "Who's this in the pictures?"

Lela poked her head out from the kitchen. "That's Bea, the painter, my fake sister

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