Read Beautiful Stranger for Free Online

her last ill-advised comment.
    “So that means you have what in common exactly? The ability to get into an Ivy League school?” Caine took another long swallow of beer, then looked around for the waitress to order another one. “You’re an intellectual, Anna. Literature, history, great thoughts, all that. Ben? He’s a Beverly Hills kid. And that’s just not you.”
    “You don’t really know me,” Anna pointed out coolly, thinking even as she said it that Caine knew her very well, indeed.
    “Yeah, okay, point taken.” He smiled, raising his hands as if to pronounce that he was backing off. “So listen, how are we going to do this? Will it be the let’s-stay-friends thing, or the when we see each other in the movie line we ignore each other?” Caine spotted the waitress—a tall, thin redhead, and motioned toward his beer. She smiled to show that she understood he wanted another one.
    “‘Let’s stay friends’ never works. But let’s try it anyway,” Anna suggested. “You can even buy me a friendly dinner, on one condition.”
    Caine raised his dark eyebrows. “What’s that?”
    “We don’t talk about Bernadette. Or Ben.”
    “Deal.” He pulled her to him in a bear hug. It was friendly and it felt nice.
    Down at the other end of the bar, Paul McCartney was seated at the piano again, but now his daughter was sitting next to him. He started a slow song that drew a round of applause from the bystanders. Then the bar hushed as the musician started to sing one of the great songs about the pain of love lost.
    Wordlessly, Anna stood and offered Caine her hand. He took it and they went to the piano to listen. By the end of the song, they were singing softly along about yesterday, when all their troubles seemed far away. Just like friends would.
    And she was fine with it, she really was. But his words about Ben were still ringing in her ears.
He’s a Beverly Hills kid. And that’s just not you.

Destiny of Dumpdom
    W
hat does a girl wear to get dumped?
    That had been the question that dogged Sam from the moment she awoke in her room—if you could call all fifteen-hundred square feet of her palaceworthy bedroom suite a “room”—on D-Day. Also known as Dump Day. Eduardo had asked—practically demanded—to meet her at noon for a walk on the Santa Monica Promenade. Sam was absolutely sure that he had chosen the promenade because it would be full of people, its usual eclectic mix of locals, tourists, and well-tolerated street people who called the outdoor mall home.
    Yes, Eduardo was going to dump her in public, Sam figured, so that she couldn’t—or at least
wouldn’t
—make a scene. If she cried, she’d want to keep it under control, because you could bet on your Tiffany diamonds that at that exact moment a photographer from the
Galaxy
or some equally loathsome supermarket tabloid would be right there to snap her photo as she looked teary-eyed and bloated. They always picked the absolute worst angle so that the little people could gloat:
See? She might be rich and famous, but her ass is the size of a relief map of Texas!
    And then there would be the headline:
    DOUBLE DUMP!! JACKSON SHARPE DUMPED BY WIFE! DUMPY DAUGHTER DUMPED BY BOYFRIEND!
    So. The all-important getting-dumped-in-public outfit. Sam spent fifteen minutes in her walk-in closet and settled on the understated look: a black-and-white polka-dot Beauty blouse, Chip & Pepper skinny jeans, and a dark Joluka denim jacket, all upgraded by the stunning white leather Jimmy Choo mules on her feet. In her Coach limited-edition gold-flecked oversize bag she stashed exactly three pink Puffs tissues. If there were to be tears—and she couldn’t guarantee that there wouldn’t be tears—she vowed to herself that there would be only three Puffs’ worth. Her recently redone eyelash extensions would be unaffected by tears, as long as she remembered not to actually wipe them with the tissue, but rather to blot carefully. And she didn’t have to wear