Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Linda Howard

  “Why aren’t you working?” I asked.

  “I’m taking Mom’s place so she can close on a house.” She settled in the chair where Wyatt had spent the night, eating an apple.

  I eyed the apple. The hospital hadn’t offered me anything to eat, just some crushed ice, evidently holding off on feeding me until some doctor somewhere decided I wouldn’t need emergency brain surgery. Said doctor was taking his or her own sweet time, and I was starving. Hey! Surprised, I did a quick check of myself. Yep, the nausea had diminished. Maybe I couldn’t handle eggs, bacon, and toast just yet, but I could certainly handle yogurt and a banana.

  “Stop staring at my apple,” Siana said placidly. “You can’t have it. Apple envy is an ugly thing.”

  Automatically I defended myself. “I don’t have apple envy. I was thinking more along the lines of a banana. And you didn’t have to take off work, I should be released sometime this morning. It was just for overnight.”

  “‘Overnight’ doesn’t mean the same thing to doctors that it does to real people,” Mom said, completely dismissing the reality of the entire medical profession. “The emergency room doctor won’t be the one who releases you, anyway. Another one will eventually look at your test results, eventually look at you, and with any luck you’ll be home by late this afternoon.”

  She was probably right. This was the first time I’d actually been admitted to a hospital, though I’d visited the emergency department a few times and had found that time definitely had a different meaning there. “A few minutes” invariably meant a couple of hours, which was okay if you knew that, but if someone went in expecting to be seen literally “in a few minutes” she was bound to be frustrated and annoyed.

  “Regardless of that, I don’t need a babysitter.” I felt honor bound to point that out, though we all knew I didn’t want to be left alone, they weren’t going to leave me alone, and discussion was fruitless. Though sometimes I enjoy fruitless discussions.

  “Deal with it,” Siana said, grinning at me and flashing her dimples. “I thought the firm needed a day without me, anyway. I’m being taken for granted, and I don’t like it.” She took another bite of her apple, then tossed the core in the trash. “I’ve turned off my cell phone.” She looked pleased with herself, which meant the people who had been taking her for granted would probably try several times during the day to get in touch with her.

  “I have to leave,” Mom said, leaning over to kiss my forehead. She looked great, despite a night of very little sleep and her worrying about me. “But I’ll check in during the day. Let’s see, you need clothes to go home in. I’ll swing by and pick them up before I go home, then bring them at lunch. No way will you be released before lunch. I’m also hot on the trail of a wedding cake maker, I’ve located an arbor, and late this afternoon I’m going to Roberta’s house”—Roberta is Wyatt’s mom—“and we’re going to brainstorm emergency procedures if the weather is bad. Everything’s under control, so don’t worry.”

  “I have to worry; that’s the bride’s job. There’s no way all the marks from the road rash will be gone by then.” Even when the scabs were gone—euuu, scabs, how lovely—there would be pale pink marks left on my skin.

  “You’ll need long sleeves or some kind of wrap anyway, since it’ll be October.” North Carolina weather in October is usually wonderful, but it can turn chilly in a heartbeat. She examined my face with narrowed eyes. “I think your face will be fine by then, it isn’t scraped much at all. If it isn’t, that’s what makeup is for.”

  I hadn’t yet seen a mirror to assess the damage for myself, so I asked, “What about my hair? How does it look?”

  “Pretty bad, right now,” Siana answered. “I brought shampoo and a blow dryer.”

  I adore her. She has my priorities straight.

  Mom assessed the stitches in my hairline—my former hairline—and the shaved patch. “It’s manageable,” she pronounced. “A change in hairstyle will cover the shaved part, which really isn’t very big.”

  All right! Things were looking up.

