Bird of Paradise Read Online Free Page B

“That’s your hear line. The way it’s curved indicates that
you have a romantic nature.”
    “Ah,” he said again, the baby dimples back.
“What else does it say?”
    She blinked at him, surprised he asked. Most
men pooh-poohed having their palms read, but this one just stood
there smiling at her with his nice eyes, and his almost dimples,
and a cat whose arm was reaching out to snag other unwary
travelers. A sudden spurt of hope came to life within her. Maybe
she could turn her snappage into something good.
    He obviously took her silence as reticence.
“I’m sorry; you probably don’t want to be bothered with my hand.
Forget I asked.”
    “No, I love your hand,” she said hurriedly,
then blushed at her words. “That is, it’s a very interesting hand.
I’d like to read it for you.”
    “Perhaps later, then?” he asked with a look
in his eye that turned the little trickle of hope into something
stronger. Unbidden, her heart started beating faster. He wanted her
to read his palm? Was he just being nice, making polite talk in the
queue, or was he truly something special? Dared she hope that the
wonderfully warm feeling his smile was spreading through her was
reciprocated? Could it possibly be he was interested in her, as
well? Had he snapped, too?
    “That would be lovely,” she managed to say
without throwing herself on him. She allowed herself a moment of
pride over her restraint, then immediately turned her thoughts
toward more important matters. Should she take the chance? Should
she be bold and courageous, as Gemma had advised, when meeting a
man who turned her crank? Her lips curved in response to his warm
smile. She would. She would take the chance. “Perhaps if you have
an hour free this evening after the orientation, I could read your
palm. It really is a fascinating art, taking into account all sorts
of things, like the size and shape of your fingers, fingernails,
lines on your palm, mounts, and such. You would be surprised, for
instance, what a person’s thumb can reveal—”
    “Excuse me,” the dishy man muttered, picking
up his cat carrier in one hand and a suitcase in the other. “I see
someone I have to speak with.”
    Before she could blink he was off, hurrying
down a dirty and dimly lit corridor leading out of the main customs
area.
    “Well, hell,” she muttered to herself,
staring at the luggage at her feet, trying hard not to cry. All of
the wispy dreams and hopes beginning to solidify under the
influence of his intriguing presence were dashed, her heart leaden
and aching with the knowledge that no man, not even one with nice
eyes and a warm smile, could find her worth his time.
    She picked up her bag and rejoined the crowd
queued up for customs, mulling over the tragedy of a freshly
snapped mind as she waited. Moving forward when the customs
official beckoned her, she answered his questions without thinking,
aware only of the devastating truth made crystal clear by the nice
man’s sudden defection as soon as she stupidly opened herself up to
him. When would she learn?
    She blinked back a few tears of self-pity as
the official stamped her passport, and started toward the outer
reception area, where large groups of attractive men and women were
chatting and flirting with one another. Avoiding the beautiful
people, she retreated to the far corner, next to the corridor
containing a line of offices. Her stomach roiled for a moment at
the thought of what a personification of ugly duckling-ness she
would make among the collective beauty of the other contestants;
then her pride and determination and every ounce of fortitude
within her surged to life. She turned her back on them and gazed
down the corridor. So she had snapped and the snappee wasn’t
interested in her, so what? She had a job to do, and by the saints,
she’d do it, and do it so well that Stephen would have no choice
but to offer her not only her job back, but also an immediate pay
raise as well. Wasn’t it an American who