Free The Fall of Maggie Brown by Anne Stuart Page A

believe, isn’t it?” Maggie said, too blissed-out over the can of soda to take offense. “Not everyone finds me so unbearable.”
    “Not everyone finds me so unbearable, either,” he drawled.
    “Maybe you behave better around other people,” she shot back.
    “I doubt it. What you see is pretty much what you get. I just don’t happen to rub people the wrong way. The way I do with you.”
    The vision of Ben Frazer, shirtless, hot, gorgeous, rubbing her any way at all was momentarily distracting. Disturbingly so. She made a noncommittal sound, taking another drink. She was right, the wind had already pulled her hair free of the tie. She was going to end up looking like heaven only knew what. Not that it mattered, of course.
    “Diet Coke,” Frazer said in a musing voice. “I don’t remember the last time I tasted real live pop.”
    “I’m not about to refresh your memory,” Maggie said. “If you want Diet Coke you can go back home.”
    “How do you know where back home is?”
    “I assume it’s somewhere in the United States. You must have family…”
    “Not much family left, sugar. Just a brother out in Los Angeles and a sister in college in Colorado. In case you can’t tell, I’m not really the Southern California type.”
    She glanced at him. “No, you seem more like the Idaho survivalist type.”
    She’d surprised a laugh out of him. “Not that, either, but it’s closer. I like wandering the world. There are too many interesting places to see, too many people to meet to tie myself down in one place. Maybe eventually I’ll go back. And you’re right, I’ll probably pick someplace at the back end of beyond, though I have to admit politics aren’t of much interest to me.”
    “Not even here? They’re in the midst of a revolution, and you don’t care?” she countered, shocked.
    He shrugged. “Most leaders are the same, no matter what party they come from.”
    She glanced back at the huge storage buildings they’d just passed. There were huge faces plastered all over them, of a man in a uniform, his face pitted either with acne scars or the crumbling facade of the walls. The esteemed dictator of San Pablo. “So you support Generalissimo Cabral?”
    Frazer shrugged again. “Why shouldn’t I? Just because the U.S. doesn’t like him…”
    “He’s a murdering fascist dictator,” Maggie said in shock. “How can you see the results of his government and not care?”
    “And what makes you an expert on San Pablo all of a sudden? What would a banker from Philadelphia know about conditions in San Pablo?”
    “I watch
60 Minutes
,” she said.
    He laughed. “Don’t believe everything you see on TV, darlin’.”
    “Who’s running against him in the election? Why isn’t his picture plastered all over the place as well?”
    “Because Cabral’s the man in power, and he intends to keep the power by any means possible,” Frazer replied. “And if you want to know what The Professor looks like, there’s a newspaper under the seat. It’s a couple of weeks old but I imagine his picture is in it.”
    She dragged it out. As usual, the
Generalissimo’s
ugly face was plastered over the front page. The text, without the complication of the San Pablo accent, was slightly more discernible, and it was easy to pick up the flattering essence of the article.
    “The Professor?” she echoed, opening the brittle, yellowing pages.
    “Ramon Morales de Lorca y Antonio. Better known to the people of San Pablo as The Professor, who’s fighting a losing battle against the General.”
    She found him on an inside page. He wasn’t much more attractive than the ugly dictator, with a long, sorrowful looking face, a receding hairline, narrow stooped shoulders and glasses. He looked like a professor, all right. A scholar who lived in the intellect, not in the world. What good would he be against a military bully like Cabral?
    “So you’re on the General’s side?” she questioned in disbelief.
    “I didn’t