Vision in White

They slid out of the limo, then streamed past the line of hopefuls outside the club. Parker gave her name at the door. In seconds they were inside the wall of music.

Mac scoped it out. Two levels of booths, tables, and banquettes left room for a central dance floor. On either side, under the rainfall of colored lights, stood stainless steel bars.

Music churned; bodies gyrated. And her mood clicked up a couple of notches.

“I love when a plan comes together.”

They hunted up a table first, and Mac considered it an omen of good when they scored a small banquette where they could squeeze in together.

“Observe the species,” Mac said. “This is my first rule. Observe the plumage, the rituals before making any attempt to acclimate.”

“Screw that, I’m going for drinks. Are we sticking with champagne?” Emma wanted to know.

“Get a bottle,” Parker decided.

Laurel rolled her eyes as Emma wiggled out and started toward the nearest bar. “You know she’ll get hit on a dozen times before she orders anything, and feel obliged to have actual conversations with the guys who drool on her. We’ll all die of thirst before she gets back. Parker, you should go, and put on your invisible cloak of Back Off until we’re set up here.”

“Give her a few minutes first. How’s the fear factor, Mac?”

“Diminishing. I can’t even imagine the undeniably cute Dr. Maguire in a place like this, can you? At a poetry reading, sure, but not here.”

“Now, see, that’s assumption and conclusion based on profession. Like saying because I’m a baker, I must resemble the Pillsbury Doughboy.”

“Yes, yes, it is, but it helps my cause. I don’t want to get involved with him.”

“Because he has a PhD?”

“Yes, and great eyes, a really soft blue that go all sexy when he’s wearing his glasses. And there’s the unexpected superior kisser factor, which could blind me to the basic fact that we’re not suited. Plus any relationship with him outside the most casual of friendships would be a

serious relationship. What would I do about that?

And he helped me on with my coat, twice.”

“Dear God!” Parker widened her eyes in shock. “You have to nip this in the bud, quickly, finally. I understand it all now. Any man who would do that is . . . Words fail.”

“Oh, shut up. I want to dance. Laurel’s going to dance with me while Parker swirls on her Back-Off cloak and rescues our champagne—and rescues Emma from her own magnetism.”

“Apparently it’s time to acclimate,” Laurel said when Mac pulled her up and toward the dance floor.

SHE DANCED, WITH HER FRIENDS, WITH MEN WHO ASKED, OR whom she asked. She drank more champagne. In the silver and red ladies room, she rubbed her sore feet while Emma joined the army of women at the mirrors.

“How many numbers have you collected so far?”

Emma carefully applied fresh lip gloss. “I haven’t counted.”

“Approximate?”

“About ten, I guess.”

“And how will you tell them apart later?”

“It’s a gift.” She glanced over. “You’ve got one on the line, I noticed. The guy in the gray shirt. He’s got some moves on the floor.”

“Mitch. Smooth on the floor, great smile. Doesn’t strike me as an asshole.”

“There you go.”

“I should get the tingles for Mitch,” Mac considered. “But I’m not getting them. Maybe I’ve been detingled. That would be seriously unfair.”

“Maybe you’re not getting them for him because you’ve got them for Carter.”

“You get the tingles for more than one guy at a time.”

“Yes, yes, I do. But I’m me and you’re you. I figure men are there to make me tingle, and if I can do the same for them, everybody’s happy. You’re much more serious about such matters.”

“I’m not serious. That’s a mean thing to say. I’m going out there and dancing with Mitch again, open to tingles. You’ll eat those words, Emmaline. With chocolate sauce.”

It didn’t work. It

should have worked, Mac thought as she settled at the bar with Mitch after another dance. The man was great-looking, funny, built, had an interesting job as a travel journalist but didn’t bore her senseless with countless stories about his adventures.

He didn’t get pissy or pushy when she turned down his suggestion they go somewhere more quiet. In the end they exchanged business numbers, and parted ways.

“Forget men.” At two A.M. Mac crawled back into the limo, and sprawled. “I came to have fun with my best pals in the land, and said mission was accomplished. God, do we have any water in here?”

Laurel passed her a bottle, then groaned. “My feet. My feet are screaming like voices of the damned.”

“I had the best time.” Emma slid onto the limo’s side bench and pillowed her head on her hands. “We should do this once a month.”

Parker yawned, but tapped her purse. “I have two new contacts for vendors,

and a potential client.”

And so, Mac thought as the limo streamed north, we each define ourselves. She toed off her now very painful shoes, shut her eyes, and slept the rest of the way home.

CHAPTER SIX

IN THE MORNING THE SUN WAS JUST A LITTLE STRONGER THAN it needed to be, in Mac’s estimation. But otherwise, all was well.

See, she told herself. Young and resilient.