The Look of Love Read Free Page B

accepting delivery of a gift for her employer’s upcoming wedding. The victim was unable to provide a description of the attacker, recalling only that she did catch a glimpse of a pair of aviator sunglasses and a blue cap before the acid was thrown in her face.
    Esperanza Flores, thirty-one, was quoted from an interview conducted in her hospital room. “I couldn’t stop screaming. My face was on fire. The worst fire you can imagine.”
    The case remained unsolved. As Piper searched further, she came upon older stories. One headline read BUSINESS MAJOR HITS THE GROUND RUNNING . The article explained that immediately after graduation from USC, Jillian had taken over as director of Elysium, replacing Hudson Sherwood. Sherwood had been Elysium’s director since the spa was founded by Jillian’s father.
    Nepotism at its best, thought Piper.
    There were several articles about Elysium in which Jillian was quoted. All of them seemed to be puff pieces, listing the fabulous treatments and amenities offered at the spa. Piper noticed that little mention was made of the cosmetic surgery done there.
    Piper was about to log off when she spotted one last thing. It was a death notice that had run in the Los Angeles Times several years earlier. It listed Jillian Abernathy as one of the two daughters of Caryn Abernathy, formerly the actress Caryn Collins. No cause of death was listed.
    Piper didn’t recognize the name. She glanced at the clock and decided she’d have to learn more about Caryn Collins later. She had promised Jack she’d get to his place early to help him before the guests began arriving.
    W hile the traffic at the George Washington Bridge was not too horrific, the FDR Drive was a nightmare. Should have gone down the West Side Highway and cut over, Piper thought as the cars inched along for over eighty blocks. When she got off at Twenty-third Street, she was already an hour late.
    As she locked the sedan door, her BlackBerry rang. Feeling the cold air whipping across from the East River, Piper put the tray and the two shopping bags she was carrying on the hood of the car and pulled her handheld from the pocket of her coat. She glanced at the screen.
    It was Jack.
    “Hey, where are you?” he asked. She could hear the concern in his voice.
    “I’m here,” said Piper. “The traffic was horrible, but some guy was pulling out across the street from your building and I just got his space.”
    “Good. Do you need me to come down and help you with anything?”
    “No, I can handle it,” said Piper, eyeing the icy slush covering the stretch of pothole-ridden macadam that separated her from Peter Cooper Village. She wished her feet were encased in her warm, soft Uggs instead of the open, strappy shoes she’d gotten a pedicure to wear. “I’ll be right up. Is anyone else there yet?”
    “A few people.”
    “I’m so sorry I’m late, Jack.”
    “Forget it. Just come.”
    When she entered Jack’s apartment, Piper saw that more than a few people had arrived. The place was already crowded. She didn’t recognize most of the faces as she scanned the area, but she knew that many of them were men and women who worked with Jack at the FBI.
    “My mother pretty much sent everything left over at the end of the day from the bakery,” said Piper, putting down the tray and shopping bags with the ICING ON THE CUPCAKE logo emblazoned on the sides. Jack was standing at the counter in the tiny kitchen, opening a bottle of wine.
    “Way to go, Terri! Thank her for me,” said Jack as he leaned over to give Piper a kiss on the cheek. “Glad you’re here.”
    “What can I do?” she asked, taking off her coat.
    “Whoa,” said Jack, his eyes sweeping up and down her body. “You can just stand exactly where you are and look like that all night. No, go out into the living room and stand in the middle of the rug so everybody can see you.”
    She smoothed the fabric of her short black skirt and adjusted the glittery, sleeveless emerald