The Princess Bride. Diana Palmer

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ deserted,” he chuckled. “She’s found a cattle baron to try her wiles on. That’s Kingman Marshall over there, you know.”

      Tiffany looked at him blankly. “Oh, is it?” she asked innocently, and tried not to show how furious she really was. Between Wyatt and his cousin, they’d ruined her birthday party.

      “I wonder why he’s here?” he frowned.

      She caught his hand. “Let’s dance,” she muttered, and dragged him back onto the dance floor.

      For the rest of the evening, she monopolized Wyatt, ignoring King as pointedly as if she’d never seen him before and never cared to again. Let him flirt with other women at her party. Let him break her heart. He was never going to know it. She’d hold her chin up if it killed her. She smiled at Wyatt and flirted outrageously, the very life and soul of her party, right up to the minute when she cut the cake and asked Wyatt to help her serve it. King didn’t seem to notice or care that she ignored him. But her father was puzzled, staring at her incomprehensibly.

      “This party is so boring,” Tiffany said an hour later, when she felt she couldn’t take another single minute of the blonde clinging to King on the dance floor. “Let’s go for a ride.”

      Wyatt looked uncomfortable. “Well…I came in a truck,” he began.

      “We’ll take my Jag.”

      “You’ve got a Jaguar?”

      She didn’t need to say another word. Without even a glance in King’s direction, she waved at her father and blew him a kiss, dragging Wyatt along behind her toward the front door. Not that he needed much coaxing. He seemed overwhelmed when she tossed him the keys and climbed into the passenger seat of the sleek red car.

      “You mean, I can drive this?” he burst out.

      “Sure. Go ahead. It’s insured. But I like to go fast, Wyatt,” she said. And for tonight, that was true. She was sick of the party, sick of King, sick of her life. She hurt in ways she’d never realized she could. She only wanted to get away, to escape.

      He started the car and stood down on the accelerator. Tiffany had her window down, letting the breeze whip through her hair. She deliberately pulled out the diamond hairpins and tucked them into her purse, letting her long, black hair free and fly on the wind. The champagne she’d had to drink was beginning to take effect and was making her feel very good indeed. The speed of the elegant little car added to her false euphoria. Why, she didn’t care about King’s indifference. She didn’t care at all!

      “What a car!” Wyatt breathed, wheeling it out onto the main road.

      “Isn’t it, though?” she laughed. She leaned back and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t think about King. “Go faster, Wyatt, we’re positively crawling! I love speed, don’t you?”

      Of course he did. And he didn’t need a second prompting. He put the accelerator peddle to the floor, and twelve cylinders jumped into play as the elegant vehicle shot forward like its sleek and dangerous namesake.

      She laughed, silvery bells in the darkness, enjoying the unbridled speed, the fury of motion. Yes, this would blow away all the cobwebs, all the hurt, this would…!

      The sound of sirens behind them brought her to her senses. She glanced over the seat and saw blue bubbles spinning around, atop a police car.

      “Oh, for heaven’s sake, where did he come from!” she gasped. “I never saw the car. They must parachute down from treetops,” she muttered, and then giggled at her own remark.

      Wyatt slowed the car and pulled onto the shoulder, his face rapidly becoming the color of his hair. He glanced at Tiffany. “Gosh, I’m sorry. And on your birthday, too!”

      “I don’t care. I told you to do it,” she reminded him.

      A tall policeman came to the side of the car and watched Wyatt fumble to power the window down.

      “Good God. Wyatt?” the officer gasped.

      “That’s right, Bill,” Wyatt sighed, producing his driver’s license. “Tiffany Blair, this is Bill Harris. He’s one of our newest local policemen and a cousin of mine.”

      “Nice to meet you, officer—although I wish it was under better circumstances,” Tiffany said with a weak smile. “I should get the ticket, not Wyatt. It’s my car, and I asked him to go faster.”

      “I clocked you at eighty-five, you know,” he told Wyatt gently. “I sure do hate to do this, Wyatt. Mr. Clark is going to be pretty sore at you. He just had a mouthful to say about speeders.”

      “The mayor hates me anyway,” Wyatt groaned.

      “I won’t tell him you got a ticket if you don’t.” Bill grinned.

      “Want to bet he’ll find out anyway? Just wait.”

      “It’s all my fault,” Tiffany muttered. “And it’s my birthday…!”

      A sleek, new black European sports car slid in behind the police car and came to a smooth, instant stop. A minute later, King got out and came along to join the small group.

      “What’s the trouble, Bill?” he asked the policeman.

      “They were speeding, Mr. Marshall,” the officer said. “I’ll have to give him a ticket. He was mortally flying.”

      “I can guess why,” King mused, staring past Wyatt at a pale Tiffany.

      “Nobody held a gun on me,” Wyatt said gently. “It’s my own fault. I could have refused.”

      “The first lesson of responsibility,” King agreed. “Learning to say no. Come on, Tiffany. You’ve caused enough trouble for one night. I’ll drop you off on my way out.”

      “I won’t go one step with you, King…!” she began furiously.

      He went around to the passenger side of the Jag, opened the door, and tugged her out. His lean, steely fingers on her bare arm raised chills of excitement where they touched. “I don’t have time to argue. You’ve managed to get Wyatt in enough trouble.” He turned to Wyatt. “If you’ll bring the Jag back, I think your cousin is ready to leave. Sorry to spoil your evening.”

      “It wasn’t spoiled at all, Mr. Marshall,” Wyatt said with a smile at Tiffany. “Except for the speeding ticket, I enjoyed every minute of it!”

      “I did, too, Wyatt,” Tiffany said. “I…King, will you stop dragging me?”

      “No. Good night, Wyatt. Bill.”

      A chorus of good-nights broke the silence as King led an unwilling, sullen Tiffany back to his own leathertrimmed sports car. He helped her inside, got in under the wheel and started the powerful engine.

      “I hate you, King,” she ground out as he pulled onto the highway.

      “Which is no reason at all for making a criminal of Wyatt.”

      She glared at him hotly through the darkness. “I did not make him a criminal! I only offered to let him drive the Jaguar.”

СКАЧАТЬ