you!” She walked into the center of the room. She did a little turn, modeling not only her gown, but also the poise she would be sure to exude tonight. Emmett had schooled her in the ways of projecting full confidence; it meant holding your head high, throwing your shoulders back…and drawing attention to the jewelry sparkling around your neck. Every celebutante knew that.
“Will you be wearing emeralds or diamonds tonight?” Emmett asked.
“Emeralds,” Concetta said.
“That leaves only one more question.” Emmett stared down at Concetta’s bare feet—wide, white, big-as-a-pizza-pie feet that no pair of shoes could properly conceal. He tried to smile.
“I know
exactly
which shoes to wear,” Concetta said firmly, marching into her closet. “I don’t need any advice in that department.”
Emmett waited on the threshold, a fearful look on his face.
Shoes were Concetta’s fashion passion. Dresses and gowns and designer jeans were certainly a good thing, but every piece of clothing ultimately looked the same on her round body. The sizes only seemed to get larger with each new event. Her shoe size, however, didn’t change. In the past five years she had amassed a fabulous collection of footwear. Her personal taste wasn’t always of the subtle variety, but she loved spending money on heels, pumps, stilettos, and even comfortable flats to wear around the house.
She walked to the very back of the closet. An entire wall housed her vast shoe collection, much like a museum exhibit. An array of bright colors and shapes came alive under the overhead track lighting, and she swept her eyes across the rows and columns with practiced ease. There. Right there. She cleared her throat nervously as she reached for the chosen pair, fully aware that Emmett would disapprove.
She slipped them on and walked back out to the bedroom.
Emmett gasped and slapped a hand to his forehead. “
Those?
” he whispered faintly.
Concetta scowled. “Yes—
these.
And wipe that stupid look off your face, okay?” She made a full turn in front of the mirror, liking what she saw, feeling more confident than she ever had. “I swear,” she said sharply, “if Damien Kittle doesn’t
totally
fall in love with me tonight, I might do something
crazy.
”
4
Cleopatra
I t was the greatest nightclub ever built.
Rising like a mirage from the gray concrete, Cleopatra stood four stories tall and occupied an entire city block. Impressive stone columns beckoned guests to double doors made of solid gold. The arched plate-glass windows, backlit by spinning strobes, were emblazoned with hieroglyphs and three-dimensional sketches of serpents. A thin red carpet cut down the center of the intricate cobblestone walkway. And high above it all, perched on the rooftop terrace, was a two-hundred-foot-tall replica of the Sphinx. Designed to look like a museum in daylight hours, the club was more Manhattan modern than Vegas tacky. Cleopatra herself would have been impressed.
It was ten o’clock. The streets of the Lower East Side had never been so packed. Blue police barricades blocked oncoming traffic, and groups of private security guards huddled on the sidewalks. Then there were the onlookers—everyone from teenagers and college students to middle-aged couples—pushing as close to the club’s entrance as possible to catch glimpses of their favorite celebrities. Up in the sky, two news choppers circled the scene. One limousine stopped to deposit its guests and another pulled right on up. The crowds were so thick, dozens of extra police officers had to be dispatched from their posts all over Manhattan.
It was the marvelous sort of mayhem Lex lived for. As she sat in the back of the Hamilton family limousine, she surveyed the chaos happily. Flashes cut through the shadowy interior like lightning. She had been waiting too long for this night, and now there was only one mission at hand: to party. “Look at how great the club looks!” she said excitedly
“Will you be wearing emeralds or diamonds tonight?” Emmett asked.
“Emeralds,” Concetta said.
“That leaves only one more question.” Emmett stared down at Concetta’s bare feet—wide, white, big-as-a-pizza-pie feet that no pair of shoes could properly conceal. He tried to smile.
“I know
exactly
which shoes to wear,” Concetta said firmly, marching into her closet. “I don’t need any advice in that department.”
Emmett waited on the threshold, a fearful look on his face.
Shoes were Concetta’s fashion passion. Dresses and gowns and designer jeans were certainly a good thing, but every piece of clothing ultimately looked the same on her round body. The sizes only seemed to get larger with each new event. Her shoe size, however, didn’t change. In the past five years she had amassed a fabulous collection of footwear. Her personal taste wasn’t always of the subtle variety, but she loved spending money on heels, pumps, stilettos, and even comfortable flats to wear around the house.
She walked to the very back of the closet. An entire wall housed her vast shoe collection, much like a museum exhibit. An array of bright colors and shapes came alive under the overhead track lighting, and she swept her eyes across the rows and columns with practiced ease. There. Right there. She cleared her throat nervously as she reached for the chosen pair, fully aware that Emmett would disapprove.
She slipped them on and walked back out to the bedroom.
Emmett gasped and slapped a hand to his forehead. “
Those?
” he whispered faintly.
Concetta scowled. “Yes—
these.
And wipe that stupid look off your face, okay?” She made a full turn in front of the mirror, liking what she saw, feeling more confident than she ever had. “I swear,” she said sharply, “if Damien Kittle doesn’t
totally
fall in love with me tonight, I might do something
crazy.
”
4
Cleopatra
I t was the greatest nightclub ever built.
Rising like a mirage from the gray concrete, Cleopatra stood four stories tall and occupied an entire city block. Impressive stone columns beckoned guests to double doors made of solid gold. The arched plate-glass windows, backlit by spinning strobes, were emblazoned with hieroglyphs and three-dimensional sketches of serpents. A thin red carpet cut down the center of the intricate cobblestone walkway. And high above it all, perched on the rooftop terrace, was a two-hundred-foot-tall replica of the Sphinx. Designed to look like a museum in daylight hours, the club was more Manhattan modern than Vegas tacky. Cleopatra herself would have been impressed.
It was ten o’clock. The streets of the Lower East Side had never been so packed. Blue police barricades blocked oncoming traffic, and groups of private security guards huddled on the sidewalks. Then there were the onlookers—everyone from teenagers and college students to middle-aged couples—pushing as close to the club’s entrance as possible to catch glimpses of their favorite celebrities. Up in the sky, two news choppers circled the scene. One limousine stopped to deposit its guests and another pulled right on up. The crowds were so thick, dozens of extra police officers had to be dispatched from their posts all over Manhattan.
It was the marvelous sort of mayhem Lex lived for. As she sat in the back of the Hamilton family limousine, she surveyed the chaos happily. Flashes cut through the shadowy interior like lightning. She had been waiting too long for this night, and now there was only one mission at hand: to party. “Look at how great the club looks!” she said excitedly
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