If Looks Could Kill

Lire ebook If Looks Could Kill
Auteur: Kate White

If Looks Could Kill
    C AT J ONES WAS the kind of woman who not only got everything in the world that she wanted—in her case a fabulous job as editor in chief
     of one of the biggest women’s magazines, a gorgeous town house in Manhattan, and a hot-looking husband with a big career of
     his own—but over the years also managed to get plenty of what other women wanted: like
fabulous jobs and
hot-looking husbands. It was hard not to hate her. So when her perfect world began to unravel, I might have been tempted to turn my face into my pillow at night and go, “Hee hee hee.” But I didn’t. I took no pleasure in her misery, as I’m sure plenty of other people did, and instead I jetted to her rescue. Why? Because she helped pay my bills, because she was my friend in a weird sort of way, and most of
     all because as a writer of true crime articles I’ve always been sucked in by stories that start with a corpse and lead to
     crushing heartache.
    There’s no way I could forget the moment when all the Sturm und Drang began. It was just after eight on a Sunday morning, a Sunday in early
     May. I was lying under the covers of my queen-size bed in a spoon position with thirty-four-year-old Kyle Conner McConaughy, investment
     banker and sailing fanatic, feeling him growing hard and hoping I wouldn’t do anything to mess up the delicate ecosystem of
     the moment. It was our sixth date and only the second time we’d been to bed, and though dinner had been nice and last night’s
     sex had been even better than the first time, I had a pit in my stomach—the kind that develops when you find yourself gaga
     over a guy you’ve begun to sense is as skittish as an alpine goat. All it would take was the wrong remark from me—a suggestion,
     for instance, that we plan a weekend at a charming inn in the Berkshires—and he’d burn rubber on his way out the door.
    The phone rang just as I felt his hand close around my right breast. I glanced instinctively at the clock. God, it was only
     8:09. The machine would pick it up, regardless of what idiot had decided to call at this hour. It was too early for my mother,
     traipsing around Tuscany, and too late for old boyfriends, who did their drunk dialing at two A.M. from pay phones in bars
     below 14th Street. Maybe it was the super. It would be just like him to get in touch at this hour with some pathetic complaint,
     like my bike was leaning up against the wrong wall in the basement.
    “Do you need to get that?” K.C. asked, his hand pausing in its pursuit.
    “The machine will,” I said. Had I remembered, I wondered, to turn the volume all the way down? The fourth ring was cut off
     abruptly and a woman’s voice came booming into the room from the small office directly across from my bedroom. No, I hadn’t.
    “Bailey? . . . Bailey? . . . Please pick up if you’re there. It’s Cat . . . I need your help. . . . Bailey, are you there?”
    I moaned.
    “I better grab this,” I said, wriggling out

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