Diary of an Ugly Duckling by Langhorne, Karyn (general ebook reader .txt) 📕

it was his face that most capti-

vated Audra’s attention: those liquid eyes, strong

cheekbones—and those lips! Audra imagined her-

self getting a nibble of those beautiful bow-shaped

lips and just the thought of it was better than the

thought of a bag full of Oreos—with a candy bar on

the side.

She pulled at the yellow shawl, baring a bit more

rounded, ebony shoulder, and willed the butterflies

in the pit of her stomach to stillness as a wide,

happy grin spilled across her face.

“Hi, Bradshaw—”

“Art,” he corrected, blessing her with a curve of

those luscious lips.

Audra’s heart did another desperate flutter up

her windpipe and then down to her kneecaps before

she panted out, “Art.”

“Glad you could make it. You look . . .” his eyes

swept over her. Audra gave the yellow top another

tug, showing even more plump shoulder, before he

finished, “nice.”

“Thanks. So do you.” She glanced around. “Looks

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

63

like your daughter has a good turnout.” She peered

around the dance floor. “Which one is she—?”

A woman approached them, gliding confidently

up to Bradshaw and slipping her arm through his

with a certain possessiveness that couldn’t be mis-

taken for anything else. At first, Audra thought she

must be Bradshaw’s daughter, but in another instant

she realized her mistake.

Her skin was the shade of roasted almonds—fair

and smooth. Her hair, long and dark, burnt straight

and smooth by the latest chemical process, gleamed

off her forehead until it disappeared down her back

in a tumbling wave that brushed against the soft

fabric of her blouse. Audra’s breath caught in her

throat: She was wearing the same top Audra had

struggled so mightily to fit into the day before, but

clearly, based on the delicate bones of her shoulders

and the thinness of her, in a very much smaller size.

A tiny flare sprang to life in Audra’s soul, burning

with the unfairness of it all . . . and then the woman

locked eyes with her.

“Audra Marks,” Art Bradshaw turned toward the

woman, his eyes shining with an emotion Audra

thought must be desire, but she couldn’t be certain

in the low lights. “I’d like you to meet Esmeralda

Prince.”

Esmeralda Prince. Esmeralda Prince. The name

tripped off the tongue, made little skipping sounds

through the mind. It was a pretty name . . . one that

suited her, conjuring as it did the very kind of

smoky, distant beauty this woman was in possession

of. Audra stared at her, drinking in every detail of

her features, from the perfect café au lait of her skin

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Karyn Langhorne

to the sculpted bones of her cheeks and the way the

designer blouse hung as perfectly off her shoulder

as it had on the boutique mannekin. Audra realized

that the top she’d wanted to buy wasn’t a top at all,

but a tunic—and Esmeralda wore it like a dress,

with nothing beneath it but a pair of stiletto heels.

Audra watched her green eyes, shadowed with dra-

matic makeup as they flickered with some unspo-

ken thought and wondered if there were enough

makeup on the planet to make her own face look

like that.

Esmeralda Prince appraised Audra dispassion-

ately as she quirked an exquisitely shaped eyebrow

over a lovely sea-green eye, then shook her dark

tresses.

“Nice to meet you,” she said in a husky, sexy

voice.

With a fresh stab of ugliness, Audra felt the con-

trast. Standing side by side, Esmeralda was like a

sunrise and Audra the deepest midnight; Esmeralda

was a leggy twig . . . and Audra a dumpy donut, a

hole in her center where her heart should have been.

But it wasn’t the voice or the woman’s obvious

beauty that made a sharp pain skewer her heart like

a shish kebab. It was the way Art Bradshaw’s hand

curved over the woman’s shoulder, the way his eyes

locked on her face when she spoke, even though she

wasn’t looking at him.

Art Bradshaw was completely in this elegant

woman’s thrall . . . in the same fascinated way Au-

dra was in his.

Queen of Denial . . . her mother murmured in her

ear. Queenie D . . .

DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING

65

Looking at the two of them was like a rock in the

face of her perfect fantasy. Audra watched her illu-

sions fracture and shatter like so much glass.

But there they were, staring at her, waiting for her

to say something. Audra suppressed the thousand

needles of mortifications prickling beneath her skin,

and tossed her head, diva-style.

“Charmed, darling,” she purred, offering a limp

hand in perfect imitation of the silver screen legend.

“Bette Davis,” Bradshaw said immediately, his

smooth low voice rumbling over the hip-hop beat

surrounding them. To Esmeralda: “Audra’s a fan of

the old movies.”

Esmeralda’s eyebrow arched even higher as she

said in a not entirely pleasant tone: “You two would

be perfect for each other.” She reached for a small,

shimmery handbag resting on the table. “I’ll be in

the ladies’.”

There was an awkward pause as she shrugged

Bradshaw’s hand from her shoulder and stalked

away.

Art Bradshaw frowned. “Don’t mind her,” he be-

gan, his eyes following the sway of the woman’s

hips as she disappeared. “She’s—”

“Rude,” a youthful voice completed the sentence,

replete with attitude.

Bradshaw turned toward the table behind him. In

the dim candlelight, a teenage girl in a relatively de-

mure black dress hunched over a soda, her shoul-

ders drawn tight to her shoulders, as though trying

to blend into the scenery.

“Cut it out, Penny,” Bradshaw said, warning in

his tone.

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Karyn Langhorne

“But it’s true, Dad—”

“No, it’s not—”

“She only gets away with it because she’s pretty,”

Penny insisted. “The rules are always different if

you’re pretty enough—”

“That’s enough, Penny,” Bradshaw snapped,

sounding at the crust of his patience. “Now come

and say hello to Ms. Marks.”

“Do I have to?”

“Now!” Bradshaw barked, making it clear that

that remaining crust of his patience had now been

consumed. Even over the loud music, several youth-

ful heads turned toward them.

Penny slid out of her chair, rolling her eyes. “Gee,

thanks, Dad,” she hissed. “It’s bad enough we’re

throwing this stupid party in the first place, do you

have to humiliate me, too?”

She was nearly as tall as her father—at least five

foot eleven if not a full 6 feet—and as wide-

shouldered and muscular, without being fat, also

like her father. She had the man’s deep, amber eyes

and even, milk-chocolate skin, the kind of features

that would mature into a