"He has incarnations?"

I wanted to shut myself up, but I couldn't. "Brinker is always reinventing himself in an effort to be famous. For a while, he owned a comedy club. Upchuckles."

"How Noel Coward."

"His comedy act was just as sophisticated. He showed videos of people while he ridiculed them. Like Candid Camera, only less highbrow. About a year ago the club burned down. I like to think it was a random act of human kindness by an arsonist with good taste. Anyway, now he's a lingerie designer."

Richard pointed at the photo. "He hardly looks like the fashion type."

"Fashion isn't pretty girls in lace anymore. A successful designer needs a shtick, a concept, an identity. Brinker has always thought of himself in marketing concepts, so maybe he has a shot."

"How long have you known him?"

I hesitated. "Our families associated."

Richard turned a wry look on me. "Associated where? The polo grounds?"

"A bathing club," I said coldly.

"So you sipped mint juleps in a hot tub with this guy?"

"It was a swim club, a private pool. And lemonade, actually. I could use some now. It's hot in here." I fanned myself with my program.

"So take your coat off."

I refrained from stripping down to my nightgown and found myself thinking of the Holt family instead. Their money came from a gear needed in all movie cameras, and they lived the high life thanks to an old patent. Brinker's father wore bow ties and could get drunk by sniffing a cork. Mrs. Holt smoked Virginia Slims, loved ballroom dancing and spent so much time on cruise ships that they eventually sold their Main Line estate and bought a suite of rooms on a condominium ship that sailed around the world with an orchestra that never quit and a cocktail bar that never closed. Before they set sail, they kicked Brinker off the estate and out of their lives for assorted transgressions. In retaliation, he set fire to his Porsche and became a comedian, starting with home movies of his parents.

Richard tapped the picture again. "Looks like Brinker is trying to forget his aristocratic roots. The motorcycle, the scruffy beard. He's gone blue-collar on you."

"On me? We're barely acquainted."

"He likes bikes, though?"

"I have no idea. Why?"

Richard shrugged. "I like to know things about people. It may be a way to get close later."

At that moment, the two of us were as close as two people could get without discussing condoms. And I suddenly became aware that Richard D'eath smelled good. The heat of his leg against mine felt alarmingly intimate, too.

I pulled away quickly, and he pretended not to notice. Thank heaven the roar of motorcycles exploded in the air. The crowd around us shouted and applauded as the lights went down. Then a Harley burst out from behind the black curtains and thundered onto the runway, controlled by a young woman almost entirely naked. Immediately behind her came a steady stream of equally stunning girls, all precariously balanced on high-heeled biker boots, wearing thong underwear and sporting the plastic harness that was the Brinker Bra.

The crowd leaped to its feet and screamed orgasmically.

Beside me, Richard D'eath cursed.

The runway filled with strutting models, each one a perfect Amazon. A pair of long-legged twins paused in front of us, both with pouty faces and poker-straight white-blond hair down to their elbows. Their space age-y Brinker Bras looked like they might pop off at any moment.

Behind us, the photographers shouted for the crowd to sit down so they could shoot their photos.

In my ear, Libby shrieked, "I'm going straight home to book a bikini wax!"

I barely heard her. Although the action on the stage was riveting, a different drama was taking place in the row in front of us. Orlando Lamb had been glued to his seat until the model on the motorcycle suddenly ripped off her traditional bra and exposed the Brinker Bra beneath. She threw the old bra into the air . . . and it landed directly in Orlando's lap. The boy leaped up, beet red and crying with embarrassment as he threw the bra away from himself.

"I won't do it!" His shout was barely audible over the thundering noise. "I hate girls! This is gross!"

Hemorrhoid tried to subdue his nephew. I couldn't hear his words, but I saw his face as he reached to grasp the boy's shoulders.

"No!" Orlando wrestled for his freedom, and his shirt tore. "I won't! You can't make me!"

The annoyance on Hemorrhoid's face twisted into rage. Before I realized what I was doing, I stood up to intervene.

"Hem," I said. But the noise was too loud around us.

From behind me, Richard caught my arm.

Hemorrhoid grabbed Orlando's torn shirt.

"Hemmings!"

At the sound of my voice, Hemorrhoid loosened his grip and the child wrenched free. Orlando ran past the runway, ducked through the security team and knocked two spectators out of his way.

