the words of a movie script. “I didn’t think anyone
knew that scene but me.”
Bradshaw shrugged. “I love movies,” he said, his
deep voice soft. “Had a film noir phase. A few years
back. Double Indemnity is one of my favorites.”
“Mine, too,” Audra agreed. “I love the banter.
And it’s kind of a love story—”
“Pretty sour ending, though.” Bradshaw grimaced.
“Not many people know the old black-and-whites.
Nice.”
“Yeah . . .” Audra said, and before she knew it,
her face had gone all gaga and gushy and she was
staring at him like he was dessert and she hadn’t
had chocolate in over a year. “Nice for me, too.”
In the pause that followed, Bradshaw’s eyes slid
off her face and focused so steadily on a spot over
her shoulder that Audra turned. There wasn’t any-
thing behind her but wall.
“What are you looking at?”
He hesitated again, and for a flash of a second,
Audra feared her mother might be right. After all,
he’d heard the inmates’ remarks—heard the litany
of fat, black and ugly—and he had eyes after all. For a
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
41
moment her mask of bravado slipped and she
wanted to cover herself head to toe like the Muslim
women in the foreign land where Petra was now
stationed.
“Uh . . . nothing,” he said. His eyes snapped back to
her face and Audra’s concerns were swept away again,
lost in those bright, honeyed orbs fringed by black
lashes. “I . . . uh . . .” he hesitated until Audra quirked
a curious eyebrow at him. “Forget Haines,” he offered
in his clipped, not-a-single-unnecessary-word way.
John Wayne, Audra thought. He talks like John Wayne.
“Warden’s right: be cleared up in a few days.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt him—”
“You’re a tough woman. Strong,” Bradshaw said
with a nod.
“Is that a good thing . . . or a bad one?” Audra
laughed, rolling her eyes girlishly.
Bradshaw considered for a long time before reply-
ing, “Good. If you’re a corrections officer,” in a tone
as serious as if she’d asked him to opine on death.
“Which you are.”
Audra stared at him, parsing through the words
fifteen different ways before she decided to just
mark it down as a compliment and move on. She
gazed up into Bradshaw’s eyes, a grin spread over
her face like 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
42
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
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING
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,
44
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
