Elaine Viets & Victoria Laurie, Nancy Martin, Denise Swanson - Drop-Dead Blonde (v5.0) (pdf) by Unknown (howl and other poems .TXT) 📕

``Forget it, honey,'' she snapped, cutting me off with a flip of her hand. ``If you think this little performance of yours is going to make you a millionaire, you'd better think again.''

``I don't understand,'' I said, furrowing my brow.

``Oh, cut the con. You know who I am,'' she said.

``I'm afraid I haven't the slightest clue,'' I replied, but now that I looked at her, I thought she did look a little familiar.

``Sure you don't,'' she said with a sneer, ``Well, let me assure you that the Ballentine Fund will not be awarded to a scam artist like you. Celeste Ballentine wasn't born yes- terday, sweetie, so take your little song and dance and go try some other sucker.'' And with that she clicked her high heels together and walked away, leaving me to blink in surprise at her derriere.

``Abby?'' My sister's voice sounded into my ear, causing me to jump.

``Oh! Hey, Cat,'' I said, forgetting my earlier irritation with her and bending to give her a quick hug.

``Who was that?'' she asked, pointing to Celeste and Gerald.

``Have you ever heard of Celeste Ballentine?''

``Was she that cynic we saw on 20/20 a couple of months ago who's offering the two-and-a-half-million-dollar reward for absolute proof of psychic phenomena? The one blab- bing on about how every psychic out there is a con artist and there's no way she'll ever have to award the prize money?''

``That'd be the one,'' I said, marveling at my sister's re- markable memory for names and details. ``My intuition went haywire when I bumped into her, so I tried to pass along the advice.''

``What did you tell her?''

``I told her to get out of Dodge and go back the way she came.'' BLIND SIGHTED 255

``Really? How'd she take it?''

``All things considered?'' I said, watching as Celeste walked through the double doors to the outside and into the back of a cab, ``Pretty well.''

``I see,'' Cat said, a small grin forming at the corners of her mouth. ``That's all you bought?'' she asked me, point- ing at my small suitcase and duffle bag.

``Yeah.''

``Well, grab them and let's go. Our driver is waiting for us outside.'' And Cat turned to lead the way through the crowded airport.

I picked up my bags and began following her, belatedly remembering that I was furious, but her pace and the crowded airport weren't the best conditions under which to open up a can of whoop-ass. I'd have to wait until we got to the car.

Watching the two of us wind our way through the airport, you'd be hard-pressed to guess we're siblings. My sister, Catherine, is tiny, something like five-foot-nothing, with a frame that's thin, bordering on skinny. She wears her hair short and messy, like Sharon Stone's, and it complements the fragile features that frame her enormous light blue eyes. Her clothing often hides the fact that she's so petite, and her sense of style can be described in one word: expensive. She prefers couture to practical, and because she often takes advantage of the talents of a very good stylist, it's not until you're standing next to her that you notice you're looking down. Her size and femininity, however, are at complete odds with the tiger she can become in the board- room. You can bet the farm that Cat has never been under- estimated--at least not twice, that is.

Her success dates back to several years before, when Cat came up with a brilliant marketing idea that sold huge and made her a ton of money--which she now spends like water. She currently lives on a sprawling estate in a suburb of Boston, where she still holds court at the now megasize corporation she started.

As for me . . . well, I've got six inches on Cat, with roughly the same build but broader shoulders and longer legs. My hair is very long, reaching just past my waist, and I wear it straight and simple most of the time. I'm brunette 256 Victoria Laurie by nature--but helped along by Clairol--and I prefer the jeans-and-a-T-shirt kind of attire my sister wouldn't be caught dead in.

Professionally we're even more different, divergent paths started years ago when Cat was pursuing an MBA at Har- vard, and I'd settled for a BA in finance from a local uni- versity, and ultimately a modest career in banking. I'd left that field about three and a half years ago to launch a stint as a professional psychic. Even as a child I'd had a natural propensity for picking up things about strangers that I couldn't possibly know beforehand, and when I reached adulthood the ability just became too obvious to ignore.

While what I do for a living may be unusual, I genuinely like the work, and in my own way I feel more than satisfied with my career. I have a small office in the town where I live, Royal Oak, Michigan, and a three-month waiting list for a clientele I've built solely by word of mouth. I work five days a week, and see about six clients a day. I'm not wealthy per se, but I am very happy to be making a living in a relatively easy, low-stress way.

As we reached the exit and walked through the double doors out into the warm, slightly humid atmosphere, I drew in a deep breath, filling my lungs with as much fresh, tropi- cal air as they could hold. I then closed my eyes, tilting my face to the sky, and felt the weight of a long winter melting away with the burst of sunshine greeting my pale northern skin. ``Ahhhhh,'' I said exhaling, ``that's the ticket.''

My eyes were still closed when I felt someone gently lift the handle of my suitcase out of my hand, and, startled by