* * *
The party, given by a Prince Something of Somewhere in celebration of Fashion Week, was in one of Paris' s most elegant hotels. Everyone who'd been invited had accepted, for this was the party to attend, and virtually each guest had brought along others who had not been asked. There was a certain cachet in making it look as if you were such a close friend of the prince's that you could simply invite your house guests or visiting business associates to his party.
The prince didn't mind. Tomorrow, blogs and society column headlines in the tabloids on several continents would mention his name and that of his latest trophy wife, a woman half his age who had made her name as Miss October in Penthouse magazine.
The hotel minded, but only a little. Things were crowded, it was true, and the head chef was screaming at the sous-chefs, who were frantically re-doubling everything they'd prepared for the buffet tables, but tomorrow the hotel's name and photographs of the glittering ballroom would appear everywhere.
Miranda, trapped by the fast-talking owner of a big-time New York modeling agency, had just about decided she was the only person in the entire place who was not having a wonderful time.
"...marvelous opportunities for your career, dear girl. If I could just have a few minutes of your time..."
Even Nita, who'd agreed the much-ballyhooed party would probably be boring, boring, boring, had deserted her.
"You remember some old song about seein' your true love across a crowded room?" she'd said under her breath and headed, straight as an arrow, for a tall, skinny guy who looked as if he'd staked out a permanent location near one of the buffet tables.
"...is right for this absolutely incredible career move. And you have my assurance..."
The noise level was awful, an inevitable result of the conversational buzz of several hundred people vying for contention with the shrieks of the latest rap group blasting over the sound system.
"...do you think? Or perhaps you have some questions you'd like me to answer?"
Miranda blinked, looked at the man who'd been talking her ear off, and tried to figure out what, precisely, he'd been saying.
"No," she said, "I, ah, I can't think of any."
"I assu
re you, Miss Beckman, this is the perfect time for you to take your career to the States."
"The States? Is that what..." She smiled politely. "I'm sorry, but I'm not interested in working in the States, Mr.—Mr....?"
"Stone. Brian Stone. Call me Brian, please. And I do wish you'd reconsider."
"Brian, I really don't want to talk business tonight. Why don't you give me your card and I'll be in touch."
"Well, of course, but I do want to make a couple of points. As I was saying, you have my assurance..."
Miranda felt her smile stretching her lips. The only assurance she wanted right now was that she could get out of here, and soon.
Nita had said tonight was going to be interesting and she'd hoped that would turn out to be true. Maybe a splashy party with too much champagne and too many people would improve her mood.
Not so far, it hadn't.
She was bored. No, it was more than that. She was... what was the word? Disconnected, as if she were watching everything going on around her from a distance.
Nita, who'd inched by a couple of minutes ago with the intense-looking stranger in tow, had picked up on it right away.
"Smile, girlfriend," she'd whispered. "You look like Dr. Phil taking notes in a divorce court."
That was a perfect description of how she felt. She was observing, not participating, and the things she saw and heard struck her as dull and pointless and even silly.
Darling, you look fabulous. You've gained a little weight, haven't you, but it's so becoming!
Did you see Lana? Such a stunning woman. I wonder, who's her plastic surgeon?
I couldn't decide between the Bulgari and the Cartier, so Teddy bought them both. A woman can never have too many diamond necklaces, I always say.
Silly. And boring, especially in a world so filled with disaster and trouble. It was how she'd felt years ago, when she'd first gained admission to this much-vaunted circle. What had happened? How could she have forgotten?