Hemorrhoid almost followed, but people turned their attention from the runway to watch him. At last aware he'd made an unpleasant scene in the midst of a spectacle, he sank back into his chair, pulled out his handkerchief and used it to dab his upper lip.

I pulled free of Richard's grasp and struggled to climb over people. I stepped on someone's foot and nearly fell into the lap of another fashion fan, but I finally made my way to the exit. I pushed past a knot of security guards.

Outside, Orlando was fistfighting his way out of Keith Rudnick's headlock. "Let me go! Let me go!"

"Orlando!"

The boy bit Keith's hand. Keith yelped and released him. Then Orlando rushed out of the warehouse. On the sidewalk, he ran slap into the arms of a small man who'd been waiting at the curb. The man was dressed in a traditional chauffeur's uniform. He held his cap in one hand, but he managed to hug the boy against his gray wool overcoat.

The chauffeur was an older gentleman, with the wizened face and twinkling blue eyes of a leprechaun. "Hey, there, lad," he said. "What's all this?"

Overcome with fury and distress, Orlando could only cling to him.

The chauffeur looked familiar. I approached the two and said, "Gallagher? Is that you?"

He squinted at me, then broke out a grin. "Miss Nora? Why, haven't you grown up pretty!"

I shook his hand with pleasure. "How nice to see you. I'm amazed you're still working for Oriana's family."

Charles Gallagher smiled as he continued to hug Orlando around the boy's pudgy shoulders. "I should have retired years ago, but I'm no quitter."

I smiled. "You used to deliver Oriana and me back to college after holidays. You made us listen to bagpipe tunes in the car."

"I did?" He looked delighted at my memory.

"We pretended to hate it, but now I actually enjoy bagpipes. Does he make you listen to awful music, Orlando?"

The boy's face squinched. "Yeah, sometimes."

"You two seem to be special friends."

"He keeps me busy." Genuinely affectionate, Gallagher tousled Orlando's spiky hairdo, then pulled his hand away and looked at it with surprise. "What's this?" he asked the boy. "Who's put this grease in your hair, son? And how did you tear your shirt?"

"Uncle Hem." Orlando twisted around to look up at Gallagher's face. "He wants me to buy a bunch of gross girl underwear, too."

Gallagher laughed and attempted to smooth over the incident for my benefit. "I bet you misunderstood him. Nobody's going to make you do anything like that."

"Uncle Hem said so. He wants-"

"You hush now," Gallagher soothed. "Don't worry."

I said, "Perhaps this event isn't appropriate for someone Orlando's age. I think he wants to go home."

"Then that's where we'll go." Gallagher gave the boy's shoulders another rough hug. "Ready, son? You can sit up front and read that confounded Global Position computer whatever. Where's your coat?"

"Uncle Hem took it. He said it makes me look fat."

"Let's get you into the car then, before you freeze."

The chauffeur's presence had obviously eased Orlando's spirits, but I followed them a few steps into the cold night anyway. They climbed into a long black Jaguar together. Gallagher waved good-bye from behind the wheel, and I watched as the car pulled into the street and disappeared.

Slowly I went back inside, glad Orlando had escaped, but wondering if things were worse for the boy at home.

I couldn't fight back into my seat, so I stood in the doorway of the show. Nearby, a handful of very young magazine assistants squealed as the fashion parade continued, reminding me it was time to get to work. I took out my notepad and eased along the edge of the crowd. I asked opinions, and people were happy to gush between rapturous glances at the stage.

I soon bumped into exactly the person I needed to balance my story.

"Lexie!"

Lexie Paine, my best friend since day school and my heartless financial adviser since the death of my husband, looked stunning in a black Fendi suit that was both prim and sharp enough to subdue the bulls and bears who dared charge the bronze doors of her brokerage house. Around her neck, she wore three strands of Bulgari fabulousness-pastel diamonds on a delicate platinum chain, the latest thing. As always, her black hair was swept back into a sleek ponytail, refining her slender face and emphasizing the intelligence of her gaze and the wry set to her mouth.

She hugged me with enthusiasm. "Here to buy some undies, sweetie?"