  A nurse about my age breezed into the room, fresh and crisp in pink scrubs, which looked great with her complexion. She was a pretty woman—very pretty, with almost classic features—but she suffered from a really bad dye job. When it comes to hair color, “bad” almost always equals “do-it-yourself.” This particular dye job was a sort of flat brown, making me wonder what her real hair color was, because who colors her hair brown? My own hair crisis was making me very aware of hair, not that I’m ever really unaware, but my level of attention had been jacked up. When she smiled and came closer, placing cool fingers on my pulse, I studied her brows and lashes. No help there—her brows were brown, and her extra-long lashes were tinted with mascara. Maybe she’d gone prematurely gray. I envied the eyelashes and approved the mascara, which reminded me that my own mascara was probably giving me raccoon eyes by now.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked, keeping her fingers on my pulse and her gaze on her wristwatch. She was another multitasker, counting and talking at the same time.

  “Better. Plus I’m hungry.”

  “That’s a good sign.” She smiled and flicked a glance up at me. “I’ll see what I can do about some food for you.”

  Her eyes were that great mixture of green and hazel, and I thought she must look really hot when she fixed herself up for a night on the town. She was calm and collected, but there was also a controlled spark of fire in her that made me think all the single doctors, and maybe a few of the married ones, were probably doing their best to hook up with her.

  “Any idea what time the doctor makes the rounds?” I asked.

  She gave me a rueful smile and shook her head. “The time varies, depending on whether or not he has any emergencies. Don’t tell me you aren’t happy with our hospitality?”

  “You mean other than the no-food thing? And waking me up every time I doze off to make certain I’m not unconscious? And shaving my hair twenty-eight days before my wedding? Other than that, I’ve had a really good time.”

  She laughed out loud. “Twenty-eight days, huh? I was absolutely nuts for the last two months before my wedding. What a time to have an accident!”

  Mom had retrieved my keys from my bag and waved on her way out. I waved back, then picked up the conversation. “It could be worse. I could be really hurt instead of just some scrapes and one little cut.”

  “The doctors must think your condition is a little worse than that, or you wouldn’t be here.” She sounded a little chiding, but then nurses probably ran into reluctant patients all the time—and, really, I wasn’t reluctant exactly; I was just possessed of a sense of urgency. Twenty-eight days were left, and the clock was ticking.

  Since presumably she’d read my chart, I didn’t see the need to tell her that an overnight stay for observation didn’t indicate a serious injury. Maybe she just wanted me to worry a little bit so I wouldn’t bug her or the other nurses about when I was getting out. I wasn’t in a bugging mood, anyway; if I hadn’t had so much to do, I’d have been very content to lie in a hospital bed and let people bring things to me. The nausea had eased, but the pounding in my head hadn’t. I’d had to go to the bathroom twice, and moving wasn’t fun, but neither had it been as bad as I’d feared it would be.

  The nurse—she probably had a name tag attached to her pocket, but the way she was leaning over the bed I couldn’t see it—turned the sheet back to check out all my scrapes and bruises, all the while asking questions about my wedding. Where it would be, what my gown looked like, that sort of thing.

  “It’s going to be at Wyatt’s mother’s house,” I said happily, glad of something to distract me from my headache. “In her flower garden. Her mums are gorgeous, and I usually don’t like mums because they usually come with dead bodies attached. If it rains, which isn’t that likely in October, we’ll just move inside.”

  “Do you like her?” Her tone was a little clipped, which made me think she had trouble with her own mother-
in-law. That was too bad; in-law trouble could really hurt a marriage. I had liked Jason’s mother well enough, but I adored Wyatt’s mother. She gave me inside information and was generally on my side in the man-woman things.

  “She’s great. She introduced me to Wyatt, and now she’s giving herself big pats on the back because she said she thought from the first we’d be a good match.”

  “Must be nice, to have a mother-in-law who likes you,” she muttered.

  I started to suggest that maybe the bad dye job was a bit off-putting, but stopped myself. Maybe a do-it-yourself home job was all she could afford, though nurses generally make decent money. For all I knew, she could have three or four kids at home to feed and clothe, and her husband could be handicapped, or just plain no good. There had to be some reason for the hair.

  She peeled back the bandage over the biggest scrape on my left thigh, and the peeling-back hurt. I gasped, knotting my fists against the pain.

