velvet stroking over my skin."
"Dark velvet," Tea echoed, as in her mind a more practical brand of fantasy burst to life. "Dark velvet and all other materials billed at forty percent over cost."
What a fantasy it was. Not only would winning this job mean a measure of financial relief, it meant so much beyond that. Respect in the industry. A more sophisticated portfolio to show prospective clients. All of which added up to a future free from marble-cherubed parlors, Venus de Milo verandahs, and Samson-and-Delilah-inspired dressing rooms.
But then - beep - Tea's wristwatch alarm snapped her back to reality. With her car now in sight, she doubled her pace. "I'm late. If he calls again, put him through."
"There's one more thing."
The reluctance in Rachele's voice caused Tea to slow again. "What is it?"
"Well, uh, an invitation came for you in the mail today. Engraved, heavy manila paper, it feels like the handmade stuff that - "
"An invitation to what?"
A hesitation. A hitch in her assistant's breath. "You believe in that whole 'don't shoot the messenger' thing, right?"
"Rachele - "
"Given your family's history, can you blame me for asking?"
"Rachele - -"
"Okay, fine." Words tumbled out. "An invitation to a birthday party, a really big one, I'm guessing, at the Desert Star resort at the end of the month. My father's been invited, I've been invited. And, of course, you. It's... it's... it's your grandfather's eightieth birthday party."
Tea's feet lost their purchase, making an ineffective scrabble against the ground's uneven surface. As she swung out an arm to steady herself against the roof of her car, her briefcase clubbed the side window with a heavy thunk.
I was kidding about this being the day to start paying! was her first thought.
What kind of booby trap is this? was the second.
She ended the call with clumsy fingers, then slid into the driver's seat to join the slow-moving parade of Hummers, Caddies, and golf carts that cruised the Coachella Valley floor. An invitation.
Navigating on autopilot, she traveled along Bob Hope Drive, to Frank Sinatra Drive, to Country Club Drive. Packed into the congested midday traffic, her car inched past luxurious homes in stark bone-white and lush gardens colored in vibrant bougainvillea pinks and show-me-the money greens. An invitation to his birthday party.
In summer, the sun bore down with such ruthless intensity that structures, sky, and landscape paled from the heat, and even the edges of the well-watered golf courses curled up like dry sponges. The wealthy fled. But now it was autumn in Palm Springs, meaning the surroundings were stunning, the temperature was in the pleasant low-eighties, and if the cars around her were any judge, all the Hollywood hotties and megacorp magnates who had run away in May were back in full force, believing themselves safe from the ugly side of the desert.
The ugly, dangerous side her grandfather knew so well.
An invitation to his birthday party, she thought once again, nerves fluttering in her belly. Why would Cosimo set a snare for her now?
Finally, she reached the Cafe Azul. Avoiding the eye of the hovering valet, she parked her Volvo wagon in what she termed the "self-help" section of the lot and took the time to swipe a brush through her hair, a wet pinkie along each eyebrow arch, and clear gloss over her long-lasting lipcolor. Then, finger-ironing the seatbelt wrinkles from her dress, she hurried toward the cafe's entrance.
Still mulling over the unexpected invitation, she was halfway across the parking lot when her heel caught in a crack and she found herself stumbling again. Without a car to catch her this time, she landed hard on the opposite leg. Maybe it was the jolt to her knee, maybe it was her quick gasp of air, but suddenly her common sense kicked in.
An invitation to his birthday party. So what? Big whoop. It wasn't a royal decree or a legal summons. As a matter of fact, it was probably a mistake.
Hadn't she successfully avoided her grandfather and all those who surrounded him for years?
There was no reason to think that would change now.
Even the shivery sixty-seven degrees of the restaurant's foyer couldn't cool her more upbeat mood, nor did having to wait to speak to the harried hostess. "The rest of my party hasn't arrived," she said, when it was her turn. "But we have a reservation for Caruso."
"Caruso!" a voice echoed from behind her.
Startled, Tea glanced over her shoulder, but didn't recognize the forty-something brunette in a shantung silk suit the color of