By Deborah Smith
A Hollywood actress identified for her attractiveness flees to a secluded mountain cabin in North Carolina after being critically scarred in a vehicle coincidence. There she reveals unforeseen love and a brand new lifestyles with a guy who misplaced his kin in 11th of September.
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Her voice was a husky come-on flavored with the honey of a wealthy Southern upbringing and just enough of a droll lilt to hint at self-awareness and maybe even true smarts. She tilted her face just so, and smiled just so, and a long strand of her dark hair fell just so along the perfect angle of her cheek. The expression in her deep-green eyes said she had never had a doubtful moment in her life, and, given a chance to kiss you with her luscious mouth, she'd make you forget any doubts you'd ever had, too.
He aimed the wide, black eye of his lens directly at my face. I looked into the glassy black mirror of that eye, the world's eye, and saw a grotesque, charred, sickening reflection. And then I realized it was me . Daddy and his sisters began entering me in beauty contests when I was old enough to toddle. As upper-class Southerners they generally looked down their noses at beauty competitions, which they considered lowbrow and tacky, but given my spectacular allure, they couldn't resist showing me off.
My hands trembled. I couldn't stop staring at the World War II pistol he held so casually, his right arm bent, the gun pointed skyward. Thomas had been a preservation architect; he respected fine craftsmanship, even when choosing a gun with which to kill himself. Slowly I pushed my jeans down, along with my panties. The scarred skin along my right thigh prickled at the scrape of denim. I angled my right side away from the moon, trying to illuminate only the left half of my body, my face. Half of me was still perfect.