"Always has been," she shot back.

"Look, I can't help it sometimes. I love you and I care about what happens to you. I go too far, maybe."

We heard a flush, and Monte came back into the room, buttoning on a yoked western shirt and looking for his boots. The whole time, he talked. I don't know what about because Emma and I were glaring at each other. Finally Monte found a pair of two-toned rat-stabbers partially hidden under the sofa. He sat on the floor to pull them on.

"Now, are you the sister who has a passel of rugrats?" Monte asked me.

"No, that's the other sister."

Monte continued as if I had not spoken. "I know how hard it can be to keep those little buggers in good-quality play clothes. I am the official spokesperson for Big Box, the people's store, and we carry a fine line of quality duds for the young members of your family." He wedged one foot into the first boot and didn't pause to draw a breath. "We carry overalls and cargo pants and T-shirts and even embroidered jumpers for the little cowgirls, not to mention a complete collection of socks and other unmentionables that will suit your budget."

He reached for the second boot. "You can be sure Big Box makes darn sure their goods are manufactured in safe, well-ventilated factories where the workers are treated just like every member of the Big Box family-with big hearts and big smiles. So you know all the fine products you buy are making the world a better place for all of us."

With one hand, Emma stuck a cigarette in her mouth, picked up a Zippo lighter and snapped it. She inhaled. "Monte takes his shilling very seriously. He already knows his lines for a commercial he's shooting in two weeks."

"Anyhoodle," Monte continued, getting to his feet to admire his boots. "I believe in Big Box. And you can trust Monte Bogatz to steer you into the right store for the right price for the right family."

"Hit the road, cowboy," Emma said.

Monte smiled suddenly, as if stepping out of a trance. "Sure thing, sugar. See you downstairs?"

"I'll catch up with you," she replied, putting the sofa between herself and Monte's farewell kiss.

When he was gone, Emma put Spike down on the floor.

I said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't judge you. My own life isn't exactly letter-perfect these days."

She stretched out on the sofa and smoked. "I thought yours was going pretty well. The Love Machine moved in with you, right? And he lets you out of bed once in a while?"

"Em-"

"Oh, loosen up. Admit it. The sex is great."

I sat down on the upholstered chair and kicked off my shoes. "Better than great."

She grinned. "I knew it. You pregnant yet?"

"Not yet."

"Not for lack of trying, I'm sure, at least on his part. You surprise me, though. A kid outside the sacred bond of marriage. You're supposed to be the good girl in the family."

"Good girls don't always get what everybody else gets. And none of us can keep a husband alive, so I can't marry him, can I?"

"You suddenly watching the biological clock?"

"And a few other things."

"Well, if you're looking for a lovefest, at least you picked one who doesn't talk your ear off. And I bet he isn't hung like a hamster or doesn't develop carpal tongue syndrome after only two minutes."

"Em-"

"Best of all-he cooks!" She laughed and threw her arms wide. "The perfect man."

"Well," I said.

"Okay, so he may be the next Godfather. Small glitch. What else do you want?"

"Someone I can trust not to drive his life off the edge of a cliff."

"Yes, but think about the exciting ride down."

I laughed, then hiccoughed and realized I was barely holding back tears. The possibility of losing Michael was so real I almost choked on it.

And if all our baby making had been successful, I was in an even bigger mess.

"On top of everything else," I said when I could speak, "half the city has invited themselves to my house for New Year's Eve. And I can't afford to serve pretzels."

"Am I invited?"

"Sure, why not?" I laughed drunkenly. "Just bring chips or something, okay?"

"What, no caviar?"

"Libby might bring some tasty massage lotion."

"Well, then, nobody will starve."

We smiled at each other.

Then Emma said, "I remember, you know. Brinker grabbed me in the swimming pool and took me out behind somebody's cabana." She looked up at the ceiling.

"I should have watched you more carefully."

She shook her head. "I thought they were going to let me be a part of the gang. But they yanked off my bathing suit. Remember that suit? It was blue and white stripes. I loved that one. They tore it, and I froze. All their slippery, wet hands on me." She closed her eyes and smoked. "I'd never been so scared before. Next thing I knew, you were hitting Brinker with something."

"An inflated plastic alligator."

"Right." She laughed shortly.

"Not exactly a weapon of mass destruction."

"They let me go, though. At the time I was mad at you because I didn't have my nice bathing suit anymore." Emma opened her eyes and her gaze steadily met mine through a thread of blue smoke. "But now I know what you did for me, Nora."

"I was afraid of him then, and I'm afraid of him now. He's a sadist. The things he did to Hemmings . . ."

"Hemorrhoid was nuts long before Brinker got hold of him." Emma stubbed out her cigarette. "You said you wanted to talk to Hemorrhoid."

"Yes."

She sat up. "Funny, I think I know where he's going to be tonight."

"Where?"

"Time for a makeover," she declared, getting up and putting her hand down to me. "You can't go to a club dressed like a French housewife. You're classy, Nora, but sometimes you need to show a little leg." She pulled me upright.

Although Emma spent most of her days training horses and rarely wore anything but breeches and boots, she knew more about makeovers than the Fab Five.

"Let's do something with your hair." She dragged me to the bathroom. "And we'll think about the clothes after."

"This is my very own Armani," I protested. "You're not destroying it."

