Alan gave a guilty start and dropped the cigarette into the ashtray. Laureen would confiscate his Camels if she knew they were here.

“Alan? Can you hear me?”

“I hear you, honey.” Alan sighed deeply. The last thing he wanted was more oat bran. Ever since Laureen had read that it reduced serum cholesterol, she’d been sneaking it in everything she cooked. “I guess I’ll have fake eggs and toast. But if you’re working on something important, I can wait.”

Laureen’s voice was impatient. “Of course I’m working on something important. You know I’m doing the chocolate show next week.”

“It’s all right, honey. I’m not very hungry and I can always fix something later.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I always cook for you when I’m home. Five minutes, and don’t be late!”

The intercom crackled again and Alan was glad he couldn’t see Laureen’s expression. “Thanks, honey. I’ll be there.” Alan switched off the intercom and picked up his cigarette, coughing slightly as he inhaled. Laureen had been up late last night with the chocolate caramels, and her unaccustomed failure, coupled with the strain Vanessa had put on their marriage, had put her in a foul mood.

Alan leaned back and puffed on his forbidden Camel, wishing he could turn back the clock. Hal Knight had married two years ago and since then his wife, Vanessa, had gone after almost every man in the Deer Creek Condo complex. The moment Alan had recognized Vanessa’s little game, he’d been very careful to give her a wide berth, even though she was younger than anyone in the building and probably lonely. He’d even begun to feel a little sorry for her, alone every day while Hal was off on his business trips.

Looking back on that day, a month earlier, Alan could honestly say he hadn’t suspected a thing. Vanessa had called to say her garbage disposal wasn’t working right, so he’d grabbed his toolbox and headed right up to the third floor. When he found her waiting in a see-through pink negligee, Alan had thrown his previous caution to the winds. It had only happened a couple of times before Laureen had caught them, and Laureen wasn’t the forgiving kind.

Almost time. Alan put out his cigarette and hurried to the attached bathroom to flush the evidence down the toilet. He brushed his teeth, used some mouthwash, and headed down the hallway to the kitchen to try to make peace with his wife.

Forty Minutes before 10:57 AM

Moira Jonas took a blue and gold caftan off the hanger and slipped it over her head, careful to avoid her reflection in the mirrored closet doors. Her newest outfit, decorated with ropes of shiny gold beads on a cobalt-blue background, had long sleeves and a high mandarin collar to hide the crepe that was beginning to show on her neck. She’d tried all the expensive creams and moisturizers, but nothing seemed to help, and Grace had noticed; she was sure of it. Of course Grace was much too kind to say anything critical, but she worked with gorgeous showgirls all day long and even though she insisted she loved Moira just the way she was, comparisons were inevitable.

Moira brushed her long red hair and pulled it up into a tight bun she’d been wearing lately. It hurt, but it smoothed out some of her wrinkles. Last night she’d casually broached the subject of a face-lift and Grace, ten years younger and blessed with skin as smooth and elastic as a baby’s bottom, had been less than sympathetic. Didn’t Moira realize that any surgery, no matter how minor, was dangerous? Subjecting yourself to elective cosmetic surgery just because you had a few character lines was totally insane.

As Moira walked through the bedroom, she stopped to study several swatches of material tacked to the wall. She’d vowed to decorate their unit by Christmas at the latest, but three rush jobs had come up and she’d put it off. What was the old adage about doctors’ wives never getting the proper medical attention? Or dentists’ wives having rotten teeth? Grace was probably sorry she’d fallen in love with an interior decorator since she was still living in a million-dollar condo with bare white walls.

“Damn . . . I mean, darn!” Moira ripped down the swatches and went to put on the coffee. Just as soon as she’d finished her breakfast, she’d make a final decision on the patterns and colors, drive into town to pick up materials, and start turning their condo into a showplace that would make Grace proud.

Thirty-five Minutes before 10:57 AM

Vanessa Knight sat on her pink satin bedspread and pouted. Today was her twenty-third birthday and her husband hadn’t even bothered to say good morning. He was locked in his studio, working on that dumb comic strip of his, and he’d yelled at her when she’d knocked at the door. She wished she could drive into Vegas to have a birthday lunch with some of her friends, but Hal wouldn’t let her go anywhere alone and he refused to take her along on his business trips since that silly incident with the bellhop. All the poor man had done was hold her arm a second too long when he’d helped her into the elevator, but Hal had been furious. He was insanely jealous when any man paid the slightest bit of attention to her.

She got off the bed with a flounce and the towel she was wearing slipped down to her waist. It was a pity there was no audience. Vanessa knew she had a dynamite body. When Hal had first seen her in the buff, he said that with her curly blond hair and vivid blue eyes, she looked exactly like a live version of Little Annie Fanny in the Playboy cartoon.

Vanessa walked over to the window and stared out at the snow-covered landscape. There was no one in sight except a curious squirrel, so she did a bump and grind just for the hell of it. Then she flipped off the towel and tossed it aside with a frown. This particular towel brought back memories, most of them unpleasant. It was royal blue with a pink satin border and it had cost Hal over a thousand dollars. Forty-nine dollars for the towel, twenty for the matching washcloth, and nine hundred and fifty-six dollars for Vanessa’s public humiliation.

The saleslady at Heroldson’s had been very impatient when Vanessa had been unable to make up her mind between royal blue and sunshine-yellow. She was an older, overweight woman with a blue rinse in her hair, the type who secretly envied Vanessa’s beauty and made up for it by treating her with contempt. And when Vanessa had handed her the charge card to pay for the towel, the clerk had taken vicious delight in telling her that it was no longer valid for any purchase over fifty dollars.

Despite the long line, Vanessa had protested. That was ridiculous. She’d charged over fifty dollars just last week. She was Mrs. Hal Knight and her husband would be very angry when he heard about how Heroldson’s had treated her.

The saleslady had smiled and said she didn’t think Mr. Knight would be upset at all, since he’d called the store personally to place a limit on his account. Perhaps Mrs. Knight had been charging excessively?

Vanessa’s face had turned red. She’d whipped out her MasterCard, but the saleslady had informed her that Heroldson’s didn’t accept any other credit cards. Vanessa would have to go up to the credit office on the fourth floor if she wanted to find out the details, but since the account was in Mr. Knight’s name, he could monitor the charges in any manner he chose. And right now she was holding up the line. If she’d be so kind as to step aside?

Naturally, Vanessa had been furious. Her first instinct had been to drive right home to confront Hal. She’d been halfway across the parking lot when she’d remembered that a friend of hers worked in Heroldson’s credit department. Turning around, she took the elevator up to the fourth floor.