Drop Dead Gorgeous by Linda Howard Read Free Book Online

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: