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building. It made sense though, with all those high-maintenance models to deal with. And it was starting to look like Paris James…Pruitt…was on the top of the high-maintenance gal list. She really was a she-devil, just like in high school. But Turner knew more. He knew Paris’s deep secrets. He knew her heart. Underneath that nasty exterior was a real woman. He was going to figure her out and get this mess of a situation sorted out. Talk about a challenge.
    Anton finished up his trim, gave Turner’s neck a brush with a soft whisk, and whipped the cape off Turner’s shoulders.
    “There. You look ma-a-a-velous. Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve got the rest of the afternoon off if Paris doesn’t want highlights. Would you like to bunk at my place instead of the Y? I’ve got a guest room. I don’t think Mrs. Pruitt is going to be flinging open the door to connubial bliss this particular evening.”
    “I’d be honored, Anton. We’ll have to get my things out of a locker, there,” Turner replied.
    “We’ll just grab a cab. Can I interest you in a steak?”
    “Sure. It’s lunchtime in Vegas.” Turner put his coat back on.
    “Lunchtime in Vegas. Sounds like a musical. Lunchtime in Vegas …,” Anton sang in a very Nathan Lane–style voice.
    Turner laughed.
    “Have you seen Cats ?” Anton went on.
    “Bored the livin’ heck outta me. What’s up with that? But The Producers was fantastic. And the Fantasticks was fantastic, too. We get the road version of most shows in Vegas. My current favorite is Mamma Mia! It’s playing at the Mandalay Bay hotel.”
    “Get out! A fellow Abba fan!”
    Turner walked out of the third-floor salon with Anton, and they headed toward the elevators singing excerpts from Mamma Mia!
    He was glad he’d made it to New York and found Paris. She’d reacted pretty badly. He’d gethimself settled and have a long talk with her. Probably more like five long talks.
     
    Paris finished blowing her nose and hiccupped one more time. She refilled her glass from the watercooler and took a sip. These overhead fixtures were nasty. Rita should put some full-spectrum lights in this room and cheer them all up on these gloomy Manhattan days.
    She suddenly thought how ghastly and nauseating the colors were in here. She was going to have to tell Rita to repaint: magenta, teal, gray, bleah. The eighties called, and they wanted their décor back.
    But she did love this old place. The Rita Ray Agency had been like home to her for so many years. Modeling had been an adventure. She still loved it. It wasn’t being very kind to her right now, but things always picked up in the spring.
    She wet a makeup sponge and reapplied some foundation to her weirdly pale face, covering up the red blotches around her eyes. Damn it, no wonder she never cried. It ruined your face. Now what do you suppose had gotten into her to bawl like a kid? She’d probably just been too mad to do anything else.
    For some reason it dawned on her that it was way too quiet out there. She jumped up and flung open the door. A few girls were passingthrough, their heels clicking against the black-and-white tiled floors. Other than that, no Anton, no Turner.
    This made her stomach pitch. She really had to talk to Turner. The other thought that made her very queasy was thinking about Turner telling Anton about her childhood. He wouldn’t do that, would he? There were parts of her she kept very separated. In a locked box. Hidden in the back of the closet. That’s where they belonged. They didn’t belong in her New York life.
    Turner was so honest that he might not think about keeping her secrets. He might think everyone here knew every detail of her life. That was so far from the truth it was funny. But she wasn’t laughing now.
    And Anton had a big mouth. Pretty soon the whole town would be talking about her horrible family life. She couldn’t bear that.
    Knowing Anton, he’d invited Turner to stay with him. Well, she’d just