Drop Dead Gorgeous Read Online Free PDF

but it did just what my brain told it to do, which was laboriously (I didn't tell it that part, that was just the way it worked) bring my hand up so I could swipe at whatever was crawling across my face.
    I expected to feel a bug. I was braced to feel a giant bug. What I felt, instead, was wet and sticky.
    Okay, I was bleeding. I was vaguely surprised, though I shouldn't have been. It wasn't that I was surprised I was bleeding, but that I was bleeding from my head or face, or both. I knew I'd hit my head, hence the headache and nausea that likely meant a concussion, but the situation was getting worser and worser , as someone once said. If I'd cut my face, would that mean stitches? The way this was going, I would look like the Bride of Frankenstein by the time Wyatt and I got married.
    That realization shot up to a seven on my Piss-O-Meter. Maybe an eight. My plans for Wyatt were totally screwed if my face was scarred and I was covered in peeling road rash, because how could he possibly go blind with lust looking at that?
    At least he wasn't with me this time. He'd been right there both of the other times when someone tried to kill me, and it had played hell with him on all sorts of levels. As a cop, he'd been infuriated. As a man, he'd been outraged. As the man who loved me, he'd been terrified. Naturally, he had shown all this by becoming even more arrogant and overbearing, and considering what his base level was for both those characteristics, you can imagine how unbearable he became. It's a good thing I already loved him, or I'd have had to kill him.
    Thinking about Wyatt wasn't going to get help to me any faster. I was really good at putting off unpleasant stuff, but I couldn't put this off any longer. It was going to hurt, but I had to force myself to move.
    I was lying on my left side, with my left arm pinned beneath me. I planted my right hand about even with my shoulder and awkwardly levered myself up until I managed to get propped on my left elbow. Then I paused, fighting nausea, fighting the horrible pounding in my head, waiting until the worst of it passed before I struggled into an upright position.
    Okay. Nothing was broken. Having had experience with broken bones, I could tell that much. Scraped, bruised, jarred, and concussed, but not broken. Probably if I'd been in fear of my life I could have jumped up and run like hell, but the bitch who had almost run me down had evidently taken her road rage to, well, the road. Not having that pressing need, I sat there and used the hem of my blouse to wipe the blood from my eyes so I could see. I also used that time to reassure myself that my head wasn't going to explode or fall off, though it felt as if it might do both.
    With my vision less blurry, I found my purse. It was hanging from the bend of my right arm, and it was tangled with some of the plastic bags that I likewise hadn't dropped. The tangled straps had been hampering my efforts to move my arm, and the bags themselves were woven around and under my legs. How about that? My purchases might have provided my skin with a little extra protection. I took this as a sign that God wanted me to shop.
    Buoyed by this spiritual support, I clumsily fished in my purse for my cell phone and flipped it open. The blessed little screen lit up, so I punched in 911. I've called 911 before, when Nicole Goodwin was murdered and I thought the shots were being fired at me, so I knew the drill. When the dispassionate voice asked the nature of my emergency, I was prepared.
    "I've been injured. I'm in the mall parking lot—" I told them which mall, which store, and which entrance I was lying outside of, though technically I was now sitting outside of it.
    "What is the nature of your injury?" the voice inquired, without the least bit of urgency or even concern. I guess the 911 operator figured that if I were calling, I couldn't be hurt that much, and I guess she was right.
    "Head injury; I think I have a concussion. Bruises, scrapes,