Too Pretty to Die Read Online Free

remind me that I’m not like them. I just write about ’em.”
    “Did you say you invited me?” I parroted. “Wasn’t it more like tricked me .”
    “Semantics.” She wiggled bejeweled fingers—Janet did so appreciate good costume jewelry. “You give me strength, my friend, so I will pass on Dr. Sonja’s freebies and do a little more research before I make a decision. I don’t need to jump into lip plumping right this minute. What I do need is a decent steak and some onion rings.”
    “Now you’re talkin’.” I grinned.
    The aliens from Planet Superficial that had momentarily possessed my friend’s brain had released it with no obvious residual damage.
    Phew.
    After a final glance in the mirror—and a quick primping of her curly ’do—Janet turned to me, suggesting, “How about we take off now and go get that dinner? I don’t need to stay till the end for the door prizes. I’ve seen enough here to write my story. Besides”—she shrugged—“if I hang around any longer listening to well-to-do women bitch about boob jobs and face-lifts and liposuctioned thighs, I think I’ll have to throw myself under the nearest Mercedes. I might have to chronicle the self-absorbed insanity of the rich and plastic, but I don’t want to catch it.”
    Ah, now there was my comrade who liked to color outside the box. It was good to have her back after that Nip/Tuck moment.
    I grinned. “That’s the Janet Graham I know and love.”
    She nudged my arm, and the familiar spark returned to her eyes. “How does Bob’s Steak and Chop House sound? You can’t even tell there was ever a fire,” she added, because there had been one, a year or so back. But it wasn’t because of overcooked tenderloin.
    It sounded lots better than hanging out at Delaney’s with a bunch of wine-sipping women lining up for needle sticks.
    Yuck.
    “Give me smashed potatoes over a vial of cow placenta any day,” I said, and headed out of the quiet of the posh loo, catching the opening beat of the Village People doing “YMCA” and praying we could slip past the living room unnoticed.
    As I led the way toward the front door, I buttoned my jacket to ready myself for the cool November air, ignoring Janet’s whispers about slowing down.
    We were so close to getting away, I could smell freedom as clearly as I could Delaney Armstrong’s overpowering White Linen perfume.
    “I should probably let Delaney know we’re leaving,” she whined, glancing behind her. “She was kind enough to add me to the guest list so I could research a story.”
    “Make up your mind,” I said, and paused as she contemplated whether to keep moving or head back to bid Delaney farewell.
    While I tapped my foot on the floor, I stared at Delaney’s family portrait, hung above an elaborate Italian console in the foyer, in which the Armstrong clan posed in their English garden out back. Delaney smiled so tight it looked like it hurt. Beside her sat her husband Jonathan, who had GQ looks from his thick brown hair to the cleft in his chin. On either side stood their twin girls, wearing matching lavender dresses.
    Glancing at the picture-perfect tableau made my teeth ache.
    “All right”—Janet turned back toward me—“you win. I’ll just give Delaney a jingle in the morning to say merci .”
    “Let’s boogie then, chickie!” I caught Janet’s wrist, eager to hustle her out of there, and we would’ve surely snuck out unchecked if at the very moment I reached for the nickel-plated handle, the door hadn’t pushed wide open, nearly butting into my nose as a woman in pink barreled in.
    She was drunk as a skunk, stumbling forward on tottering high heels, big poof of blond hair flying, waving something dark in her hand—a clutch purse?—and leaving the reek of gin in her wake.
    “Oooph,” Janet gasped, running into my back as I came to a cold hard stop.
    Who the heck would be nuts enough—or, rather, smashed enough—to crash Dr. Sonja’s Pretty Party, one being