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of herself. So obnoxiously . . . superior . Why hadn't he noticed how much he hated her while they were dating? "I need a smoke," he said, gesturing toward a deep storefront awning.

    "C'mon, man, we've barely made it a block," protested Trip. But he too jumped under the awning. "Are you okay?"

    Wyatt's head was spinning. It wasn't just the amount of alcohol he'd consumed. And it wasn't just Cornelia, either--it was everything she represented. Then, in cinematic style, a thought struck him just as a vein of lightning crashed above their heads. "I have an idea," he said slowly. The four little words felt dangerous and exciting as they left his mouth.

    "Yeah?" Trip pushed his hands deep into his coat pockets and shifted from side to side. He didn't seem to grasp the magnitude of the moment. "What's that?"

    "An idea that I could develop into a book!" Wyatt could feel his passion escalate. It was the first time in a long time that anything connected to his career had done that . "And if it worked--if I could pull it off--it would knock Cornelia down a few notches. It would reveal the farce of society as it now stands!"

    That got Trip's attention. He looked at his friend, illuminated in the yellow glow of the streetlamp. "Okay, let me hear it."

    "It might sound a little strange--"

    "That's a given."

    Wyatt ignored him. "Socialites in Manhattan have wealth, privilege, beauty, and youth working for them. Designers curry their favor and send them free clothes; magazines run fluff pieces about their so-called 'businesses'; every PR flack in town begs them to make an appearance at parties. Like it or not, they're alphas--the top of the pecking order."

    "Okay," Trip said. "So what's your idea?"

    "I'd conduct a social experiment answering the question: Could anyone become an alpha socialite if she wanted to? Or is there something inherent in these girls' backgrounds, personalities, or genetics that predetermines their social status? My theory is that there isn't."

    "Uncharacteristically democratic of you," Trip remarked.

    "And to test this theory," Wyatt continued, "I'd take a random girl off the street and turn her into the most sought-after socialite in New York City. Convince everyone that she was the real deal--the number one It girl, the cover of Townhouse --in just a few months. I'd turn her into the next Cornelia Rockman, so to speak, only better. Show how hollow the system has become, and what a joke today's 'socials' are. Show that any girl--no matter who her people are, no matter where she comes from, no matter how little she has in her trust fund--can be passed off as the reigning socialite."

    "Are you serious? I can't tell if you're kidding, man."

    "Completely serious! I'm a keen observer of human nature, Peters, and I've been playing the game in New York for twenty years. Then there's my academic expertise. The animal kingdom is full of tricks to gain social dominance. All I'd need to do is apply a few of those to the socialite game. Kipling keeps telling me to work with what I know. It's the perfect merger of two worlds I know well." Wyatt sensed an inner stirring that he hadn't felt in years. He could write this book--and without doing time in the stacks of a university library or in the bush of the Serengeti. "And just think of Cornelia's reaction--"

    It took the two men this long to realize they weren't alone under the awning. If the poor girl hadn't issued a rather wet sneeze from her corner, they might not have noticed her at all. She was drenched to the bone, teeth chattering. She tried pulling herself together when Trip looked over, but it was no use.

    "Bless you," Trip said. He offered his handkerchief.

    "Thanks," she said, accepting it. "That's real nice of you."

    Wyatt lowered his voice. "If I could teach a common, average wallflower . . . a girl you'd never look twice at if you passed her on the street--" The girl sneezed more loudly, and Wyatt instinctively stepped away from her. She sneezed