I sighed, not just because there was no use arguing with that but because I was beginning to understand her reasoning. Besides, if Joaquin were there, the last thing he’d be expecting would be a showdown with a showgirl.
“Well, thanks,” I said to a beaming Cher. “What are you wearing?”
She made a show of turning around and stripping off her robe to reveal a black mini-dress cut from neck to navel, and-from what I could see-sliced in tiny bits to cover the choicest of body parts. She whirled as I had earlier, the strips of cloth flying dangerously about her body. “Is that legal?”
“It’s designer,” Cher said, grabbing a strand of shiny beads from the bureau and looping them over her head multiple times so that they too draped her body. She caught my eye through the mirror. “By Imitation of Christ.”
I made a face. “Why, because he had such great fashion sense?”
She only laughed. “I’m going to finish getting ready. Meet me downstairs in ten?”
“Sure,” I said as she flounced from the room, her stride runway perfect despite the lack of a catwalk or music. I glanced back down at my altered mask and sighed again, hoping I didn’t run into anyone I knew from either of my realities.
Though that was the point, I reminded myself. Track down Joaquin. Sneak up on him. Put an arrow through his black heart. If that required dressing up like a spoiled, jet-setting porn star/heiress, then I’d do it. Still, as I grabbed my handbag from the table to head downstairs, I couldn’t help but think that Carl was going to have a field day drawing this one.
“Suz, baby. I’m so glad you called…all of you.”
Troy spared a glance for Cher and me in the back of his Escalade, a glance, I noted, that lingered a little longer than it should have. Cher ignored him completely, staring into her compact as she applied gloss on lips that already shone like waxed chrome, and I merely rolled my eyes and looked out the window as we pulled into Valhalla’s long drive. We followed it past painfully manicured landscaping with bright flowers and bushes never meant for the desert, beyond fountains depicting the feast of the gods, complete with winged Valkyries serving golden goblets to fallen Vikings.
The taxi stand was full, a line of cabs waiting to be called to the front doors by whistle-carrying doormen, like restless stallions at the Derby. Limos were wedged in slots near the entrance, waiting-in most cases, for hours-for their charges to finish the night’s partying. A few Hummers and exotic sports cars were showcased up front, a hefty tip ensuring they’d be there when their owners returned, but I had a feeling Troy wouldn’t spring for such a luxury, even with three stunning women in his charge, and-no surprise-he didn’t. Our doors swung open and polite valets ushered us beneath the arching portico.
“Shall we?” I said as soon as we were all assembled, noting the looks we were getting from the other hotel patrons, men and women dressed for dinner or shows or a night at the tables, none of whom looked like they’d done any swinging since elementary school. I already had my mask on, relatively certain the spiked lashes would scare even the most dogged security guard from insisting I remove it. A bellman, eyes wide, held the door open for us, and Troy took the other, ushering us through, making sure to touch each one of us in some proprietary way as we passed.
The good thing about spending the entire evening with Troy was his predictability. He’d keep an eye on all of us like we were his personal harem, and that was an almost comforting thought…at least where Suzanne and Cher were concerned. I’d ditch him at will, though I promised myself that if it came down to taking out Joaquin or protecting these two women from harm or infection or ghastly death, I’d choose them. They were innocents, and my first priority. And besides, I thought, watching the swish of Cher’s skirt in front of me, they were all I had now.
Nine o’clock was apparently still early for the swinger crowd, though there were enough people in the east ballroom to begin the evening’s fun. In the event that Joaquin was one of them-knowing he was never one to turn down a willing victim-I linked my arm with Cher’s so we could make our first round of the room, decorated in acres of black leather just for the occasion. I hoped.
First, however, we had to register and receive our armbands.
“Got anything in pink?” Cher asked the receptionist sitting behind a long draped table just to the right of the door. Pamphlets touting regional, local, and national conferences were splayed out before her, but Cher was busy studying the red, blue, yellow, and green plastic bands taped to the table in front of us. “Pink’s my favorite color.”
The woman only stared.
“I’m more of a purple-lovin’ kind of girl myself,” I added, smiling down into the woman’s round face. Besides, purple was almost black, and I thought Olivia would consider such a detail.
The woman just blinked and turned her cold gaze on me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Hunh? “Well…purple is traditionally the color used for royalty. It’s also really great with my coloring, though it has to be the right shade. Lilac would be best.”
Troy, who’d been listening behind us from his guard post next to Suzanne, edged his way between us and the table. “I think she means what does the color signify for the purposes of this event. In this case, purple and pink mean nothing.” He turned back to the greeter, and his lips drew up in pure saccharine smile. “I’ll take a green one, please.”
The woman blushed all the way down to her graying roots. As she fumbled with his wristband, I noted she too had a green one fastened over her own pudgy wrist. I held out my hand for one as well. She ignored me. “And your name is, Mr…?”
“Just call me Troy.”
“Troy,” she said breathlessly, her eyes traveling up to his lips. What the hell was going on here? Was there some sort of mental telepathy at play, or had I completely missed the nuances of a new form of speed dating? “That’s lovely, but I need your full name so I can give you your name badge.”
“Ugh.” Cher shuddered beside me. “Name badges?”
That seemed to wake the woman from her lustful reverie. She was all business as she flicked through a box to find Troy’s badge. “It makes the introductory process less inhibiting, and it’s a good conversation starter. Your place of birth is printed below it as well, ah…Mr. Stone.”
As she handed it to him I held out my arm. “Green, please.”
Suzanne put her hand on my shoulder. “Um, Olivia, maybe…”
The woman-her badge said Mary Malone from Topeka-snapped the green over my wrist. Troy nodded approvingly. I lifted my mask, smiled at Mary again, and used my sister’s sweetest tone-and the dimple I knew resided in her left cheek-to try and win her over again. “Thank you, Miss Malone.”
This time she responded warmly. “You’re very welcome…?”
“Olivia. Olivia Archer,” I said slowly, my brows drawing together at her quick change of heart. My dimple wasn’t that cute. She handed me my name badge, fingers lingering over mine, and I drew back quickly. I heard a muffled snort behind me, but when I turned Suzanne’s face was straight, absent of all humor.
“And for the rest of you?”
Cher held out her wrist. “I’ll take-”
“Maybe we should find out exactly what each color means first, dear,” Suzanne said, stilling her stepdaughter. “Mary?”
Mary blinked at us in surprise. “Oh, are you first-timers? All right then, welcome. We have a color-coded system that’s used nationally, so if you attend any soirees in other parts of the country, you’ll know what to ask for. It’s very simple, though. A red wristband means ‘women only.’ Blue means you prefer to be approached only by men. Yellow means ‘only couples,’ and green means…”
My brain scrambled, trying on the remaining options. I didn’t have to, though, because Troy lifted my hand high, kissing the fingers just below my own green wristband before murmuring, “Anything goes.”