Franco had done the girls’ colors a few days ago, announcing that Claire was a soft autumn and must wear rose, turquoise and jade from now on.
Claire glanced down at the rose silk camisole she’d bought on a shopping spree with A.J. this afternoon. They’d also found black skirts at Bloomingdale’s by a designer named Daryl that were identical to the one Sam owned. But Claire needed the real thing tonight, so she’d left her skirt in the closet and borrowed Sam’s, along with a pair of gold hoop earrings.
“Am I missing anything?” Claire asked.
“Birth control?” A.J. quipped. “After all, you are conducting a study of human mating behavior.”
“I will simply be an observer,” Claire replied, “not an active participant.”
“Speaking of mating behavior,” Sam chimed, “Mrs. Higgenbotham brought over Cleo’s appointment calendar so we can coordinate the walking schedule. Her poodle sees a therapist twice a week for canine intimacy dysfunction.”
“She also has to appear in small claims court,” A.J. added. “I’m representing her.”
“Mrs. Higgenbotham?” Claire asked, adjusting the waistband of the skirt. The fabric was oddly warm to the touch.
“No, Cleo. Mrs. H has been trying to breed her, but it seems the poodle isn’t interested in romance. When one of Cleo’s suitors got too amorous, she bit him in a…sensitive place.” A.J. grinned. “You might want to keep that strategy in mind, Claire, in case any of those men get too frisky with you tonight.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Claire said, grabbing her purse off the sofa. “Once I explain the reason I’m there.”
Sam looked thoughtful. “Wouldn’t your research be more effective if no one at the nightclub knew you were watching them?”
“It’s not that kind of study,” Claire explained. “I’ll be recording general observations about The Jungle, as well as studying the dating habits of some of its regular patrons. I’ll need to schedule in-depth interviews and ask questions about the average duration of relationships, the elements of physical, sociological and spiritual attraction, verbal and nonverbal interaction…things like that.”
She saw Sam and A.J.’s eyes glaze over and a prickle of apprehension skittered down her spine. Even Claire was bored by the subject. So how could she possibly succeed?
Then Sam blinked. “Oh, I almost forgot! I finally located Kate Gannon’s e-mail address. It’s on a sticky note by your computer.”
“Who’s Kate Gannon?” A.J. asked.
“She’s the woman who owned the skirt before Sam.” Claire looped the purse strap over her shoulder. “I want to find out more about its origin for my next research project.” She took a deep breath. “But first I have to make it through this one.”
“Knock ’em dead,” A.J. said as Claire moved toward the door.
“And tell us all the juicy details when you get home,” Sam called after her.
Claire just hoped there was something to tell. What if wearing the skirt had no effect on the men around her? What if they were all as oblivious to her as Mitch Malone had been? What if this research project was an abysmal failure?
Then the elevator doors opened on the main floor and Franco whistled at her.
“Be still my heart,” he cried, clasping his hand to his chest. “Damn girl, you almost make me wish I was straight.”
“So I look all right?” she asked, performing a slow twirl around the foyer.
“There’s only one thing missing.” Franco picked up a small shopping bag next to the door and handed it to her. “Here.”
Claire pulled out a rose silk scarf. “It’s beautiful.”
“The perfect finishing touch,” Franco replied, taking it from her and tying it in a jaunty knot around her neck. Then his gray eyes got misty. “I feel like Glinda the Good Witch, ready to send you off on the yellow brick road.”
“I’ll settle for a yellow taxi,” she replied, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Thanks, Franco.”
“Off with you now, Dorothy.” He pushed her out the door. “And watch out for those flying monkeys!”
MITCH SMELLED TROUBLE.
He stood at his post near the front entrance of The Jungle nightclub, his eyes slowly scanning the large room. The place was filling up fast tonight, with the men outnumbering the women two-to-one. White wicker ceiling fans stained to a dull brown from thirty years of smoke whirled overhead. The slight breeze they gave couldn’t counteract the humid night air that blew inside every time the door opened.
Like most nightclubs, the lights in The Jungle were dimmed low enough to obscure facial features and the music was loud enough to prevent in-depth conversations. A few people danced on the wood parquet floor and the bartenders kept up a stream of steady business.
Mitch could sense the restlessness in the crowd tonight. Typical for a Friday, when everyone was ready to blow off steam after a long workweek. The man he’d been assigned to watch, Dick Vandalay, stood behind the bar training a new bartender. A young kid who looked like he might wet his pants if Vandalay yelled at him again.
A heated expletive shifted Mitch’s attention to the dance floor, where a scuffle had just broken out. By the time he got there, the two women had each other by the hair. The man they were fighting over just stood off to the side with a drunken grin on his face.
“Break it up,” Mitch said, pulling the women apart.
“Hey, keep out of this,” the man said. “I was just starting to have some fun.”
Both women lashed out at each other with skinny arms and bony fists. Mitch held them just far enough apart to keep them from doing any serious damage.
“If this is the kind of fun you want,” Mitch told the man between clenched teeth, “then go somewhere else to have it.”
The man took a step toward him. “Make me.”
The unmistakable challenge in his tone made both women stop struggling and shift their focus to Mitch. He let go of them and faced the man on the dance floor. “If you’re smart, you’ll just turn around and walk away.”
But Mitch knew there was little chance of that happening. This guy was like too many of the men he’d seen while living on the streets. Too macho to keep out of trouble until they were in it neck-deep. He glanced over at the bar and saw Vandalay nod.
Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a beefy fist shooting out toward his jaw. Mitch twisted just in time to avoid the blow. Then he delivered a swift kick to the back of the man’s knees, causing him to crumple to the floor.
Mitch’s early education in street fighting was only enhanced by the combat moves he’d been taught when he’d gone into law enforcement. This loser wasn’t going to win this fight. Mitch just hoped the guy would be smart enough to figure that out before Mitch really had to hurt him.
No such luck.
By the time Mitch had scraped the guy off the floor and dumped him in the back of a taxicab, the two woman who had been fighting were back on the dance floor once more, with two new guys.
Donna Cummings, a blond waitress with an eternal wad of gum in her mouth sidled up to him. “You look like you could use a drink, Mitch.”
He rubbed his knuckles. “I could use a night off, but I’ll settle for a drink. Make it the usual. In fact, make it a double.”
She grinned. “One grape soda coming up.”
Mitch walked back to his post at the door, sensing that it was going to be another long night. He’d rather be watching a Clint Eastwood marathon