"Well, take off the sweater underneath at least, will you? You look ready for a polar expedition."

"It's winter, Em."

Her hotel bathroom was all marble and brilliantly shined chrome, with gilded mirrors that might have been copied from Buckingham Palace. Emma used her brush on my hair, forcing me to bend at the waist so she could produce enough volume to rival any Hollywood starlet. I let her work, barely looking at my reflection in the mirror as she sprayed hunks of my hair into unnatural positions.

Emma's grin grew as she played. I was so glad to have her on my side that I suddenly remembered climbing a tree at the farm one summer. She was faster than a monkey and clambered up ahead of me in the branches. I slipped and barely caught my sneaker on a foothold, but Emma turned back and put her little hand down to me.

"C'mon," she had said. "I'll help."

After the hair project, she made me strip off my suit and re-dress. No stockings, no sweater, no bra under my jacket. She rolled my skirt at the waist until my knees were naked, then found me a pair of heels from her suitcase.

"You took high-heeled slingbacks to rehab?" I asked, staring at my reflection-suddenly more long-legged and sexier than was possible.

"These are my emergency pair. Red buckles, see?"

I wanted to hug her. And not for the clothes or the new hairstyle.

Emma dressed herself in snug jeans that clung like rain on a roof, boots and her Brinker Bra. Over it, she pulled a sweater-backward-and instantly transformed herself into a goddess.

"Can you get that thing off?" I asked.

"The bra? Sure, why?"

"You should give Libby a call."

"What's she done now?"

"It's a long story. What should we do about Spike?"

"Leave him here," Emma said. "Monte will pay for the damages."

We rode down the elevator and walked across the lobby without glancing into the bar. Outside on the sidewalk, a line had already begun to form for the club that was attached to the hotel. Emma strode past the murmuring crowd and went straight to the bouncer, who sat on a stool at the door to prevent suburbanites from storming the gates of urban trendiness.

"Hey," she said to him.

His face came alive as if she'd waved a tube of ammonia under his nose. He reached for the clasp on the velvet rope before he could summon any words. Then they were, "Hey, doll-face. Come in. And who's this hot topic with you?"

"Careful with her, sugarplum." Emma patted his cheek. "She runs with the big dog."

We slipped into the club.

Chapter 10.

The club was called Beddy-Bye, but I didn't understand the name until we stepped inside and confronted an enormous round bed covered with dozens of satin pillows and draped with overlapping curtains as if to make things private for Scheherazade or a pair of honeymooners who missed the bus to the Poconos.

Two giggling young women sprawled on the coverlet, simultaneously trying to sip their umbrella drinks and keep their skirts pulled down on their thighs. A handful of male patrons hung around the bed, holding their beers and working up the courage to join them.

Emma and I skirted the bed and went into the main room of the club. The place was dark and air-conditioned to the temperature of a meat locker. Despite the frigid air, the dress code was nearly naked for the women, whereas most of the men seemed to send the message that they would grab their skateboards any minute to do some rad grinding. Backward baseball caps, low-slung shorts and T-shirts proclaiming various Caribbean islands was the wardrobe of choice.

"It's the dead of winter," I said to Emma as we inched our way through the mob. "Isn't anybody freezing?"

"Okay," said my sister, "so this isn't your usual crowd. Nobody's drinking Cosmopolitans or talking about their ski trips to Jackson Hole. You want to talk to Hemorrhoid, you gotta get a different mind-set going."

Monstrously loud music from the dance floor made my solar plexus vibrate. It was turntable music-half rap, half static. Neon tubes glowed at floor level, but otherwise the space was dimly lit. I could make out a hundred people or so, all animated, some dancing. Mostly young. All draped around each other as if sex had just been invented.

Emma knew her way around, and in the doorway that separated one demographic from the next, she slid past a nodding doorman and into a new group of patrons. A tight knot of young men in Zegna suits and Hermes ties all slugged shooters and looked shiny-faced. A couple of women were with them, but they hovered on the edge of the group, holding martini glasses and smiling uncertainly.

The second room was clearly VIP territory.

Luxurious beds lined the entire room, each one occupied by a group too large for the space, so people were reclining against each other and swooning to the music-R & B this time. Waiters in black silk shirts swiftly carried trays of glassware as if making offerings to impatient deities.

Emma headed to the bar, which was tended by a busy man with a crew cut who seemed capable of concocting drinks quicker than a juggler.

"Robin," she said.

The bartender stopped pouring and shaking long enough to stretch across the bar to kiss her cheek. He had arms like a heavyweight boxer. "If it isn't the lovely and elusive Emma Blackbird." His accent was distinctly British, and his well-worn MANCHESTER UNITED T-shirt gave him away, too. "Let me guess. You checked yourself out already?"

She laughed. "A caged bird doesn't sing, Rob. You know that. This is my sister, Nora."

Robin reached over the bar to shake my hand. His was wet and slightly sticky. "Sorry, luv," he said, and handed me a wad of napkins.

"We're looking for Hemmings Lamb," Emma said. "Seen him tonight?"

Robin cocked his head. "Not exactly your type, Emma."

"Who is?"

He laughed. "Hemorrhoid just came in a few minutes ago." Robin nodded toward a far corner. "I think he's trying to score some X, but he's such a horse's arse, he'll be lucky if he gets his hands on an aspirin."