Read Online Have Your Cake and Kill Him Too by Nancy Martin - Free Book Online

slipped her grasp and headed for the ladies’ room.
    It was down two steps and along a hallway decorated with autographed head shots of some Cupcake Girls along with the usual jumble of fake antiques, a dusty Western saddle and a lariat pressed into service as decor. My footsteps were quick but unsteady on the tile floor, and I finally found myself at the termination of the hallway, where it widened for two lavatories and an old-fashioned European phone booth with wooden doors and frosted glass.
    In four more steps I was thankfully alone in the ladies’ room. There, I leaned against the stainless steel sink and tried to quell the new wave of queasiness that had nothing to do with morning sickness or finding dead bodies.
    I had been an idiot, yes. For over two months I’d let Richard D’eath into my life in the foolish hope that he could make things better for me. He was supposed to be a plateful of healthy vegetables after months of rich and decadent chocolate mousse. But the vegetables brought only more complications, and now I felt sick.
    It had felt like the right choice once. A good man instead of a bad boy.
    But now it all felt wrong.
    Someone flushed, startling me. In another moment, a teenage girl came out of the stall. The photographer who had been filming Clover.
    â€œHi,” she mumbled, avoiding my gaze.
    â€œHello.” I stepped back so she could have the sink. “Wild party, isn’t it?”
    â€œYeah, I guess.” She pumped soap into her hands and—just like my six-year-old niece—closed her eyes and began to scrub, humming “Happy Birthday” to be sure she washed for the correct amount of time.
    She was of medium height with a square body concealed by a khaki vest over jeans and a frayed thermal T-shirt. Her face was very young, with freckles instead of makeup. Her lower lip had a sexy plumpness, but it was chapped. Her hands were stubby, her nails unpolished. Pinned on her camera bag was a Hello Kitty button and a press badge on which someone had scrawled Jane in large, loopy, childish letters.
    When she finished washing her hands, she snatched a towel from the dispenser, still trying to ignore me.
    I must have looked pretty scary to a kid, I realized—a grown woman on the verge of tears. I made an effort to control myself, but she jammed her used towel into the trash and bolted out of the bathroom, clearly glad to get away from me.
    â€œNice,” I said aloud. “Now you’re scaring children.”
    Alone again, I blotted my eye makeup and powdered my nose. I steeled myself to act normal. I had been doing it for weeks, and I could certainly do it for another few minutes. Long enough to get away from Cupcakes without speaking to Michael.
    I took a deep breath and went out into the hallway.
    Where Michael waited.
    Tall and watchful, he leaned one shoulder against the opposite wall by the phone booth. He’d cut his hair to something respectable, and he wore a suit, but with the tie undone and his shirt collar loosened—maybe by a woman.
    He looked at my stomach. “Is that mine?”
    My brain blew a fuse. Then I reached to touch the makeshift belt I had fashioned for the vintage Carolina Herrera suit I’d put on that morning. I’d used a man’s silk necktie to belt the jacket, which didn’t quite fit me anymore. “Is the tie yours?”
    He nodded. “It looks good. You look good.”
    â€œYou look . . .”
    â€œScary?” he suggested. “Because you’re trembling.”
    I shouldered my handbag. Above us, music wailed, and we could hear a thunder of cowgirl boots stomping on the bar. I wasn’t ready for this. I hadn’t decided what to say or even how I felt. So, idiotically, I said, “This isn’t your kind of nightspot.”
    â€œOr yours.”
    â€œAre you having a good time?”
    He shrugged. “It’s just a place to do business.”
    â€œWho are your