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margarine on burnt toast, and he
    stared back, looking unsettled and nervous, like he
    was waiting for something to happen and wasn’t
    sure it would. They stared at each other a good ten
    seconds past the comfortable point as Audra
    racked her brain, trying to think of just one of the
    clever lines she’d practiced all night—just one fa-
    mous movie quip or quote to fill the space—but
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    Karyn Langhorne
    now that he was standing right in front of her, it
    was as if she’d never seen a movie in her life. But it
    didn’t matter. Stupid and awkward as she felt,
    there was a part of her that would have happily
    stayed rooted to this spot, staring at Bradshaw and
    dreaming that Fred-and-Ginger ballroom dream
    all over again.
    As if reading her thoughts, Bradshaw opened his
    mouth.
    “Do you like parties?” he blurted out in a rush of
    words.
    Yes! Audra’s soul jumped to her throat, dancing,
    and she had to struggle to keep her feet from joining
    it. A prayer of gratitude sprang to her lips and she
    imagined herself sauntering home just as fat, black
    and ugly as she’d left it, and dropping this piece of
    news on her mother’s dinner plate.
    “You really came through, Bradshaw, you know
    that?” she murmured, beaming at him. “I knew you
    were different. I just knew it—”
    Bradshaw blinked at her in surprise. “What?”
    “Forget it,” Audra said quickly. Calling upon the
    ghosts of dead divas, she cocked her head and met
    his gaze with an expression she hoped said some-
    thing sassy and seductive at the same time. “What
    did you have in mind?”
    He hesitated a little, a puzzled expression gleam-
    ing out of those honey-colored eyes. “Having a little
    get together. Saturday. For my daughter. Sweet six-
    teen.”
    Daughter?
    “Oh . . .” Audra said, feeling a little like she’d
    been doused in cold water. “I—I didn’t know you
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    43
    had a daughter that old. I guess you and your
    wife—”
    “Not married . . . and I was a father young. Too
    young.” They stared at each other again, each ap-
    parently waiting for the other, until he said, “You’ll
    come?” he asked sounding suddenly urgent. “I was
    hoping you’d . . . talk to her.”
    Talk to his daughter? Audra frowned. “You want
    me to talk to your daughter ? About what?”
    Art Bradshaw’s amber eyes gleamed down at her.
    “Girl stuff. The stuff girls have to deal with,” he fin-
    ished hurriedly, as if just naming the things girls
    had to deal with were too much for him.
    Audra shook her head. “This sounds like a job for
    her mother—”
    “No,” Bradshaw’s voice sharpened to dangerous.
    “No help there.”
    “Is it just the two of you?”
    “Just the two.” He hesitated a moment, then
    stepped closer to her, filling the space between them
    with warmth and heat. “So you’ll come? Saturday.
    Eight o’clock—”
    Audra was almost swept away by the despera-
    tion radiating in his handsome face, while movie
    titles flickered through a mental catalogue in her
    brain. There were dozens of mother-daughter
    films—but father-daughter? The only one that came
    to mind was Father of the Bride . . . and that hardly
    suited the circumstance Bradshaw was describing.
    Audra shook her head. This was sounding less like
    a date and more like a babysitting gig with every
    second . . .
    “She wanted a party,” Bradshaw said suddenly,
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    Karyn Langhorne
    sounding almost as though he were talking to him-
    self. “A fancy one. To help make friends.”
    “I seriously doubt your daughter wants me at her
    party—”
    “I want you there,” Bradshaw said and now those
    lovely golden eyes fixed on her, igniting a fire inside
    Audra that erased all of her questions and reserva-
    tions. “I need you there, Marks,” he repeated and
    Audra stared into those eyes, seeing herself re-
    flected in their amber pools, not as fat, black and
    ugly, but as a princess as lovely in the eye of the be-
    holder as the