Excerpt
Chapter 4
How to Choose
a Party Dress
When you’re a guest at someone else’s soirée, your first impression should be also be a lasting one—and certainly not because you either overdressed, or underdressed, for the occasion. When in doubt, keep it simple and elegant: black, with pearls.
If the dress code is not in the invitation, take the time to query your host regarding the proper attire.
Note of caution: should your host’s recommendation include, say, crotchless panties, a naughty schoolgirl plaid skirt, brocade ankle restraints and a head harness with a muzzle gag, be sure to bring along something you’ll know he deserves, for getting on your bad side.
A cement overcoat will do nicely.
****
“Go with the backless one. You’ve got the shoulders to carry it off.”
I turn around to see who’s offering an opinion on my hunt for the right gown to the Breck shindig tonight. My advisor is a man who sits on a settee in a darkened corner of the Bergdorf-Goodman couture suite, just off to the side of the circular bank of mirrors.
While I’ve been scrutinizing my profile, he’s been admiring my shoulders, supposedly. But only now does he lift his eyes—from somewhere far below my shoulders—to meet mine.
From the look of his suit (made to measure for a man whose fit physique would look great in a gunnysack, let alone a fifteen-thousand-dollar charcoal gray Brioni) he has great taste.
He should. He is Jonah Stanford Breck IV, one of the wealthiest men in the world.
Sweetly, I smile at him through the mirror. “You like it better than the blue one?”
His eyes sweep over me, appraisingly. “Much more so. Albeit the blue sets off your… eyes.”
I laugh at his ridiculous attempt to avoid the obvious. My eyes are brown. What looks great in the blue dress is my ass.
We both know it.
“Great, then. The blue one’s the charm.”
“You’ll be the belle of the ball.”
“Not a ball, really. Just dinner. In fact, I’ll be dining at your place, Mr. Breck.”
His eyes, gray like his trimmed sideburns, flash suspiciously for a moment before dulling into wariness.
“Your wife, Babette, extended the invitation. My daughter, Trisha, has been playing with Janie all afternoon. I presume Babette felt the diversion would be welcomed.”
“Ah! How thoughtful of her. She’s right. These business affairs can be deadly without a few petite amusements.”
As if on cue, a woman in a flesh-toned, sparkly low-cut gown walks out of one of the dressing rooms and over to Breck. She turns her back toward him, just slightly. “Zip me up, will you, darling?” Her murmur is deep and soft, like velvet.
Slowly, he runs the zipper along the swayed arch of her back then pats her ass, not so much to let her know he is done with her, but as a promise that he isn’t.
His eyes stay with her as she makes her way back to the dressing room. Finally, as if remembering I was still in the room, he adds, “She’s Babette’s personal shopper. Unlike me, after eight years of marriage, my wife finds trekking through stores ‘a chore and a bore.’ Marilyn is exactly her size and coloring, so these little shopping excursions are win-win for everyone. Beautiful, don’t you agree?”
“The woman or the dress?”
He points to my profile in the mirror. “A beautiful woman makes the dress.”
I smile my thanks. “Then I presume I’ve just had a preview of what Babette will be wearing?”
His smile fades. “Don’t presume anything. Babette doesn’t always agree with my taste.”
“A shame. So fetching.”
It is his turn to ask, “The woman, or the dress?”
“Since you’re paying, you tell me.”
He laughs uproariously at that. “I always do. And dearly.”
“Speaking of the dear, will she be joining us for dinner?”
His smile hardens into a smirk. “Later. Dessert. I have a voracious appetite, especially for sweet things.” His eyes catch mine in the mirror. “Remember, dinner at eight. Sharp.”
By the time I leave the dressing room, Jonah Breck and his personal shopper have already checked out.
When I take my dress to the sales clerk, she informs me, “Mr. Breck put it on his tab. He asked me to relay his sincere appreciation for your daughter’s hospitality, and he looks forward to returning it, personally.”
I guess I can tell Ryan he need not worry whether we’ll get close enough to the summit’s host. If Breck has his way, we’ll be up close and personal.
Or at least, I will.
Oh yeah, Jack should love that.
(c) 2012 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be resold or redistributed without prior written permission from Josie Brown or Signal Press Books ([email protected]).
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A nuclear arms summit, hosted by a politically-connected American billionaire industrialist, provides the perfect opportunity for a rogue operative to assassinate of the newly-elected Russian president on US soil. Acme operative Donna Stone's mission:
Seek and exterminate the shooter, before all hell--and World War III--break loose.
Also on Donna's to-do list: file for divorce.