I hugged her back and we moved away from the doorway so we could hear each other over the screech of Led Zeppelin. "I should have known you'd be here. Are you in charge?"

"Lord, no. At the last minute someone asked me to help with the fund-raising, that's all, which meant having my assistant phone the usual suspects. Nora, is this event too tacky for words?"

"Only if it fails to raise a truckload of money for a good cause."

She sighed. "In that case, we're safe. The local blue bloods have come to see and be seen, everybody with checkbooks open, and there's the full-court fashion press, too. But all this sexist flash for brassieres? While we're trying to cure a terrible disease? I worry it's in bad taste."

"The money is green, Lex, and researchers will make good use of it."

"I hope you're right." With a grin, Lexie said, "I saw Libby earlier. She outwrestled Mimi Tarbockle for some gift bags-no easy feat, considering Mimi spends twelve-hour days with her personal trainer."

"Whatever you do, don't ask Libby about her new line of work. You'll end up buying something you can't show your mother."

"Yikes. Is Emma here, too?"

I sighed. "My little sister is back in rehab. We're hoping she stays this time."

Lexie's expression softened. "Oh, sweetie, I know you must be worried sick. Fingers crossed."

"Thanks."

Since my husband had been shot by his cocaine dealer, all my friends felt obliged to tread lightly every time the subject of addiction came up. Coping with Todd's drug problem and death had been a very public ordeal. Friends like Lexie saw me through.

She squeezed my arm. "Tell me what you're wearing, sweetie. Looks like a pink mink!"

"Chinchilla. Don't turn me in to PETA, please. This is the only thing I could grab and know it would keep me decent." I unbuttoned and flashed Lexie a peek of my nightgown under the coat. "No time to be politically correct."

Lexie let out a roar of laughter. "Button up, darling, before the fashionistas mob you. That's a killer nightie. For all his faults, Todd had great taste in lingerie. And the fur? What are we supposed to do with an old one?"

"I was in a terrible hurry. Kitty called at the last minute-hoping I'd miss the assignment, I suppose. I can't lose this job, so here I am despite the snowstorm."

"And not even a minute to grab some earrings? Never mind, the stars in your eyes are better than diamonds. Can I assume your new beau has spent the holidays lavishing or ravishing you?"

"A bit of both," I said with a smile. "And thank you for the case of wine, by the way. Michael tells me it's worth a fortune."

"I hope it's delicious with hot lovin', sweetie," she said with another laugh. "Thanks for the return invitation to your New Year's Eve bash, by the way. I'm so glad you've decided to revive that tradition. Your soiree was always so glamorous."

"Actually, I thought an intimate dinner might be better this year."

My friend understood instantly. "So Michael can meet your friends in small doses?"

"If he shows up at all."

Lexie's elegant brows rose in delight. "The Mafia Prince is leery of social butterflies?"

"He's more worried he'll sully my reputation."

"We could all use such sullying."

My unlikely liaison with Michael Abruzzo had caused an earthquake in my social circle. His family-that is, the Abruzzo crime family of New Jersey-had made a name for itself in racketeering, illegal gambling and other nefarious deeds that I needed a law degree to understand. Michael had no business with his father and various half brothers-the ones who weren't currently serving sentences, that is. At least, I was almost sure he had no dealings with them anymore. He had served time years ago for juvenile offenses and seemed determined to avoid doing so again. Still, I had not yet worked up the courage to ask for details about his various current activities, and so far he wasn't offering any information either.

My friends knew I had suffered through one apocalyptic relationship, and despite her cheery banter I could see Lexie feared I was facing another catastrophe in my life.

Meanwhile, Michael was reluctant to go on display.

Thing is, I loved to entertain. I liked lavishing my old friends and nurturing new acquaintances. That ever-widening pool of friendship had always been my touchstone. It was time Michael understood. I wanted him to like my friends. And I hoped they would see beyond the crime-lord persona the newspapers tagged him with to the real man beneath.

Lexie correctly read my thoughts and said, "You know what I like best? You look happy. So damn what anybody else thinks. Let me bring my cousins. They'll be in town that night and I simply assumed-"

Against my better judgment, I said, "By all means, bring them."

"Good. They'll adore seeing you again. And meeting your beau has them in a tizzy of excitement. Now, who were you chasing out of here a minute ago? The chubby kid?"