After the Kiss (Sex, Love & Stiletto 1)

Julie lifted a shoulder, careful to suppress a small burp. “What can I say? We can’t all channel Jackie Kennedy.”

But Grace could. Grace Brighton was class through and through. She had one of those effortlessly feminine bodies perfectly suited to cashmere cardigans and sundresses, with wide hazel eyes and long chestnut hair so shiny it could double as a mirror. It would have been easy to hate her, but Grace was so damned good that you couldn’t help but keep her close in hopes some of her perfection would rub off on you.

“Have you seen Riley?” Grace asked, glancing around for the third member of their trio. “She said she’d meet us here ten minutes ago.”

Here was the Museum of Modern Art, better known as MoMA. Frankly, it was the last place Julie wanted to be, but attending this type of fund-raiser was an unwritten part of the job description. Camille was fond of trotting her Date, Love, and Sex girls around like prize ponies, impressing potential advertisers and investors with their party tricks.

New Yorkers loved talking about their sex lives almost more than they loved the sex itself, and their little threesome had made a name for themselves among the socialite set. As a result, most every evening was filled with some sort of social obligation where they were expected to appease advice-seeking women while warding off horny men who wanted to see if the women’s actions matched their articles.

“There she is,” Julie said, nodding toward Riley.

Grace gave a low whistle. “She realizes this is an education fund-raiser, right? Not a Playboy bunny convention?”

“She can’t help it,” Julie said, taking another sip of champagne. “She could wear a tent and still give off sex vibes.”

Julie liked to think that she and Grace were a couple of good-looking broads, but Riley McKenna was a whole other level of gorgeous. Tonight she’d apparently decided to play up the bombshell routine, because her red silk dress pushed the envelope of decency. Her long raven hair had been pulled into some kind of postcoital updo, and her smoky makeup made her ice-blue eyes smolder.

“Jeez, I think even I’m getting warm looking at her,” Grace muttered.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Greg.”

“Are you kidding? I’m sure the thought would give him a perpetual boner.”

Julie was careful to keep the distaste off her face. Grace and Greg Parsons had been dating since, like, puberty and were one of those nauseating couples who finished each other’s sentences. Even their names, Greg and Grace, made them sound like characters from some horrible fifties sitcom. Not to mention they were the king and queen of movie nights. Julie had seen the permanent butt indentations on their couch.

All of which would have been fine if Greg were good enough for Grace.

He wasn’t.

Julie would never say so to Grace, but in Julie’s self-proclaimed expert opinion, Greg Parsons was a total swine. She didn’t like the way he forgot to say thank you for the way Grace managed his life. Didn’t like the way he checked out the waitress’s ass every time Grace went to the restroom.

And she really didn’t like the way Greg had once propositioned Riley for a one-night stand after Grace had gone home from a party early with a headache.

Riley had insisted they forget about it. That it had just been a bad joke after too much booze.

Julie wasn’t so sure.

But neither was she about to get in the middle of her best friend’s love life. Much safer to get in the middle of everyone else’s love life via her Stiletto articles.

“Hello, my pretties,” Riley said, giving them both air kisses, careful not to spill a drop of her champagne. “Anyone seen Camille?”

“Not yet,” Julie said. “I think we have a few minutes until show time.”

“Thank God—I need a drink first. So what are we talking about?”

“Julie was about to whine about the bum story idea from Camille,” Grace said.

“Oh, yeah?” Riley asked. “What are we dealing with here? Herpes? Butt plugs? Necrophilia?”

Necrophilia? Julie stared at her best friend. “What is wrong with you? I said it was awful, not completely creepy.”

Riley shrugged. “You say potato, I say poh-tah-to.”

“Actually, nobody says poh-tah-to,” Grace muttered.

“Seriously, Jules, what’s the story?” Riley pressed.

Julie dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’m supposed to talk about taking things to the next level.”