Practice Makes Pregnant. Lois Dyer Faye
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Allison straightened. She’d forgotten about the designer gown, bought during a whirlwind shopping trip with her mother on her last visit to her parents’ home in Beverly Hills. She’d never actually worn the dress because she’d flown back to Manhattan a day early to avoid accompanying her parents to a movie premiere. She hated the media frenzy that always attended her parents’ appearances at the Hollywood parties they loved.
She’d managed to avoid attending any of the glamorous events since she was seventeen. That disastrous night at a film award after-party had left an indelible and traumatic imprint on her life.
Zoe unzipped the clear plastic bag and pulled out the gown, her eyes rounding. “Wow, this is great. And absolutely perfect for tonight.” She glanced at Allison. “Do you have shoes to wear with it?”
“Yes. I think they’re on the shelf behind a stack of winter sweaters.”
“Great! Here.” Zoe tossed the dress at Allison and disappeared into the closet once more.
Allison smoothed her palm over the lace-covered satin, the rich material cool against her thighs, bare below the hem of her white shorts.
Zoe popped out of the closet, triumphantly dangling a pair of black strappy sandals from one hand. “Here they are.” She halted in front of Allison. “Are you going to shower and dress quickly, or do I have to threaten you?”
“No, I give up.” Allison laughed at the quick, mischievous smile that lit Zoe’s face. “I’ll go to the party.”
An hour later Allison stared at her reflection in the long mirror that hung on the inside of the small bedroom door. Gone was the efficient personal assistant cum law student. The mirror reflected an image so unlike her daytime persona that it was startling. The black lace-over-satin gown clung to her slim curves, emphasizing the swell of her breasts below the off-the-shoulder neckline.
The narrow, ankle-length skirt was split up the side to just below midthigh, revealing the silk-clad length of pale thigh and calf, ending in black sandals with stiletto heels.
She turned, peering over her shoulder at the back of the dress. Black lace clung to the curve of hip and derriere with a subtle seductiveness. She’d caught up her hair and anchored it with simple gold combs, leaving wispy curls to brush against her temples and the nape of her neck. A single, twisted-gold chain encircled her throat, falling just above her collarbone. The matching gold-filigree earrings lent a touch of the exotic.
Subtle mascara and golden-brown eyeshadow gave her eyes a smoky, mysterious look accentuated by mocha-pink lipstick and blush.
The woman in the mirror didn’t look cautious. She didn’t look studious. She didn’t look shy or introverted. She didn’t look the slightest bit like Allison’s normal self.
She looked, Allison thought, like a woman to be reckoned with, sure of herself, outgoing.
She curved her mouth into a smile. The woman in the mirror smiled back.
Allison smiled more widely.
Just for tonight, she told the woman in the mirror with uncharacteristic recklessness, this is who I’m going to be. No yesterday, no tomorrow. Just tonight. I’m going to laugh and flirt and have fun.
“Wow, look at you!” Zoe’s reflection joined Allison’s. “And look at the two of us—the Princess and Rose Red.”
Zoe wore a crimson cocktail dress, her dark hair and vibrant coloring a perfect foil for Allison’s black lace, fair skin and auburn hair.
Allison linked her arm through Zoe’s and tilted her head to one side, her laughing gaze pretending to assess their reflections. “Not bad for a secretary and a waitress, eh?”
Zoe waved her hand with airy unconcern. “I’m not a waitress, I’m a barista. And you’re not a secretary, you’re an executive’s personal assistant on her way to becoming a brilliant attorney. And tonight,” she added loftily, “we’re both elegant ladies of society.” The doorbell rang, interrupting her. “Oops, there’s Jack.”
Arm still linked with Allison’s, Zoe hurried them out of the bedroom. Allison managed to catch up her tiny black evening bag and coat as they left the apartment.
The ballroom was so crowded that Allison was separated from Zoe and her date within minutes of their arrival. For once, however, she didn’t mind being alone in a crowd. Wrapped safely in the protective trappings of a more glamorous and self-assured woman, she chatted easily with a much younger man standing beside her at the buffet table. He was obviously interested in her and she walked away from the encounter with her confidence soaring.
I’m a completely different person, she thought, smiling to herself. This is such fun.
The ballroom was decorated in a deep-sea theme, with Mediterranean-blue chiffon draped on the ceiling and covering the walls. Golden light gleamed softly through the filmy fabric, creating the illusion that the ballroom floated underwater. Spaced around the perimeter of the room were sculptures and photos of whales in their natural environment. In front of each display, clusters of guests gathered around professional lecturers who wore name tags and answered questions about sea life in general and whales in particular. Allison sipped champagne and wandered from group to group, fascinated by the depth and passion of the professors’ responses to questions.
Standing on the edge of a group and listening to an oceanographer describe his group’s efforts to return an orphaned baby whale to his pod in the waters off British Columbia, Allison stiffened at the whisper-light brush of fingers against her nape.
Startled, she spun to confront whomever had touched her, but found no one. She stood at the edge of the group, and though the room was crowded, no one was within arm’s reach.
How odd. Puzzled, she turned back to the lecturer.
Within moments she felt that same brush against her nape. Frowning, she glanced over her shoulder. But again no one stood close enough to have touched her.
Her gaze swept the crowd and she went perfectly still.
Across the packed ballroom, a man leaned against a marble pillar, watching her.
Allison felt his intense black gaze as surely as if he’d reached out, slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her body against his. He was tall and very tan, Hispanic perhaps, with short black hair and eyes so dark they seemed black.
She couldn’t tear her gaze from his, and it wasn’t until the crowd shifted, blocking her view of him, that she drew a deep breath and realized she had been staring. She sipped her champagne and glanced about her, relieved when no one seemed to have noticed her preoccupation. Flustered and suddenly much too warm, she walked quickly through the open French doors behind her and out onto the stone terrace.
Allison leaned on the balustrade, drawing deep, calming breaths and gazing out at the lights of the city below her.
The last place Jorge Perez wanted to be on a hot Saturday night in August was at a fund-raiser for a save-the-whales organization. Not that he didn’t want to save whales from extinction. He would gladly have written a hefty check and donated to the cause. His objection was to the party itself. He rarely attended society events, preferring to spend his weekends working, but when his boss had asked him to stand in for him, Jorge couldn’t refuse. He liked Ross and he doted on Ross’s two kids, Ben and Sarah. When the children cornered him and begged him to go in Ross’s stead so their father could take them sailing for the weekend, he’d given in.
So here he was, dressed in an Armani tux instead of faded jeans, chatting with city council members, sidestepping the not-so-subtle advances of a Hollywood starlet hanging off the arm of a local hotel tycoon, and fielding questions from a Times reporter about the details of the latest murder case.
What a way to spend the weekend.
He glanced at his Rolex and calculated that he ought to circulate for another thirty minutes before he could legitimately tell his hostess good-night without being considered