Janx was not going to kill her. Margrit smoothed a hand over her stomach, the nubbly silken fabric there sending a wave of chills up her arm. Janx was not going to kill her for the same reason Daisani wouldn't: she was useful to him. Especially to Janx, because she owed him two favors of incalculable size. At worst, he would be irritated.

At worst. Margrit's stomach flip-flopped, another shiver washing over her. At worst, a man whose presence could eat up all the air in a room would be irritated with her. At worst she'd annoyed someone who considered her life to be an amusing trinket to play with.

She hadn't left work on time, research for the Carley case turning out to be more time-consuming than she'd expected. Then she'd found a deep stain on the dress she'd intended to wear, wine discoloring creamy velvet. Margrit had stood over the dress for long moments, too frustrated to move on. Finally she'd called, "Cameron?"

Her housemate, clad in a T-shirt and workout shorts that showed long legs and a dramatically scarred shin to great advantage, appeared at the bedroom door. "What's up?"

"Do you have anything I could wear to a posh reception at the Sherry-Netherland?" Margrit expected the laughing response. The other woman was eight inches taller and had a fashion model's slender build, in contrast to Margrit's hourglass curves. "I need a dress by eight."

"Nobody expects you to be on time," Cameron said airily. "Get shoes, put your hair up and we'll hit Prada."

"You've got a lot of faith in my credit line."

"Well, you can't go to the Sherry in something less," Cam said pragmatically. "Fear not. I'm the world's most efficient shopper. We'll be out of there in twenty minutes. Get your shoes."

Margrit got her shoes and Cam proclaimed them capable of going with anything, then hauled her across town to a boutique fashion shop. In the space of three minutes, she dismissed everything Margrit's eye landed on, instead settling on a white, knee-length raw silk dress. The saleswoman, whose expression on their arrival had indicated it was too close to quitting time to have to deal with customers, looked startled, then approving. Margrit fingered the dress gingerly, its long, off-the-shoulder sleeves and straight neckline unexciting to her eye. "Are you sure it's dressy enough?"

"I'm certain. Trust me on this, Grit. You're going to be overwhelmingly understated. Put it on and see if I'm right."

And she had been. The dress snugged against Margrit's curves as if it'd been made for her, a six-inch kick pleat behind the knee allowing her room to walk despite the hip-and-thigh-hugging fit. Margrit pinned her hair up before leaving the dressing room, letting a few corkscrew curls to fall down her back, and came out with a guilty smile. You were right."

"I'm a genius," Cameron said with satisfaction.

Margrit ran her fingers over the raw silk, tempted but still hesitant. "You sure I shouldn't just go for basic black?"

"You should never wear black." Cam put a fingertip against Margrit's bare shoulder, leaving a white mark against cafe-latte skin when she released the pressure. "Not with skin tones like that. You've got drama inherent in your coloring. Crimson and cream, that's what you should wear."

"I have a lot of those in my wardrobe," Margrit admitted. "I always thought of them as being battle colors, though, not playing up my skin."

"Really." Cameron's eyebrows quirked, a smile darting into place. "You have a lot of wars to fight, Margrit?"

"Against the man, every day, sistah." Margrit made a fist and thrust it toward the sky. Cameron laughed then Cam caught Margit's hand to study the slight point the dress's long sleeve came to over Margit's wrist.

"You need a ring. How much time do we have?" She looked for a clock, then clucked her tongue. "I know a great costume jewelry place a couple blocks from here. Let's pay for this and go."

"I like how you say that like we're both paying for it. It's seven-thirty," Margrit said in despair. "I'll be late."

"Nobody expects you to be on time," Cameron repeated. "And we are both paying for it. See?" She ushered Margrit to the saleswoman and handed over Margrit's credit card as if it were her own. "You'll show up at eight-thirty and make an entrance. It's what all the stars would do."

And it was what she had done. The evening had passed in an exhausting, exciting blur. Margrit proved a terrible New Yorker, blushing and stuttering at coming face-to-face with a handful of genuine celebrities. Tony caught her once, his wink making her blush harder.

He could have been a celebrity himself, wearing a tuxedo that made his shoulders a dark block of strength, as if he'd stepped out of a Bond film. Genuine delight had lit his eyes when Governor Stanton, arriving without his wife, had squired Margrit around the room for half an hour, making introductions.

She liked the tall, unhandsome politician, their camaraderie genuine. They'd greeted Mayor Leighton together, Margrit focusing hard not to wipe her hand on her dress after she extracted her fingers from his clammy grip. Stanton had pursed his mouth curiously at her expression, but said nothing, his silence conveying a subtle sense of agreement with her feelings toward the mayor.

He introduced her to Kaimana Kaaiai before excusing himself. The philanthropist struck her as Daisani's nearly perfect opposite: a big man with very dark eyes who spoke with an easy Pacific Islands lilt, he seemed almost embarrassed by the attention his money brought. Margrit felt an unexpected rush of sympathy for him, and, as if he sensed that, he gave her a rueful smile before turning to the newest group to be introduced. Margrit slipped away, finally at ease, and spent hours chatting with people, until she realized the reception room was beginning to clear out. Only then, noticing how badly her feet hurt, did she retreat to a corner to remove her shoes. Even accustomed as she was to both running daily and wearing heels, stilettos still made her feet ache, "I should've brought tennies to wear home," she mumbled to them. "I've already lost all my cool points by taking my shoes off at the Sherry."

"On the contrary. Think of it as a... humanizing factor." Eliseo Daisani's Italian leather shoes came into Margrit's line of sight and she ducked her head.

"Something you know a lot about, Mr. Daisani?"

"You might be surprised. I'm impressed, Miss Knight. I believe you've conquered a good portion of the city's elite tonight. Was that your intention?"

"Saying so either way would be imprudent, don't you think?" Margrit looked up as she slipped her shoes back on. In her heels, she was a little taller than Daisani, and the idea of letting him catch her literally flat-footed made her uncomfortable. "You didn't come say hello to the governor. You must be the only person here who didn't."

"Jonathan and I greeted one another."

"You made eye contact. I saw that. What's the story there, Mr. Daisani?" She stood, hardly expecting an explanation.

"Perhaps you'll learn the answer to that someday. I don't suppose you've reconsidered my offer since this morning."

"I don't suppose I have," Margrit agreed. "I know you're richer than God, Mr. Daisani, but I went to a fair amount of trouble to earn my law degree. I don't want to use all that education being your personal assistant. Besides, I'm finding out you're a terrible nag. Who'd want to work for a nag?"

Surprise creased Daisani's forehead and he gave a quick dry huff of laughter. "I see. Well. Having been put thoroughly in my place, I think I'd better bid you good evening and retreat to reconsider my strategy. No nagging." He bowed from the waist, never breaking the eye contact that let Margrit see his amusement. "Until later, Miss Knight."

Goose bumps lifted on Margrit's arms as she watched him walk away, not daring to breathe, "Not if I see you coming," until she was confident the noise in the hall would drown her words. Only then did she let her shoulders relax, and lift her gaze to look over the people left at the reception.