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them, since her characters were clearly based on her acquaintances among the rich and famous. But she could also be loud, opinionated and abrasive, drawing mixed reactions from friends and enemies alike. It was rumored that she had absolutely hated Cassandra Stuart, who had often been her competition in talk-show bookings.
    â€œCamy, Camy, Camy!” Susan repeated, reaching out to curl her perfectly manicured fingers around Sabrina’s arm. “You can’t just pin Ms. Holloway down at the doorway—we’re all waiting to see her. Authors get to be such good friends, you know.”
    â€œYes, of course, Ms. Sharp,” Camy murmured, flashing Sabrina an embarrassed look. Susan had put her in her place. She was just an assistant. The rest of them were authors.
    â€œCamy, it was wonderful meeting you, and I look forward to getting to spend more time together,” Sabrina told the young woman.
    Camy lit up with a smile. “Thanks!”
    Susan drew Sabrina on into the room. “How have you been? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”
    â€œIt was just last June, in Chicago,” Sabrina reminded her.
    â€œYes, of course, you were doing so well. So many people adore that Miss Mailer of yours.”
    â€œMiller,” Sabrina corrected smoothly.
    â€œYes, yes, Miss Miller. So tell me, what’s up with you and Brett? Are you planning on remarrying?”
    â€œWhat?” Sabrina demanded.
    â€œWell, Brett does make it sound as if you two share so much passion, both of you being so talented and wild. I’ll never forget how delicious it was when the tabloids ran those pictures of you running naked from your hotel room in Paris.”
    â€œSusan, maybe you’ll never forget, but I’d like to. It was a very painful time in my life,” Sabrina said firmly. “Oh, look, there’s V. J. Newfield. I haven’t seen her in quite some time. Excuse me, will you?”
    Sabrina escaped Susan and hurried toward V. J.—Victoria Jane—Newfield. V.J. was somewhere in her fifties or sixties and had been writing forever, or so it seemed. Her work was dark and scary but far more psychological than graphic, always striking a resonant note on the human condition. She was very slim, tall, with silver hair and a graceful carriage. She was a stunning woman and doubtless would be so until the day she died. Sabrina had met her early on in her career at a group autographing, where V.J. had assured her that the nicest thing about doing signings with other authors was that there was always someone interesting to talk to if no one stopped to buy a book.
    â€œTrip the customers as they go by, dear,” she had advised. “When they think you’re sitting at a table piled high with books just so you can direct them to the nearest ladies’ room, trip them! Then apologize to pieces, and you’ve snagged them!” V.J. had been great. Already popular, she had convinced most of her fans that they simply had to buy Sabrina’s book, as well, and Sabrina remained grateful to this day.
    â€œV.J.!” she now said with pleasure, approaching the woman at the buffet table, where she was studying caviar-covered crackers and trying to decide whether or not to indulge.
    â€œSabrina, dear!” V.J. said, turning with a smile and offering her a warm hug. “I wanted to call and make sure you were going to come. I was so sorry when I learned that you turned down the last invitation, though that did become quite a tragedy. I just got back from a cruise down the Nile—do you remember my telling you how much I wanted to take one of those?”
    â€œYes, and I’m glad you got to go. How was it?”
    â€œWonderful. Exhilarating. Awesome. The sense of history is so intense, so chilling. And I do just love a good mummy.”
    â€œI’ve got nothing against loving mommies,” Brett said, slipping an arm around Sabrina’s shoulder and