Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Linda Howard

  He looked so grim and cold and furious, all at the same time, that I reached for his hand again as I was unloaded from the back of the vehicle. “I really am okay,” I said. Except for the concussion, I really was. Banged up, but okay. I wanted to sound brave, which would convince him I was fine and was putting on a false front to garner sympathy, but my head hurt too much for me to muster the energy, so instead I sounded sincere, so of course he didn’t believe me.

  The man/woman jockeying-for-position supremacy thing was too complicated for me to deal with right then. You’d think he’d be relieved, but no, I could tell by the way his jaw clenched that instead he was worried as hell. Men are so perverse.

  I mustered my strength. “This is all your fault,” I said, with as much indignation as I could manage.

  He was walking alongside the gurney holding my hand, and he gave me a narrow-eyed look. “My fault?”

  “I was shopping tonight because of your stupid deadline. If you’d listened to me I could have shopped during the daytime, like civilized people, but no, you have to give me an ultimatum, which forced me to be in the parking lot with a road-rage-crazed psycho bitch in a Buick.”

  His eyes got even more narrow. To my relief, the grim look had relaxed somewhat. He figured if I could work up a head of steam, I really was all right. “If you had managed to plan something as simple as a wedding,” he said with maddening disregard for the millions of details that go into a wedding, “I wouldn’t have had to step in.”

  “Simple?” I sputtered. “Simple? You think a wedding is simple? A shuttle launch is simple. Quantum physics is simple. Planning a wedding is like planning a war—”

  “An apt comparison,” he muttered under his breath, but I heard him anyway.

  I jerked my hand out of his. Sometimes I wanted to just smack him.

  Dwight, pushing the gurney, laughed. Dwayne was much nicer than Dwight. I said, “I don’t want you pushing my gurney. I want Dwayne. Where’s Dwayne?”

  “He’s taking care of the paperwork, bringing in your things, stuff like that,” Dwight said easily, and he didn’t stop pushing my gurney.

  The night was just not going my way, but I perked up as much as possible at the news that Dwayne was bringing in my things. It’s a measure of how much my head hurt that I hadn’t given a single thought to my purchases, especially my new shoes, until now. “He has my shoes?”

  “You’re wearing your shoes,” Wyatt said, flashing a quick, questioning look at Dwight over my head, silently asking if I could have a brain injury.

  “I’m not going loopy, I mean my new shoes. The ones I bought tonight.” As I explained, Dwight rolled me into a cubicle. Dwayne followed within thirty seconds, his hands full of clipboard, papers, my purse, and several plastic bags. I spied the bag from the store where I’d bought my shoes, and sighed in relief. They hadn’t gone missing. Then an efficient team of nurses took over; Wyatt was evicted, Dwayne and Dwight gave their report on my condition, which was pretty much as I’d already figured out. Then they, too, were gone, the curtain was pulled, and my clothes were swiftly cut off me. I really hate the way emergency room personnel treat clothing, even though I understand the need for it. Even someone who is conscious might not be able to accurately gauge her own medical condition, and speed and efficiency are the name of the game.

  Regardless of that, I really, really hate when my bra is cut with one callous snip of those big scissor blades. I love my underwear sets. This particular bra was a gorgeous mocha color, with little flowers in the satin fabric, and tiny pearls sewn in the middle. Now it was ruined. I sighed when I saw it, because it was ruined anyway, from blood.

  Come to think of it, pretty much every stitch I had on was ruined, either from rips or blood, or both. Scalp wounds really bleed a lot. I sighed as I looked myself over, then surveyed the clothing that had been tossed aside, which I could do without moving my head much because the head of the gurney was raised and I was propped up. No, nothing was salvageable, except maybe my shoes. My black cargo pants were torn in several places, big, jagged tears that couldn’t be repaired, never mind that the legs had been neatly cut lengthwise to allow the nurses to swiftly remove them. My bare legs were both dirty and bloody, confirming that my irrational fear of germs in the parking lot hadn’t been all that irrational. Actually, most of me was dirty and bloody. I wasn’t a pretty sight at all, which was depressing, because Wyatt had seen me like this.

