Dangerous Ladies Read Online Free PDF Page A

diamond nestled in its black velvet box. Protected and cherished. She knew her diamonds—when you had a mother who was a trophy wife, you learned these things—and this was a good diamond. Alan had insisted on taking out a loan to get her just the right stone, just the right setting. A marquise-cut, one-carat, pure white diamond that blinked with bits of ancient blue sky and new yellow sun. The platinum setting displayed its simple grandeur.
    At the time she had thought he realized how much she wanted it. Now she wondered if it had been nothing more than a symbol of his own good taste. It sure wasn’t a symbol of his good sense.
    Abruptly irritated with the constant chime of the phone, she answered, then cut Alan off, then opened the line again. She hesitated, her finger over Tiffany’s number.
    Telling her this, tonight, seemed like an admission that Tiffany
was right. Tiffany said no man was interested in a sensible, intelligent, well-organized lawyer with the ability to support herself and be fulfilled in her work. Tiffany said every man wanted a high-maintenance wife dependent on his approval. In fact, that bastard Everyman wanted Marilyn Monroe in a red silk dress.
    Brandi’s finger smashed down on the autodial. She counted the rings, then heard her sister’s voice say, “I can’t come to the phone right now. . . .”
    Of course not. It was Thursday night. Kim was a coach, and there had to be some kind of game at Smith. Volleyball or softball or whatever-ball season it was.
    “Please, Kim, call me as soon as you can.” Brandi hesitated, not sure what else to say. Finally, she worked up, “I sort of need you,” and hung up.
    Had her voice trembled? She hoped not. Kim would think she’d been crying, and she’d never been so far from crying. All this churning in her gut was a combination of rage, humiliation and, well, humiliation.
    Yanking the ring from the box, she tossed it like garbage at the toilet.
    Luckily, the lid was down and it bounced off and skittered across the tile floor.
    Yes, she was mad, but not so mad that she tossed a flawless diamond ring down the tubes.
    Besides, even if she succeeded in hitting the bowl, she couldn’t flush. The pipes were frozen.
    She chased the glittering, glorious symbol of her romantic folly into the corner by the tub. Picking it up, she cradled it in her palm . . . and smiled, a Machiavellian smile that, if he’d seen it, would have made Alan sweat.
    No, it was better, so much better, if she made use of the ring—to make herself happy.

    As Brandi walked along, huddling close to the buildings in an attempt to avoid Chicago’s blistering cold wind, her cell phone gave a series of sharp rings. She wanted to ignore the summons; answering would involve peeling off her glove, digging into the capacious pocket of her black London Fog, and pushing up her wool hat to put the phone to her ear—all activities guaranteed to turn her already flash-frozen flesh into a solid Popsicle.
    But that was Kim’s ring tone, and after a night spent awake and fuming, Brandi needed to talk to somebody. It took her a minute of frantic fumbling before she managed to pull out her cell and flip it open.
    “What is wrong?” Kim’s deep voice demanded an immediate response.
    “Wait a minute; I’m going inside.” Brandi opened the door of Honest Abe’s Pawnshop, the one her landlord had recommended as the most reputable in the area.
    The heat hit her cheeks and she moaned with joy.
    “Why are you making that noise?” Kim sounded even more coachlike and commanding.
    “It’s cold outside. It’s warm in here.” In the last twelve hours, Brandi had gone through anguish, embarrassment, and rage and now had reached the moment where she relished imparting her news just to hear Kim’s reaction. “I’m pawning my engagement ring.”
    “Why?”
    “Alan jilted me.”
    “You’re shitting!” Kim shouted. “ Alan did?”
    It was a small shop, crammed with large goods against the wall