  “Sorry,” she said, peering at the scrape. “This is a good one. What were you doing, riding a motorcycle?”

  I managed to unclench my teeth. “No, some psycho bitch tried to run me down in the mall parking lot last night.”

  She glanced up, eyebrows arching. “Do you know who it was?”

  “No, but Wyatt is probably looking at the mall and parking lot security tapes right now, trying to get a license plate number and I.D.” If he could get them without a warrant, that is, because I doubted a judge would issue a warrant; the incident just wasn’t serious enough.

  She nodded and replaced the bandage over the scrape. “Must be handy, having a cop for a boyfriend.”

  “Sometimes.” Unless he was making me go to the police station when I didn’t want to, or tracking me down through charges to my credit card. He can be a tad ruthless in getting what he wants. Of course, I couldn’t complain too much, because what he’d wanted when he did those things was me—and he got me, too. Even with the headache from Hell, the memory of how he’d got me made me shiver. His testosterone almost reached the toxic level, but the benefits…oh, my, the benefits were wonderful.

  The nurse made a note of something on a small pad she fished from one of her pockets, then said, “You’re doing fine. I’ll see what I can do about some food for you,” as she left the room.

  Siana hadn’t said a word the entire time, which wasn’t unusual; she likes to size up people before she commits herself to conversation. After the door closed, though, she said, “What’s up with that hair?”

  Siana could be arguing a case before the Supreme Court—which she hadn’t, yet—and she would notice the hair of everyone in the courtroom, including that of the justices, which is a pretty scary thought when you look at some of them. Jenni and I are the same way, and we all got that gene directly from Mom, who got it from her mother. I’ve often wondered what Grammy’s mother was like. I said that once to Wyatt and he’d shuddered. He’d met Grammy once, at her birthday party a month ago; I think she either impressed him or scared the hell out of him, but he’d held his ground, and after the party Dad had given him a double whiskey.

  I don’t see what’s so bad about Grammy, except that she can out-Mom Mom, which, all right, is kind of scary. But I want to be just like her when I get old. I want to stay stylish, I want to drive sharp cars, and I want my children and grandchildren to pay proper attention to me. When I get really old, though, I’m going to trade my sharp car for the largest one I can find, and I’m going to hunch down in the seat until my little blue head is just peeking above the steering wheel, then I’m going to drive really slow and flip the bird at everyone who honks at me. It’s plans like this that make me look forward to old age.

  If I can live that long, that is. Other people kept coming up with different plans for me. It’s annoying.

  I waited, but no food magically appeared. Siana and I chatted. After a while another nurse came in and took my vitals. I asked about my food. She checked my chart, said “I’ll see what I can do,” and left.

  Siana and I figured there would be a wait, and we decided to wash my hair. Thank goodness stitches no longer have to be kept dry, because there was no way I could go a week with dried blood and gunk giving me a gruesome Mohawk. The stitches weren’t a problem, the concussion was. As long as I moved very slowly, though, the headache didn’t spike. But I didn’t want just my hair washed, I wanted me washed. Siana snagged a nurse who said, sure, the bandages could come off for a shower, and I carefully, but happily, showered and shampooed. I also let the bandages come off in the shower, instead of pulling them off.

  Afterward Siana blow-dried my hair; she didn’t bother with any actual styling, but that didn’t matter because my hair is straight. Just being clean made me feel better.

  Still no food.

  I was beginning to think the hospital staff was in on those alternate plans for me and intended to starve me to death, and Siana was about to go down to the cafeteria and get something for me herself, when finally a tray was delivered. The coffee was lukewarm but I seized it gratefully, drinking half of it before I lifted the metal cover off my plate. Fake scrambled eggs, cold toast, and limp bacon stared up at me. Siana and I looked at each other, then I shrugged. “I’m starving. This will do.” But I made a mental note to write the hospital administrator about the culinary offerings here. Sick people need food that will at least tempt them to eat.

