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eyes under heavy lids. His smile looked more sly than friendly. She flipped through the magazine and found the article, which was accompanied with another photo of Nolen Adams. Devastatingly handsome, he was dressed in a dark grey pinstriped suit with a white shirt and matching grey tie. Tall, his massive shoulders filled his suit. His dark curling hair was tapered short on the sides. A skyscraper loomed behind him. The clean, light look of him impressed her. He had a ruggedness and vital power that would draw any woman. Still he looked a little young to be such a powerhouse. Yet there was a complete self-imposed isolation she found in his arrogance. The photographer had taken the picture from a low angle, which gave Adams’s larger than life presence even more emphasis.
    Sydney skimmed the article on his investment plans for the city. She paused when she read Adams’s response to the interviewer’s question about his rumored heartbreaker ways with women. “I love women. I enjoy all kinds of women and never tire of them. But if you’re asking about that special one, what can I say? Every time I meet one, she’s special to me.”
    “Give me a break,” Sydney said, she tossed the magazine.
    Portia sat down. Picking up the magazine, she forced the article back under Sydney’s nose. “You have to tell me how you managed to get one of the richest men in this state to send you flowers? What did you do at that audition? The rump shaker?”
    “This is ridiculous. I never met this guy.”
    “Well he sure as hell thinks he met you!”
    The doorbell rang. Sydney shoved the magazine and Portia out of the way. She continued to use her foot. The healing had to come quick.
    “I don’t care. I’m not some Pop-Tart for him to use to get his cheap thrills,” Sydney said, hobbling to the door. She looked through the peephole and saw a deliveryman, so she undid the double bolt and opened the door.
    “Yes?”
    “Sydney Allen?”
    “Yes.”
    “Sign here, please,” he said, passing her an electronic notepad. Sydney signed and then traded the pad for a box.
    “Thank you,” she mumbled. She closed the door and had barely turned around before Portia was at her side, snatching the box from her hands.
    “Girl, this ain’t no birthday. It’s Christmas!” Portia said and laughed.
    Sydney watched her take the box to their tiny dinette and pull off the wrapping. Glancing at the card that read, HAVE DINNER WITH ME, she looked up in time to see Portia open the box. Black with a silver trim, it was from one of those expensive shops off Madison Avenue. She and Portia loved to drool over the clothes in those store windows. Portia slowly pulled out a fitted red dress with one shoulder strap. Its bodice sparkled with tiny ruby colored stones. Portia held it up to her lean frame, grinning.
    Sydney gawked at the dress, which must have cost as much as she earned in three months, including tips.
    “Why is he doing this?”
    “What did the card say?”
    Sydney read it aloud.
    Portia nodded. “The man said have dinner with him, and I’m here to tell you, you’re having dinner with him!”
    “This is stupid I’m not going!” Sydney said a couple of hours later. Trish put down the curling iron and frowned. Sydney ignored the disapproval in Portia’s eyes and walked into her room. She could hear her friends in hot pursuit.
    “Girl, don’t be crazy. You have to go!” Portia said.
    “I don’t have to do anything.”
    “Wait, Portia, if she doesn’t feel––” Trish interjected.
    “No, Trish! This is it. This is either do or die. It’s obvious the man owns the production. If she doesn’t go, she can kiss her little show goodbye.”
    “Maybe that’s for the best if she can only get the part that way.” Trish frowned.
    Sydney looked over at her friend, relieved that she understood. Trish was the voice of reason for them both, and the most different, both physically and emotionally. With skin like peach tinted cream, and her