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“That good?”
“Daaaay-um. First of all, classic black. Second of all, construction: look at that plunging neckline that still manages to keep you covered, and the way the back hugs your as**s without being trashy. Third of all, have you seen that hand-stitching? No, you have not, because it is perfect and not calling attention to itself.”
I spun slowly, admiring myself in the mirror, running my hands over the smooth ebony satin, watching the way the cloth rippled in an artistically asymmetrical line around my knees. “You’re sure it works?”
“Any guy would be lucky to have your fine self,” Martha as**serted.
I looked at myself in the mirror, my curls falling on my bare shoulders, my calves caressed by soft fabric. My eyes glowing with delight in myself.
She was damn right.
FIVE
The Kadiatu Suites was a swank, modern hotel, all polished white marble and champagne silk drapes. The lush carpet swallowed all sound until the noise of the crowd was barely a genteel murmur and the light clink of glasses. Oil paintings from European countries with names I couldn’t pronounce shared space on the walls with classic African tribal art, and waiters in tuxedos that most doctors couldn’t afford swanned elegantly through all the salons and lounges with their high-vaulted ceilings, offering chocolate-dipped strawberries, ladyfingers, miniature cups of tiramisu, and tiny custard tarts topped with blueberries, blackberries, and a butterscotch drizzle. It was all a welcome change from the gorgeous but admittedly rustic beauty of Hunter Knox’s plantation, and under normal circumstances, I would have been busy soaking up all the glamour like a leafy tree in the sun.
But somehow, none of this could make up for the company I was having to keep.
“It is lovely, isn’t it?” Chuck said at my shoulder. “I could almost believe we’re someplace civilized. How soon ‘til you think someone pulls out a rifle and shoots the chandelier?”
I smiled as pleasantly as I could and changed the subject. “What a nice tuxedo you have. Tell me, do you and Hunter have the same tailor?”
“Clothes, clothes, clothes,” Chad said with an eye-roll, lounging against the nearby table with the rest of his Douchebro posse. Unbelievably, they had all decided that it was completely kosher to keep their collars popped at a formal event. “Ladies be shoppin’, am I right, Chuck?”
Chuck gave a little derisive laugh. “Oh, gentlemen, let’s let the lady have her fun.” He turned his patronizing gaze on me. “Why don’t you tell us all about your little outfit? Was it very expensive? Or was it a gift from…a special friend?”
The Douchebros snickered. My smile was starting to get painful. By the end of the night I might need to have it surgically removed with a chisel.
I was doing my best to stay on Chuck’s good side, at least until the results from my ad campaign were in, and that meant doing my best to smile at his jokes and ignore the Douchebros. I only had to make nice until they were distracted by some passing starlet’s ti**ts, and then I could get back to my main mission: Operation Charm. Target? The members of the board.
I’d already chatted to Mrs. Aaronovitch about her dog-breeding program, promised to speak to a Yale admissions officer for Mr. Stiefvater’s son with the low grades but promising extracurricular set, and chatted about volunteering for one of Ms. McGuire’s pet causes, alligator conservation.
And then I had carefully guided the all those conversations toward the wonderful job I thought Hunter was doing with the company, and the exciting future of Knox Liquors once my ads had hit the world. And if you think it’s easy to guide a conversation from the rate of dental decay in captive alligators gathered from the Everglades, to the future of a bourbon company, you are sadly mistaken.
But it would all be worth it, once I had proven myself.
I surveyed the crowd for my next target and spotted Ben Minister, a portly gentleman of fifty with a walrus mustache, a spotless silver suit, and twinkly green eyes. I quickly reviewed my knowledge of him: used to breed Greyhounds, tended to vote moderate candidates, had spearheaded a clean-up of the local pond after two small children caught sicknesses swimming there.
“Mr. Minister!” I flashed him the winning smile that had disposed teachers kindly toward me since kindergarten. “Will you join us? I was hoping to get some news from the horse’s mouth on how the Margaret Lake clean-up is progressing.”
“Certainly, certainly,” he said, his voice like a finely oiled piece of old mahogany that had only just begun to crack and creak in the humid Southern air. “You’re that young lady down from D.C., aren’t you? What do you think of us barbarians down here in the jungle?”
? Also By Lila Monroe
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