Too Pretty to Die Read Free Page B

finding it lacking; though it was hard for me to believe that someone as independent and tough as Janet Graham would ever lack in self-confidence. I’d watched her blaze through Hockaday with her ever-changing hair colors and artful adjustments to our uniform of white blouse and plaid, never pushing the envelope far enough to get in trouble but making it clear that she wasn’t like everyone else.
    She wasn’t just a breath of fresh air, she was positively tornadic, knocking down everything in her path, never letting anyone tell her “that can’t be done,” and leaving a lot of stunned glances in her wake.
    I’d been two years behind her, but had felt every bit the outsider that Janet seemed proud to be, so I couldn’t help but admire her. I had cheered from the sidelines as she’d left Big D in pursuit of a career in the theater, returning less than triumphant after mere bit parts on soap operas and off-off-Broadway shows that closed within hours of opening, and taking on a stint as a society reporter with the Park Cities Press on a lark, only to realize she was damned good at it.
    Janet wore vintage clothes, dyed her hair red as a fire engine, and had all of Dallas society at her fingertips. Literally. She could speed-dial Mrs. Ross Perot or Mrs. Jerry Jones via cell phone if the mood struck her.
    So why the heck was she suddenly worried about thin lips?
    Janet had never put a lot of stock in her appearance, beyond looking like, well, herself. She wasn’t like the dozen society snobs in Delaney Armstrong’s living room who practically lived and died by the sword (or, rather, by the scalpel); who thought that winning meant the tiniest nose, the roundest breasts, the fullest mouth, and the thinnest thighs.
    If Janet wasn’t out to one-up other women in the eternal “who’s the fairest of them all” debate, then it had to be because . . . oh, gosh.
    “You’ve got a man,” I blurted out, because it was the only thing that made sense. Why else did a normally sane and rational woman suddenly turn nonsensical?
    Her eyes went wide, and her mouth—with its perfectly normal-sized lips—hung open just a spell, long enough for me to figure I’d hit that sucker on the nose.
    “You’ve met a man who thinks Angelina Jolie is the feminine ideal,” I went on, sure that I’d figured it out, brilliant detective that I was (well, I’d read enough Nancy Drew and Sherlock Holmes in my growing-up to qualify for a GED in Detection, at least). “So you want fat lips to please him.”
    “Andy, you know me better than that,” she remarked with a lift of her chin, only to tag on, “I’m just maybe a little too caught up in something I’m working on, for the paper. It’s got me to thinking about perception.”
    “Perception?”
    “Looks, perfection, what men want from women, how others view us, what makes someone attractive. Lots of things.” Her eyes clouded for a moment, then she shook it off. “I can’t say more about it yet, Andy. But I will reassure you that I will not change any part of my body to please anyone but myself.”
    Uh-huh.
    I’d told myself that same story before I’d fallen for Malone. It was easy to make all those feminist proclamations before your heart completely turned to mush. Look at what Ted Turner had done to Jane Fonda. Nothing on that woman was real anymore. And good ol’ Ted had dumped her for a younger model regardless.
    So had Janet found her own Ted? After so many years of being single—and professing she would remain so forever?
    Hmm.
    But I didn’t debate her or interrogate her. I’d find out any scoop soon enough. It was inevitable. Janet was a gossip columnist, for heaven’s sake. Eventually, she’d have to spill her guts.
    “Then promise me you’ll leave this Botox bash tonight without going all Morgan Fairchild on me, okay?” I said, and put a hand on her padded shoulder.
    “Good God, girl, that’s why I invited you to tag along with me,” she quipped. “To