  “I’m a mess,” I said mournfully.

  “It isn’t too bad,” one of the nurses said. “It looks worse than it is. Though I suppose it feels bad enough to you, doesn’t it?” Her voice was brisk, but comforting. Or rather, she meant it to be comforting, but what she said made me feel worse because looks were exactly what I was worrying about. Yes, I’m vain, but I’m also under a deadline for a wedding and I didn’t want to look like a war refugee in my wedding pictures. My kids would be looking at them, you know; I didn’t want them wondering what their father had ever seen in me.

  I’m also not of a “victim” mentality, and I’m tired of being shot, battered, and bruised. I didn’t want Wyatt to think he had to take care of me. I want to take care of myself, thank you very much—unless I’m in the mood for pampering, in which case I want to be in good shape so I can enjoy it.

  I had just been sort of halfway stuffed into a hospital gown when a tired ER doc shuffled in. He checked me over, listened to the nurses, checked my pupils to see how they were responding, and sent me off for a head CT and what seemed like all-over X-rays. A few boring and painful hours later, I was admitted to the hospital for an overnight stay because the docs also agreed with my diagnosis of a concussion. All of my scrapes were cleaned and some of them bandaged, most of the blood was swabbed away—except out of my hair, which annoyed me because it felt so icky. Worst of all was that they shaved a patch at my hairline and put in a few stitches to close the gash in my scalp. I would have to get creative with my hairstyles for the next few months. At last I was deposited in a nice cool, clean bed and the lights were turned low, which was a relief. Have I mentioned how much my head was hurting?

  What wasn’t a relief was the way Wyatt and my entire family were ringed around the bed, silently staring at me.

  “This isn’t my fault,” I said defensively. It was weird, having them all sort of aligned against me, as if I’d done this on purpose or something. Even Siana had a solemn expression, and I can usually count on her to be in my court no matter what. I did understand, though, because if Wyatt had gotten hurt as often in the past few months as I had, I would be demanding he change jobs and we move to Outer Mongolia to get him out of the danger zone.

  Mom stirred. She had been as tight-lipped as Wyatt, but now she went into mom-mode and went to the miniature sink, where she wet a washcloth. Coming back to my bedside, she began gently washing away the dried blood that the nurses had skipped. I haven’t had my ears washed by my mother since I was little, but some things never change. I was just glad she used water instead of spit. You know all the jokes about mom-spit removing everything from grease to ink? It’s true. Mom-spit should be patented and sold as an all-purpose spot remover. Come to think of it, maybe it has been. I’ve never read the ingredients of a spot-remover. Maybe it just says mom-spit.

  Finally Wyatt said, “We’re getting the security tapes for the parking lot, so we may be able to get a tag number for the car.”

  I’d been hanging around him long enough now to understand some of the finer points of the law. “But she didn’t hit me. When she floored the gas pedal, I dived out of the way. So it isn’t a hit-and-run. It’s a terrify-and-run.”

  “She?” He picked up on that immediately, of course. “You saw her? Did you know her?”

  “I could tell it was a woman, but as to whether or not I know her…” I would have shrugged, but I was trying to keep movement to a minimum. “The headlights were shining in my eyes. The driver was a woman, and the car was a late-model Buick, that’s all I know for certain. Parking
lot lights do weird things to colors, but I think the car was that sort of metallic light brown.”

  “You’re sure it was a Buick?”

  “Please,” I said with as much disdain as I could muster. I know cars. It’s one of the weird genes Dad passed on to me, because all Mom can tell is the color and if it’s a big car, little car, or pickup truck. Make and model mean nothing to her.

  “If she says it was a Buick, it’s a Buick,” said Dad, taking up for me, and Wyatt nodded. At any other time I would have been annoyed that he would automatically take Dad’s word for it after questioning mine, but right then I was, not down and out, because I obviously wasn’t out, but I was definitely down, both physically and mentally. I felt drained, not just from the pain, but it was as if this was just one incident too many. I mean, how many times can people try to kill you before it gets a little depressing? It isn’t as if I go around pissing people off and getting in their faces. I don’t even flip off stupid drivers because you never know if they’ve taken their antipsychotics or if they’re driving around with a loaded pistol and an unloaded brain. I was tired of it, I was hurting, and I really wanted to cry.

