Hostile Makeover Read Online Free PDF Page B

they say—Yikes, my client is here early! That never happens. Gotta go. Kiss-kiss.”
    Lacey stared at the phone for a moment after Miguel hung up. She had chosen that morning to go with a vaguely 1940s look, her favorite. Her hairstylist, Stella Lake, once pointed out that the Lacey Smithsonian signature style was a combination of Rosie the Riveter and His Girl Friday : “Brains, beauty, and no bullshit,” in Stella’s memorable phrase. Lacey had to admit that Stella had her number. She had selected her vintage forest-green wool-gabardine suit, nipped in at the waist, with a delicate lace hankie tucked into the pocket and secured with a porcelain rose pin. She wore her three-strand pearl necklace and pearl studs in her ears. Her soft light brown hair, highlighted with blond strands, swung around her shoulders, a look reminiscent of early Lauren Bacall, but with more volume and presence. Stella was so good at this cut that Lacey had started to call it “the Bacall,” although Stella herself just called it “the usual.” Lacey thought she’d pass inspection with nearly everyone; everyone except, perhaps, the perfect psycho, Amanda Manville.
    I’ll just have to stay out of slapping distance, she told herself.
    Lacey bent over her bottom desk drawer and heard another familiar voice mocking her.
    “Hey, Lois Lane, still in one piece? I see we are wearing our vintage bravado today.” Her glance traveled from the desk drawer where she kept her notebooks to the black lizard cowboy boots that stood by her desk.
    “Morning, Trujillo.” She straightened up in her chair. Tony Trujillo looked good, as always, with his inquisitive almond eyes and beautiful New Mexico copper skin.
    “You win the prize for making it through the night after a trip home with the Wiedemeyer.”
    “He didn’t actually take me home. I gave that pleasure to a Yellow Cab.”
    “Smart move. I was worried, Supergirl.”
    Lacey appraised his expression. Perhaps he was a bit worried underneath the sly smile, which revealed his perfect set of straight white choppers. “I’m fine, Tony. Really. Thank you for your concern. By the way, do you know anything about this Amanda . . .”
    The aroma of the cinnamon-spiced air hijacked Trujillo’s attention. Felicity had returned bearing her tray of buns. He reached for a gooey glazed treat and dazzled her with his smile. “Ooh, muchas gracias! I’ve missed you, Felicidad.”
    Felicity melted. “Oh, Tony. Take another.”
    Lacey decided she’d schmooze Trujillo later, after his carbohydrate buzz wore off. But before she left for her interview she wanted to know something.
    “Felicity, what are the names of your cats again?”
    “Hansel and Gretel. They were orphaned in the woods, and I found them and lured them home with a trail of tuna.” Felicity practically purred with pride. She indicated their framed photos on her desk.
    Aha! I knew it. She is a gingerbread witch.
    “Oh, Lacey, you’d love them; they’re just adorable.”
    And so well fed, I’ll wager. Here, kitty, kitty, time for dinner!
    Lacey retreated to the staff kitchen for a cup of coffee and ran into the newspaper’s new resident storm cloud, Cassandra Wentworth, the latest addition to Mac’s oh-so-important editorial writers at The Eye.
    Cassandra was helping herself to a sort of herbal swill, something that would obviously be good for her but taste worse than medicine. She had no time for pleasure. She dealt with the more important issues of the day. Ms. Wentworth raised an eyebrow at Lacey’s presence, but politely said hello anyway. Lacey was reaching for the brackish, though caffeinated, brew that passed for coffee at The Eye.
    “That stuff will kill you.” Cassandra made a nasty face.
    Just the sort of face you want to see first thing in the morning. Lacey lifted her cup in a salute. “To each her own.”
    Peter Johnson, The Eye ’s congressional reporter, stumbled into the kitchen with his usual grace, wearing a sloppy