Free The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever by Jennifer Tate Page A

Jimmy. It's all too shabby to contemplate. I'd rather be
home alone watching 'Leave It To Beaver' reruns.
    She bit at her lower lip, parted her legs,
and held out her arms. "Okay, Jim Bob," she said, "it's open season
on squirrels."
     
     
     
-15-
BRAD RAIDEN & SANDRA MANDERVILLE
Will You Walk into My Parlor?

    All the free Champagne was thwarting Greg in
what should have been a simple task. His objective was clear, but
Belinda's pantyhose was refusing to ease down her legs. Confused,
he shifted his hands to her hips and buried his face in her lap.
But Belinda was having none of that. She pushed Greg away, and
kicked off her shoes. Then she bent down, and yanked off her
pantyhose.
    That is one eager woman, Brad concluded, but
only for a moment, because Belinda, after fumbling with the
waistband, brought her pantyhose up to her mouth, and heaved.
    As Sandy pushed over to the far corner of the
limo, Brad opened the window, grabbed Belinda's shoulders, and
guided her head outside—she was promptly sick a second time.
    He couldn't resist. "See what you've done,
Sheik. You've nauseated the luscious Belinda."
    Greg looked dumbfounded.
    "Are you all right, Belinda?" Brad asked.
    "I...thing so. Hold me for a moment. I just
need some air." A minute later, Belinda slumped back inside.
    "Hope there's special dispensation, in
Toronto, for emergency littering," he said, as he threw her
pantyhose into the street.
    "Greg, I'm so so-wee," said a forlorn
sounding Belinda.
    The Sheik appeared to be even more miserable
than Belinda, if that was possible. "I'm the one who should be
sorry. This 's my bloody, stupid fault."
    "No harm done, Belinda," Brad said. "The
Sheik's a lemon. Dump him. With what you have to offer, an upgrade
will be easy. ...But there is one thing."
    "...What?"
    "From now on, carry one of those
pooper-scooper bags. Pantyhose may be an effective chastity belt,
but is it fair to expect it to double as a barf bag?"
    Belinda swung at him, and missed, but Sandy
caught him squarely on the shoulder. "Jerk," she purred before she
cuddled against him. "Perhaps we should go to my place—skip the
after party."
    Brad was uncertain what he should do about
the limo, but the driver assured him that mishaps were common. "For
a small token of your appreciation, the limo will soon be smelling
of lilacs, or roses, or any of a half dozen other fragrances you
may desire."
    "Any preference?" he asked Sandy.
    "How about pine?"
    "No problem," the driver said. "You kids have
a good time, but you gotta be back by two, or pay double for
overtime."
    Sandy gave her hair a toss, and smiled. "That
sounds more ominous than having your coach turn into a pumpkin."
She squeezed Brad's arm, and accompanied him up the steps to the
portals of her mansion. And it was a mansion. With its eight Doric
columns it resembled the Parthenon.
    Could it be that the gods are with me
tonight, he wondered? Could it be that Lucky Ducky can finally take
a night off?
    Inside, Brad wrested his eyes from Sandy and
looked around. The foyer was massive. In sumptuous Rococo style,
the white paneled walls and ceiling were covered with ornate gilt
trim, gilt carvings, and gilt-edged mirrors—and there was marble
everywhere. "This is some tenement you have here. I'll bet there's
more marble in this place than there is in the Taj Mahal. Like Shan
Jahan, your father must have a favorite wife."
    "He does—my mother. But he's only allowed to
have one wife, because it's my mother who owns this house, and half
of Canada."
    Brad turned his attention back to Sandy. "She
shares Canada with the Indians?"
    "So I've been told."
    "Beauty and money. I know it's a deadly
combination, but let's get married anyway."
    Brad had barely finished his proposal when
Belinda teetered over, and favored him with a wet, lingering kiss.
He was uncertain whether Belinda's newfound affection for him
stemmed from too much to drink, or from a desire to annoy Greg.
    "The trouble with women," Greg said, "is