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Greenwich, Connecticut

BREE AND PHILLIP HENRY LUSTER found seats at a table for eight some distance from the small stage where musicians were playing softly for the patrons gathering to dine in Frances Duchaine’s ballroom.

Bree settled into her chair and immediately felt constricted.

Luster noticed and said, “Spanx?”

“How did you guess?”

“The Heimlich maneuver expression on your face.”

Bree laughed and rubbed her stomach. “Funny but true. I feel like I’m wearing a medieval corset with whalebones.”

Luster chuckled. “Can I give you advice so you can actually enjoy the meal?”

“I’m not taking this dress or the Spanx off,” she said. “I’ll never get back in it.”

“No, no,” Luster said, and he chuckled again. “Just do the broadcaster-on-a-couch sit.”

Bree knit her brows until the fashion designer scooted forward to the edge of his chair and spread his legs. “There. My belly is free to hang now. My diaphragm becomes less restricted. The breath comes easier. Try.”

Bree scooted forward, hesitated, then spread her thighs wide. With the snugness of the dress, it put a strain on her neck and back, but she found it was much easier to breathe.

“Okay,” she said, smiling. “Thank you. That does help.”

“I’m here to serve.” Tess Jackson’s chief fashion designer looked away for a moment. “Well, it’s a boy toy this evening.”

Bree followed Luster’s amused gaze and spotted Frances Duchaine being escorted to her table by a tall strapping blond man twenty years her junior.

“He’s right out of central casting, isn’t he?” Luster said. “It’s a shame he’s straighter than an arrow.”

“Who is he?”

Luster shrugged. “This one is a Burt or something like that. But it could be a Greg or a Tony or even a Karen if Frances is feeling a little exotic and … oh, the black widow makes an early appearance. Imagine that.”

Bree looked over and saw a pretty, petite brunette in her forties wearing a simple black dress talking intently to Frances Duchaine.

“Who’s that?” Bree asked.

“Paula Watkins,” Luster said. “Frances’s dark shadow.”

“Her dark shadow?” Bree asked.

“It’s an accurate description,” Luster said. “Oh God, here she comes. Decide for yourself. It’s like I’m a magnet or something.”

Indeed, Watkins had left Duchaine’s table and was now making a beeline straight for their table.

“Hello, Phillip,” Watkins said, her smile a little forced. “I hope you brought your checkbook.”

“A black card,” Luster said. “Paula Watkins, have you met Evelyn Carlisle?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Watkins said, locking eyes with Bree as she moved around Luster with her hand extended. “But in fact, I came over more to talk with you, Evelyn, than Phillip. That dress looks stunning on you, by the way.”

“Well, thank you,” Bree said, standing to shake her hand. “And talk to me?”

Watkins smiled, said, “Yes, I wondered if I might have a quick moment in private to chat with you about the particulars of tonight’s charity in hopes that you might be overly generous during the auction. You don’t mind, do you, Phillip?”

“As long as it’s quick,” Luster said. “Evelyn’s wonderful company.”

“We won’t be long,” Watkins promised.

CHAPTER 30

BREE SET DOWN HER napkin and followed Paula Watkins, breathing almost normally by the time they got well down the hallway. Duchaine’s dark shadow stood aside and gestured Bree into the library, where she was surprised to see Frances’s escort of the moment.

Burt, the buff, blond guy, stood with his arms crossed beside a formidable Black man in his thirties. Watkins shut the doors and turned, still smiling.

“That dress is magnificent on you,” she said.

“I don’t think I’ve ever owned one as beautiful.”

“Very few women can wear that kind of dress, much less afford it.”

Bree thought that was an odd comment. “Yes, well, let me hear about the charity and what I can do—”

Watkins’s smile vanished as she cut Bree off. “Frances being Frances, she was interested in who sold you the dress and she discovered it was Marjorie Mayhew, her cousin’s daughter, who works at our Fifth Avenue store. Is that who you bought the dress from?”

Bree’s stomach dropped, but she said, “Marjorie was a great help. But she never mentioned she was Frances’s cousin’s daughter.”

“And you never mentioned the name Evelyn Carlisle. Who are you working for? Why are you here, Bree Stone?”

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. Bree Stone is a name I use when I don’t want people to know who I am.”

“We know exactly who you are,” Watkins shot back. “You are the former chief of detectives of the Washington, DC, Metro Police force and you now work for the Bluestone Group, which, ironically, has done some work for us in the past. So again, why are you here and who hired you?”

Bree saw the jig was up. “I was sent to soak up the world of Frances Duchaine, and I honestly have no idea who hired me. You could ask my boss, Elena Martin, but I don’t think she knows either.”