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scrawled over the back and sleeves, a parody of Jace’s.
Then a pair of high-heeled ankle boots with chains draped around them. Kind of
rock-chick lite.
    He was reading the financial pages of the paper when she
left the dressing room. She swaggered over to him and posed, one hand on hip,
the way she thought models did. “Like it?”
    “Fuck.” He tossed aside the paper and leaped to his feet.
“Come on.”
    He dragged the jacket off her shoulders and tossed it to the
floor. “Charge the rest,” he said to the woman and dragged Beverley toward the
elevators.
    Once inside, he slipped his hand around her waist and pulled
her close, but he didn’t kiss her and when she ventured a glance down, his
jeans, unlike hers, built with room to breathe, didn’t have a telltale bulge.
    If he liked this outfit, she’d lose all the respect she had
left for him. It was tacky, an imitation of a lifestyle by someone who didn’t
understand it. This outfit didn’t feel right, and what should have been gained
through the passage of time, like worn spots and colorful patches, were there
from new.
    “You didn’t answer my question. Do you like it?” Just for
kicks, she gave a little shimmy, teasing him. He deserved to suffer.
    He glanced down at her dispassionately. “I hate it. You look
like the fifteen-year-olds who cluster around the stage entrance and say
they’re twenty.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “We’re going to someone who knows what she’s doing. It’ll
take longer, but it will just fucking have to.”
    The doors to the elevator pinged. He took her hand and towed
her out. People watched them and she remembered something. “My bag!” The only
thing she had left. He held it up and she grabbed it off him. “Thanks. It suits
me better than it does you.”
    He gave her one of his devastating grins but didn’t stop
moving. He glanced at her. “How come you didn’t notice what that blouse and bra
combination did to you?”
    She swallowed. “I don’t have much experience at picking
clothes out for myself. When I was a chef, I spent most of the day in my
whites. I thought the blouse was neat and businesslike, and I tried it on in a
changing room with artificial light. And I was wearing a different bra.”
    He nodded. “Makes a kind of weird sense, I guess.”
    It had stopped raining. At least that was a blessing, and
this T-shirt, although thin, wasn’t as transparent as that fucking blouse. That
was one thing she was glad of losing, although she’d left her own clothes
behind in the store. When she reminded him, he shrugged. “I liked you in that
skirt. I’ll call them and remind them to put your stuff in the car. I’ll call
for it when we’re ready.”
    Already the heat was climbing, heading toward its noon
zenith. He set a brisk pace. “I called my manager while you were in the
changing room,” he said. “He’s going to see what he can do to get your chef
back.”
    “No!”
    He laughed. “Don’t worry, cher. He’s a great manager. He
knows about your guy and he swore a lot when I told him what I’d done.”
    He stopped abruptly and she cannoned into him. He caught her
chin as he curled his arm around her again. Already it felt right, and it
shouldn’t. “He said leave it with him and he’d see what he can do. He’s an
oddball. He only takes on people who interest him. He has a boxer on his books,
one of the best, said the guy needed protection. And a couple of wrestlers too.
What I’m trying to say is he has fingers in a lot of pies, so if he reaches
out, he can usually find somebody to help.”
    She didn’t want it, and yet she could see he was doing his
best to help. “It’s a weird world, haute cuisine. You get chefs who are all
about the bottom line and chefs that only care that they use a truffle from a
particular part of the forest, unearthed by a particular dog, whatever the
cost. They’ll both turn out individual dishes that are as near works of art as
food gets. Food that makes you