Texas Proud and Circle of Gold (Long, Tall Texans #52) - Diana Palmer Page 0,8

some kind of con woman.

She shouldn’t be thinking about him. A man that handsome probably had women hanging on to his ankles everywhere he walked. He was apparently rich, as well. There was another woman in her office, the receptionist, Jessie Tennison, a gorgeous brunette in her late twenties, who was crazy about men and openly solicited any rich one who came into the office. Mr. Kemp, the DA, had already called her down about it once. A second offense would cost her the job, he’d added. Her position didn’t include sexual harassment of clients.

What a new world it was, Bernie mused, when a woman could be accused of what was often seen as a man’s offense. But, then, her coworker was very pretty. She was just ambitious. She had a failed marriage behind her. Gossip was that her ex-husband had been wealthy but had a gambling habit and lost it all on one draw of a card. Nobody knew, because the woman didn’t talk about herself. Well, not to the women in the office.

A sudden commotion caught her attention. There was movement in the hall. Some bumping and a familiar deep male voice. Her heart jumped. That was the man who’d brought her home earlier. She knew his voice already. It was hard to miss, with that definite New Jersey accent. She knew about that because of Paul Fiore. He had one just like it.

There was more noise, then a door closing. More footsteps. Voices. The front door opening and closing, and then a car driving away.

Mrs. Brown knocked at Bernie’s door and then slipped in, closing it behind her. “Sorry about the noise. Mr. Fiore’s just moving in,” she added with an affectionate smile.

Bernie tried not to show the delight she felt. “Is he going to stay long? Did he say?”

“Not really,” she said. “His driver is staying at a motel down the road.” She laughed. “Mr. Fiore said no way was he sharing that room with another man, especially not one as big as his driver.”

Bernie laughed softly. “I guess not.”

“So you’ll need to knock before you go into the bathroom, like I mentioned earlier,” Mrs. Brown continued. “Just in case. I told Mr. Fiore again that he’d need to do the same thing, since you’re sharing.” She looked worried. Bernie was flushed. “I’m so sorry. If I had a room with a bathroom free, I’d—”

“Those are upstairs,” Bernie interrupted gently, “and we both know that I have a problem with stairs.” She sighed and shook her head. “The rain and the walk and the fall pretty much did me in today. You were right. I should have gotten a cab. It isn’t that expensive, and I don’t spend much of what I make, except on books.” That was true. Her rent included all utilities and even the cable that gave her television access—not that she watched much TV.

“I know that walking is supposed to be good for you,” the older woman replied. “But not when you’re having a flare.” She drew in a breath. “Bernie, if you wrote the company that makes that injectable medicine, they might...”

“I already did,” Bernie said softly. “They offered me a discount, but even so, it’s almost a thousand dollars a month. There’s no way I could afford that, discount or not. Besides,” she said philosophically, “it might not work for me. Sometimes it doesn’t. It’s a gamble.”

“I guess so.” Mrs. Brown looked sad. “Maybe someday they’ll find a cure.”

“Maybe they will.”

“Well, I’ll let you get back to your book,” she teased, because she knew about the late-night reading habit. “Need anything from the kitchen before I turn out the lights?”

“Not a thing. I have my water right here.” She indicated two bottles of water that she kept by her bedside.

“You could have some ice in a glass to go with it.”

Bernie shook her head. “It would just melt. But thank you, Mrs. Brown. You’re so good to me.”

The older woman beamed. “I’m happy to have you here. You’re the only resident I’ve ever had who never complained about anything. You’ll spoil me.”

“That’s my line,” Bernie teased, and she laughed. It made her look pretty.

“Sleep well.”

“You, too.”

Mrs. Brown went out and closed the door.

Bernie thought about that injectable medicine. Her rheumatologist in San Antonio had told her about it, encouraged her to try to get it. At Bernie’s age, it might retard the progress of the disease, a disease that could lead to all sorts of complications, the worst of which