Cutting Loose

“It’s too tight.”

“It’s Gaultier. It’s supposed to fit like that.”

“How come I’ve never seen you in it, then?”

Cilla shrugged and twirled her stethoscope playfully. “You know couture. You can get away with wearing it once, but that’s about it.”

“So this is my one big chance?”

“Make the most of it,” Cilla advised, then groped in her candy-colored Louis Vuitton Murakami bag as her cell phone burbled for attention. “Hello?”

Trish walked a few steps away, adjusting her bustier. Okay, so maybe she felt like the lead actress in some 1960s French sex farce. She just needed to get into character. It wouldn’t be her walking into the party, it would be her alter ego, the one who loved being outrageous and living at the center of the whirlwind. It would be okay.

“You have got to be kidding,” Cilla burst out from behind her. “What happened to the escort? On second thought, I don’t care. Send her a limo. I’ve got a party to go to.” Cilla paced a few steps, tension vibrating in every line of her body. “All right, all right, fine,” she said shortly. “I’m in Venice. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” She ended the call and cursed viciously.

Trish stared. “What was that about?”

Cilla turned to face her. “Apparently our designer for the couture show tomorrow isn’t satisfied with our events coordinator picking her up at the airport and taking her to dinner. She’s insisting that I do it.”

“Why you?”

Cilla blew out a breath of frustration. “We’ve met once or twice at her shows.”

“Not to mention the fact that your family owns Danforth’s and the entire Forth’s chain and has more money than God.”

“Please.” Cilla rolled her eyes. “The show coordinator says she’s threatening to walk. I don’t really have a choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve got to go get her.”

“But…but what about the party?” Trish asked with a spurt of panic. “I thought we were going together.”

“I have to do it,” Cilla said apologetically. “It’s only for a little while. If necessary I’ll haul her back here—there is no way I’m missing Sabrina’s documentary.”

“Maybe I can go with you,” Trish tried, despising the tone in her voice.

Cilla shook her head and buttoned up her coat to hide most of her costume. “I can only imagine the fit she’d have if you show up in Gaultier. Prima donna doesn’t begin to cover it. Besides, someone has to tell Sabrina. Hey, you look fabulous.” She gave Trish a quick hug. “Go in and find the rest of the gang. You’ll be fine.”

Trish watched Cilla hurry off to her car and she glanced down the alley to the canal bridge glimmering at the end. If she could only snap her fingers and be back in her nice, quiet apartment for the night. She’d light some candles, pour a glass of wine, and maybe watch a movie or work on the screenplay she was writing.

Instead, shyness was going to smother her in rooms full of strangers, while she tried to look as though she had something more to do than go to the bathroom again and again because it was a place to hide for a few minutes. Home, even if she had to walk, sounded infinitely more appealing.

But Sabrina was expecting her. More to the point, Sabrina was expecting them, and Trish really ought to go explain.

And one way or another, she had to find a ride home or at least get a taxi.

All the good reasons in the world didn’t mask the fact that walking through Sabrina’s door was about the least appetizing prospect she could imagine. If she’d been in her normal clothes, it would have been bad enough, but going inside all alone, wearing the most revealing outfit she’d ever worn in her life? Looking at it from above, the bustier was outrageously low-cut. Her breasts billowed up out of it like newly risen bread. Cilla couldn’t expect her to do this, Trish thought desperately. What if she were the only person in costume? What if she looked as ridiculous as she felt? The memory of the Trish she’d seen in Cilla’s mirror receded to a pinpoint and the Trish in the now just stood on the porch and swallowed, feeling miserably conspicuous.

Sabrina, she reminded herself. This was Sabrina’s special night and she wanted her friends there to celebrate with her. It wasn’t about Trish, it was about Sabrina.

It was about being a good friend.

“Oh, don’t be such a wuss,” Trish muttered to herself. No one was going to care what she looked like. They’d probably all be too busy worrying about themselves. Besides, odds were she’d never even see most of these people again. “Just do it,” she told herself fiercely.

And rang the bell.

When the door opened, though, it wasn’t Sabrina there. It was a sandy-haired boy who looked no more than sixteen or seventeen, the top of his head approximately at her eye level.

She couldn’t possibly in her panic have walked up to the wrong door, Trish thought wildly. Please, God, let her be at the right house.

“Wow,” he said appreciatively. “I guess you’re here for the party. My name’s Lee. Wanna run away and elope?”

Despite herself, she laughed. He looked barely old enough to drive, let alone put the moves on her. “Give me a minute or two to get the prenup in order.”

“Fair enough. Come on in and we can discuss it.” He stepped back and swung the door wide.

Sabrina’s living room surged with activity. A woman in neck-to-ankle red latex was tangoing with a man wearing a dog collar. A Wild-West saloon girl leaned over a shirtless construction worker sprawled on a couch. There were hookers, police officers, Catholic schoolgirls, sheiks, a pizza-delivery boy, and even what Trish assumed was a Marquis de Sade in a pale-blue frock coat and wig.

“Let me take your coat,” Lee said, whisking it off her before she could protest.

And then she stood in front of the room in just her outfit.

One head after another turned to look at Trish. She stifled the urge to flee. Maybe a seam had split, she speculated, feeling her face heat. Maybe one of her breasts had popped out entirely. It would be just her luck. Or maybe her outfit was just too much, period. Granted, most people were in costume, but she hadn’t really seen anyone in quite as outrageous a getup as hers. Then, across the room, she saw a sleek, exotic-looking woman dressed in eye-popping leather.

With a start, Trish realized it was her reflection, thrown back at her from an ornate mirror hanging on the wall.

Giddiness rushed through her. Sabrina’s guests weren’t staring because she looked ridiculous, they were staring because she looked good. Gaping wouldn’t do, and yet Trish wanted nothing more than to rush over to the looking glass and drink it all in, gawk at her image until she could convince herself that it was really her. For tonight, anyway.

But oh, what a night it would be.

Sabrina’s home was built vertically, the rooms rising around a central atrium, each side offset half a story from the other so that the rooms stairstepped up from one another. Trish glanced up and found her gaze snagged by that of the Marquis de Sade, who leaned carelessly on the waist-high barrier of the open loft overlooking the living room. Thin leather strips dangled from the ebony handle of his flail. An ornate silver mask covered his face from the hairline of his white-powdered wig to below his nose. Trish could see only his mouth, defined by the clean lines of a modified Vandyke. And she could see his eyes, looking out through the holes in the mask.

Staring directly at her.

Trish glanced to either side to see if he was looking at someone else, and then back up to find his gaze still pinned to hers. Something skittered through her veins. The thing was not to get embarrassed. She looked good, she knew it. Better than good. Maybe that was why he was staring, or maybe he was admiring her outfit. Maybe he was into Gaultier. Perhaps, she thought with a smile, he thought he was looking at a kindred spirit.

Lee the doorman nudged her. “So, can I get you a drink?”

“What?” Trish blinked, dragging her gaze away from the Marquis. “Um, actually I should probably find Sabrina first.”

“My cousin? I saw her a couple minutes ago. I’ll show you.”

“Are you even old enough to be at a party like this?” Trish asked, squinting at him.

“Are you kidding?” He gave her an affronted look. “I’m at UCLA. I’m almost nineteen.”

It wouldn’t do to smile. “Oops, my mistake.”