  I couldn’t cry, not in front of everyone. I’m not a crier, at least not that kind of a crier. I’ll cry over a sad movie or when “The Star-Spangled Banner” is played at football games, but when it comes to the personal hardship stuff I generally just suck it up and go on. I had been hurt worse in my life, and I hadn’t cried. If I cried now, it would be because I felt sorry for myself, which I did, but I didn’t want to show it. It was bad enough that I looked like roadkill; I refused to add sniveling to my current list of unattractive qualities.

  If I ever got my hands on the bitch who had caused this, I’d strangle her.

  “We can talk about this later,” Mom said. “She needs to rest, not rehash everything. Y’all go home, I’ll stay with her tonight. That’s an order.”

  Wyatt doesn’t take orders well, even from my mom, and she generally scares the hell out of him. “I’m staying, too,” he said with that no-nonsense cop tone of his.

  Even with my eyes half-closed I could see them squaring off. At any other time I would have watched the battle with interest, but all I wanted now was some peace and quiet. “I don’t need anyone to stay with me. You all have work tomorrow, so all of you go home. I’m okay, honest.” Note: When someone says “honest” they’re usually lying, just like I was.

  “We’ll both stay,” Wyatt said, ignoring my brave offer and reassurance. I glanced down to see if I had a visible body, since everyone was acting as if I wasn’t there. First I lay in the grungy parking lot for what felt like an hour without anyone noticing me, and now I was certain that, though I was speaking, no one was hearing me.

  “I must be invisible,” I muttered to myself.

  Dad patted my hand. “No, we’re all just really worried,” he said quietly, cutting right through my bravado. He had a knack for doing that, but then he had a keen instinct concerning me, maybe because I’m so much like Mom. I’m afraid Wyatt has the same instinct, which will be fine when we’ve been married thirty-something years the way Mom and Dad have, but while we were still jockeying for position that sort of put me at a disadvantage and I had to stay on my toes. In this Wyatt is light-years ahead of Jason, my ex-husband, who never saw beyond the blond hair and tight ass—his own, by the way.

  Jason is one of those people who is like a Slinky; you always smile when you think of watching him fall down the stairs.

  Anyway, back to the hospital room. Mom quickly got everyone sorted out. Dad and my sisters were sent on their way, because it was almost two a.m. and no one had had any sleep. She and Wyatt were both showing the strain, with that tight, bruised look around the eyes—and they still looked way better than the other occupant of the room, namely me.

  A nurse came in to see if I was asleep, and to wake me up if I was. I wasn’t, so she took my blood pressure and pulse and left, with a cheerful promise to be back in two hours or less. Other than the sickening headache, that’s the worst part about having a concussion: they—meaning the medical staff—don’t want you to sleep. Or rather, it’s okay if you sleep, as long as they can wake you up and you know where you are and stuff like that. What this means is, by the time they get finished taking vitals and asking you questions, by the time you get settled down and doze back off, a nurse is breezing through the door again to start the whole routine all over. I foresaw a long and unrestful night.

  Wyatt offered Mom the chair that opened into a narrow, uncomfortable bed and she took it without argument, opting for whatever fitful sleep she could get. He pulled the tall visitor’s chair to my bedside and sat down, reaching through the rail to hold my hand. My heartbeat skittered and jumped when he did that, because I love him so much and he knew how much I needed even that small, silent communication.

  “Get some rest if you can,” he murmured.

  “What about you?”

  “I can nap right here. I’m used to odd hours and uncomfortable chairs.”

  That was true—he was after all a cop. I squeezed his fingers and tried to get comfortable, which really wasn’t possible because of the way my head was pounding and my various scrapes were burning. But I closed my eyes anyway, and my old knack of being able to sleep anywhere, anytime, kicked in.

  I awoke in the darkness; after I’d gone to sleep, Wyatt had turned out the dim light. I lay there listening to the breathing rhythms of two sleeping people: Mom at the foot of the bed, Wyatt on my right. It was a comforting sound. I couldn’t see the clock to know how long I’d slept, but it didn’t matter, because I wasn’t going anywhere.

