Charade by Sandra Brown Read Free Book Online Page A

to appear haphazard. Her eyes, described as "laser beam blue" almost every time her name appeared in print, had been artfully enhanced with makeup. Her skin had never glowed so healthily. She was showing it off in a snug-fitting black sequined minidress that left her arms and back bare. Of course, the dress had a high neckline that fastened halter-style at the back of her neck. She hadn't wanted to expose her "zipper," the scar that ran vertically from the hollow of her throat to the center of her breastbone, where the ribs separated. Every item in her wardrobe had been chosen to conceal that scar. Dean insisted that it was hardly detectable and fading more each day, but she could still see it clearly. She knew that the scar was a small price to pay for her new heart. Her self-consciousness about it was undoubtedly a holdover from childhood, when she'd often been wounded by thoughtless or cruel comments by her classmates. Illness had made her an object of curiosity then, just as being a heart transplantee did now. She had never wanted to spark pity or awe in other people, so now she hid her scar carefully. Although she felt fabulous tonight, she would never take good health for granted. Her recollections of her illness were still too vivid. She was grateful to be alive and able to work. Her resumption of the Laura Madison role, and all the physical demands it placed on her, had caused no health problems. Now, a year after her transplant, she'd never felt better. Grinning, she moved up behind Dean and slid her arm through his. "Why is it that the two most attractive men in the room are monopolizing each other and depriving the rest of us?" Dean smiled down at her. "Thank you." "Likewise," the other man said. "The compliment is especially welcome coming from the belle of the ball."
    She executed a mock curtsy, then smiled and extended her hand. "I'm Cat Delaney." "Bill Webster." "From . . . ?" "San Antonio, Texas." "Ah, WWSA! You're that Webster." She turned to Dean and said in a stage whisper, "Top dog. Owner and CEO. In other words, kiss up." Webster chuckled modestly. His name was known and respected industry-wide. He appeared to be in his midfifties. There was an attractive feathering of gray at his temples, and his suntanned face had accommodated maturity very well. Cat liked him instantly. "You're not a native Texan, are you?" she asked. "Either that or you conceal your accent." "You have a good ear." "And great legs," she said, winking. "I concur," Dean said. Webster laughed again. "I'm originally from the Midwest. I've been in Texas almost fifteen years. It's become home." "Thank you for tearing yourself away long enough to attend the party," she said sincerely. "I wouldn't have missed it." He nodded toward Dean. "Dr. Spicer and I have been talking about your remarkable recovery." "He deserves all the credit," she said, smiling up at Dean. "He-- and all the doctors and nurses in the transplant program--did all the work. I was just their dummy." Dean placed his arm around her slender waist and said proudly, "She's been an ideal patient, first for me and then for Dr. Sholden, who took over her case when our relationship progressed to the point where medical considerations could have become clouded. As you can see, it turned out all right." Cat sighed theatrically. "It's been all right since I got those blasted steroids adjusted. Of course, I had to give up my mustache and chipmunk cheeks, but one can't have everything." The unpleasant side effects of the steroids had disappeared once her dosage had been lowered. She'd regained the pounds she'd lost and now held steady at her ideal, pretransplant weight.
    Even before the "zipper" became part of her body, her slight figure had never had centerfold potential. She'd been a gangly, skinny child. Adolescence hadn't paid off for her as it had for many girls; the fervently desired curves had never developed. The angular bone structure of her face and her vibrant coloring were her