Read Online Jaine Austen 4 - Shoes to Die For by Laura Levine - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Levine
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got it.
“They won’t be real dead people, of course,” she babbled on. “They’ll be professional models—in coffins, in electric chairs, on operating tables. Beautifully dressed in the latest fashions from Passions. Won’t that be fun?”
Right. About as much fun as a hysterectomy.
She slung her feet up on Grace’s pine desk, crossing her Jimmy Choo knockoffs and admiring her slender ankles. “All I need from you is some body copy. Stuff about me, and how I’ve just taken over the store, and my fabulous sense of style.”
She wasn’t too in love with herself, was she?
“How much was Grace going to pay you?” she asked.
“Five thousand dollars.”
She had a hearty chuckle over that.
“I’ll pay you three hundred,” she said, when she was finished laughing. “And I want the ads on my desk tomorrow morning.”
“So soon?”
“It can’t take you that long to dash off a few ads,” she said. “I’ll meet you here at seven A.M .”
“Seven in the morning?”
“I’m a morning person. If you don’t like it, I’ll get someone else.”
No way was I going to work for this bitch.
And I was just about to tell her so when the door flew open. Tyler stood there, his boy-next-door features contorted with rage.
“You bitch!” he screamed, taking the words right out of my mouth. “How could you do this to me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frenchie said, with mock innocence.
“Oh yes, you do. You broke into my apartment and trashed my computer. You burned the floppies in my fireplace.” By now the veins in his neck were standing out like pieces of twine. “You destroyed my novel. Three years of work down the drain.”
“Is that so?” Frenchie smirked.
“I’m filing a police report.”
“Go ahead,” she said. “You can’t prove it was me.” She sipped her wine and smiled a sly, taunting smile. “I told you you shouldn’t have dumped me.”
Then he lost it.
His eyes blazing, he lunged at her, sending her wine glass flying across the room.
“I’ll kill you!” he shouted, his hands around her neck.
Good heavens. He was going to strangle her! Not that I blamed him, but it was still awfully scary.
If Frenchie was frightened, she sure didn’t show it.
“Go ahead,” she challenged him. “You don’t have the guts.”
And she was right. Slowly Tyler took his hands away from her neck, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Now get out of here,” she said. “And by the way, you’re fired.”
He shot her a final look of loathing and headed for the door.
It was then that I started screaming hysterically. No, it wasn’t a delayed reaction to seeing Tyler strangling Frenchie. It was because I looked down and saw that my $3,000 Prada suit was splattered with red wine.
“What’s wrong with you?” Frenchie asked.
“My suit,” I moaned. “It’s ruined.”
“Not only that, your price tag’s showing.”
She was right. In all the excitement, the price tag had loosened from its rubber-band mooring and was now dangling around my wrist.
“So you pulled the old ‘buy it, wear it, and return it’ trick,” she said. “I do it all the time myself.”
The thought of sharing the same moral zip code with someone like Frenchie made me blush with shame.
“I didn’t think the suit was really yours,” she added. “You’re not exactly the Prada type, are you?”
Now I was the one who wanted to strangle her. Needless to say, I restrained myself.
Just then, there was a knock at the open back door. Two burly men stood in the doorway.
“Delivery from Hollywood Props,” one of them said.
Frenchie’s face lit up.
“My coffin. Bring it in, guys.”
They started wheeling in a gleaming mahogany coffin.
“Bring it out front,” Frenchie ordered.
Frenchie and I followed as they wheeled the coffin out onto the sales floor.
“Put it there, in the window,” Frenchie said.
“We’ll put a corpse in the coffin,” she mused aloud, as they hoisted
“They won’t be real dead people, of course,” she babbled on. “They’ll be professional models—in coffins, in electric chairs, on operating tables. Beautifully dressed in the latest fashions from Passions. Won’t that be fun?”
Right. About as much fun as a hysterectomy.
She slung her feet up on Grace’s pine desk, crossing her Jimmy Choo knockoffs and admiring her slender ankles. “All I need from you is some body copy. Stuff about me, and how I’ve just taken over the store, and my fabulous sense of style.”
She wasn’t too in love with herself, was she?
“How much was Grace going to pay you?” she asked.
“Five thousand dollars.”
She had a hearty chuckle over that.
“I’ll pay you three hundred,” she said, when she was finished laughing. “And I want the ads on my desk tomorrow morning.”
“So soon?”
“It can’t take you that long to dash off a few ads,” she said. “I’ll meet you here at seven A.M .”
“Seven in the morning?”
“I’m a morning person. If you don’t like it, I’ll get someone else.”
No way was I going to work for this bitch.
And I was just about to tell her so when the door flew open. Tyler stood there, his boy-next-door features contorted with rage.
“You bitch!” he screamed, taking the words right out of my mouth. “How could you do this to me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frenchie said, with mock innocence.
“Oh yes, you do. You broke into my apartment and trashed my computer. You burned the floppies in my fireplace.” By now the veins in his neck were standing out like pieces of twine. “You destroyed my novel. Three years of work down the drain.”
“Is that so?” Frenchie smirked.
“I’m filing a police report.”
“Go ahead,” she said. “You can’t prove it was me.” She sipped her wine and smiled a sly, taunting smile. “I told you you shouldn’t have dumped me.”
Then he lost it.
His eyes blazing, he lunged at her, sending her wine glass flying across the room.
“I’ll kill you!” he shouted, his hands around her neck.
Good heavens. He was going to strangle her! Not that I blamed him, but it was still awfully scary.
If Frenchie was frightened, she sure didn’t show it.
“Go ahead,” she challenged him. “You don’t have the guts.”
And she was right. Slowly Tyler took his hands away from her neck, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Now get out of here,” she said. “And by the way, you’re fired.”
He shot her a final look of loathing and headed for the door.
It was then that I started screaming hysterically. No, it wasn’t a delayed reaction to seeing Tyler strangling Frenchie. It was because I looked down and saw that my $3,000 Prada suit was splattered with red wine.
“What’s wrong with you?” Frenchie asked.
“My suit,” I moaned. “It’s ruined.”
“Not only that, your price tag’s showing.”
She was right. In all the excitement, the price tag had loosened from its rubber-band mooring and was now dangling around my wrist.
“So you pulled the old ‘buy it, wear it, and return it’ trick,” she said. “I do it all the time myself.”
The thought of sharing the same moral zip code with someone like Frenchie made me blush with shame.
“I didn’t think the suit was really yours,” she added. “You’re not exactly the Prada type, are you?”
Now I was the one who wanted to strangle her. Needless to say, I restrained myself.
Just then, there was a knock at the open back door. Two burly men stood in the doorway.
“Delivery from Hollywood Props,” one of them said.
Frenchie’s face lit up.
“My coffin. Bring it in, guys.”
They started wheeling in a gleaming mahogany coffin.
“Bring it out front,” Frenchie ordered.
Frenchie and I followed as they wheeled the coffin out onto the sales floor.
“Put it there, in the window,” Frenchie said.
“We’ll put a corpse in the coffin,” she mused aloud, as they hoisted
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