  My head still hurt as much as before, but the nausea was marginally better. I began thinking of everything I needed to do: call Lynn and arrange for her to handle Great Bods on her own for at least a couple of days, get Siana to water my plants, get my car retrieved from the mall, and other pesky details. I must have stirred, because Wyatt immediately sat up and reached for my hand. “Are you okay?” he whispered, so he wouldn’t wake Mom. “You didn’t sleep long, less than an hour.”

  “Just thinking,” I whispered back.

  “About what?”

  “Everything I need to do.”

  “You don’t need to do anything. Just tell me, and I’ll take care of it.”

  I had to smile to myself, which was the only way I could smile since it was dark and he couldn’t see me. “That’s sort of what I was thinking, trying to remember everything I need to get you to do.”

  He gave a faint snort. “I should have figured.”

  Because it was dark, I got the courage to continue. “I was also thinking that I don’t know how you could look at the mess I am and ever want me again.” I kept my voice very low, because, hello, my mother was right there in the room, but I was listening to her breathing with one ear and it hadn’t changed, so she was still asleep.

  Wyatt was silent a moment, just long enough for me to start feeling sick to my stomach, as if I needed that on top of how sick I already felt, then he gently stroked a finger down my arm. “I always want you,” he murmured, his voice as warm and dark as the room. “How you look at any given time doesn’t have a lot to do with it. It’s you, not your body—though I like the hell out of your ass, and your tits, and your sassy mouth, and all the parts in between.”

  “What about my legs?” I prompted. Man, was I feeling better. I was improving by the minute. If he kept talking, I’d be walking out of this joint in another half hour.

  He gave a low laugh. “I like them, too. I especially like them around my waist.”

  “Shhh,” I hissed. “Mom’s right over there.”

  “She’s asleep.” He lifted my hand and pressed a warm, damp kiss into my palm.

  “You wish,” came the sharp comment from the foot of the bed.

  After a startled moment Wyatt began laughing, and he said, “Yes, ma’am, I do.”

  I love that man. I was considerably cheered by our little dark-time t
alk, which was a relief, because it’s a lot of work to feel sorry for yourself. I squeezed his hand and happily went back to sleep. So what if my head still hurt? Everything was okay.

  I hadn’t been asleep more than ten minutes when a nurse came in and turned on the lights to ask if I was awake. Figures.

  Chapter

  Five

  Wyatt left shortly after dawn to go home, shower and change clothes, and then head to work, where I figured he would spend more time than he should looking at parking lot tapes trying to get a tag number for the Buick. He’d gotten some more sleep, though anything longer than a short nap was difficult with a nurse coming in every so often to make certain I wasn’t dying from a brain bleed. I wasn’t—a relief—but neither was I getting much sleep.

  Mom stirred around seven, left the room and came back with a cup of coffee that smelled heavenly—but which she didn’t offer to me—and got busy on her cell phone. I did the same, calling Lynn at Great Bods to inform her of my latest mishap and to make arrangements for her to fill in for me for at least the next couple of days. My head hurt so much, I figured it would take me at least that long to be functional.

  Talking and eavesdropping at the same time is an art, one that requires practice. Mom can do it effortlessly. When I’d been a teenager, I’d been as good as she was at it, out of necessity. I was still good, but out of practice. From the conversations I overheard, I learned she had a closing on a house that day and was showing another house, and she was postponing the showing until later in the day. She also called Siana, but either she didn’t mention Siana by name or I totally missed it, because I was surprised when Siana entered the room around eight-thirty, wearing a great-fitting pair of jeans and a slinky little chemise top with sequined straps, plus a leather blazer draped over her shoulders. That was so not what she would wear to work, that I knew she’d taken the day off. Siana’s a lawyer—as I’ve mentioned—very junior in a firm full of rainmakers, but senior in attitude. I didn’t think she’d stick with the firm for much longer, because she’d do better on her own. Siana was born to have her own firm and be a raging success. Who wouldn’t hire her? She was brilliant, had killer dimples, and was ruthless, all of which are great things to look for in a lawyer.