  After I’d eaten about half the food my outraged taste buds overcame the weakening whines from my stomach, and I replaced the cover over the plate so I wouldn’t have to look at the eggs. Cold eggs are revolting. My headache had eased some, and I realized part of it had been due to caffeine deprivation.

  Because I felt better, I began fretting about the passing time. No doctor had yet been in to see me, and it was almost ten-thirty, according to the clock on the wall.

  “Maybe no doctor has been assigned to my case,” I mused. “Maybe I’m just here, forgotten.”

  “Maybe you should get a regular doctor,” Siana pointed out.

  “Do you have one?”

  She looked guilty. “Does a gynecologist count?”

  “I don’t see why not. I have one of those, too.” Hey, you have to get your prescription for birth control pills somewhere. “Maybe I should call her.”

  A hospital stay is boring. Siana turned on the television and we tried to find something to watch. Neither of us is ever home during the day so we’re unfamiliar with daytime fare. It says something when The Price Is Right is the best we could find, but at least it entertained us. Siana and I both did better than all the contestants, but, hey, shopping is a talent.

  The noise from the hall was a distraction, because the lady who’d brought in my breakfast tray had left the door half-open, but we’d left it that way because the circulating air kept the room a little less stuffy. The bright blue sky outside my window told me summer hadn’t quite loosened its grip yet, even though the calendar said autumn had officially arrived. I wanted to be out in that sunshine. I wanted to be out looking for my wedding dress. Where was a doctor, any doctor?

  The Price Is Right was over. I said to Siana, “How did your date go last night?”

  “Slowly.”

  I gave her a sympathetic look and she sighed. “He was a nice guy, but…no spark. I want sparks. I want a whole box of sparklers. I want what you have with Wyatt, some guy looking at me as if he could eat me up, and I want him to.”

  Just using the words Wyatt and eat in the same sentence made me feel warm and squirmy. No doubt about it, he had me programmed.

  “I waited a long time for Wyatt. I even waited for two years after he dumped me.” That was still a sore point with me, that he’d dumped me after just three dates because he thought I was high maintenance.

  “You didn’t exactly wait,” she said, amused. “You went out on dates. A lot of them, as I remember.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of movement at the door. The movement stopped. No one came into the room.

  �
��But I didn’t sleep with any of them,” I pointed out. “That’s waiting.”

  Wyatt still didn’t enter the room. He was staying just out of sight, listening. I knew it was him; I’d figured he would come visit around lunch, if he could get free. He had a sneaky streak that was a mile wide; he was such a cop, he couldn’t resist eavesdropping just to see if he could hear anything interesting.

  I caught Siana’s eye, narrowed my gaze, and indicated the door. She gave a quick little grin and said, “You always said you wanted to use his SDS.”

  I hadn’t, but the Southern Women’s Code said that eavesdroppers of the male variety should always get their ears full. Siana’s quick thinking delighted me. “His SDS was what interested me from the first. I really wanted access to it.”

  “It must be impressive.”

  “It is, but the responsiveness is at least as important. There’s no point in having a large SDS if it won’t do what I want it to do—sort of like a bank.”

  She muffled a snort of laughter. “I’m looking for a great SDS, too. I see no reason why I can’t fall in love with a guy who has one and can handle my requirements.”

  “I don’t either. I—Come in,” I called, interrupting myself to answer Wyatt’s abbreviated, belated rap on the door. He pushed the door the rest of the way open and came in, his expression set and unreadable. Anger made his green eyes even brighter, and I had to swallow an impulse to laugh. We hadn’t been together all that long, but from the beginning getting the best of him had been difficult.

  Siana was smiling as she got to her feet. “Great,” she said. “I need to stretch my legs. I’m going down to the cafeteria for a bite to eat. Want me to bring something back?”

  “No, I’m good,” he growled. “Thanks.” The thanks was tacked on as an afterthought. Wyatt was mad, and he was determined to wring the truth about his SDS out of me as soon as Siana was gone. He didn’t shy away from a fight, like most men did, and my having a slight concussion didn’t mean he’d cut me any slack.