Diamond Girl. Diana Palmer

looking like the heroine of a Victorian melodrama, for God’s sake.” He spoke so sharply that she sat straight up. “He isn’t married yet!”

      “How are you going to stop him?” she asked miserably.

      “I’m not. You are.”

      She blinked. “Excuse me, I’m always dim before I’ve had my morning coffee and my supply of razor blades.”

      His mouth tugged up, a rare show of amusement that made her feel strange when she saw it. “You’re going to save him from Margo.”

      She cocked her head and studied him blatantly. “You don’t look like the fairy godmother to me, Mr. Internationally Famous Trial Lawyer. And I don’t have a pumpkin to my name. And if you’ll take a good, long look at me several things will immediately occur to you. The first is that I’m drab,” she admitted painfully, “the second is that I have no looks to speak of and the third is that I’ve been here almost two years and the most intimate thing your brother has ever said to me is, ‘Kenna, how about a cup of coffee?’”

      He didn’t laugh. He took another draw from the cigarette, and his eyes were busy, bold and slow as they took her apart from the face down.

      “Taking inventory?” she muttered.

      “In a manner of speaking.” His eyes fell on the too-ruffled blouse. “Do you wear a bra?”

      She caught her breath at the sheer impudence of the question.

      “And do, please, try not to faint while you’re thinking up an answer, Cinders,” he said with a mocking smile. “I’m trying to find out if you’re naturally flat-chested, or if you simply overlook the fact that breasts need support to be noticed.”

      Her face was bloodred and she stood up. “Mr. Cole...”

      “My housekeeper calls me that.” He caught her shoulder and jerked her against him, bending her arm back so that she was helpless. “Tell me, or I’ll find out for myself,” he threatened, and his free hand came up to hover over her blouse.

      “Oh, for God’s sake!” she squeaked. “All right, I don’t wear one!”

      He let her go, watching with amusement as she hid behind the chair and then gaped at him over it.

      “Are you crazy?” she burst out.

      “No, but you sure as hell are repressed,” he replied. “Twenty-five, isn’t it?”

      “We aren’t all wildly permissive,” she said, choking.

      “I begin to get the picture.” He nodded. “Not much of a social life, I’ll bet.”

      “I date!” she threw back.

      He blinked. “Date what? You don’t look as if you’ve ever been kissed...or did you think that would get you pregnant?” he asked with an outrageous smile.

      She glanced at the trash can, measuring it for his head. He followed her gaze and chuckled softly.

      “Go ahead, honey,” he dared her in a soft voice. “Try it.”

      “I wish I were a man—I’d cream you!” she burst out.

      “Haven’t you ever heard of women’s lib?” he asked casually. “Men aren’t supposed to be superior anymore. Come on, honey, throw a punch at me.”

      “Do I look stupid?” she asked, taking in the sheer size of the man. “On second thought, if I were a man, I wouldn’t come at you with anything less than a bazooka!”

      “That might be wise,” he agreed. He leaned back against the desk, unusually attractive in his navy blue pinstripe suit. She always noticed his clothes; he had a flair for picking styles and colors that gave him a towering elegance.

      “Anyway,” he continued, bending to crush out his cigarette, an action that strained the material across his muscular arms and his broad back, “what I have in mind is transforming you.”

      She stared at him warily. “I’m not sure I want to be transformed.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous, of course you do.” He glanced up and down at what he could see of her figure behind the tall chair. “First order of business is going to be a haircut. I know long hair is supposed to be sexy, but yours looks like barbed wire most of the time.”

      “Oh, you’re just great for my ego,” she ground out.

      “And the second order of business is a bra,” he continued, unabashed, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t you know that the worst thing you can do is sag?”

      “There’s not enough of me to sag,” she said miserably, avoiding his eyes.

      “I’d bet there is,” he returned, not unkindly. “You’re tall, and you have nice legs. You have a natural elegance of carriage that could work well for you. And with the right makeup, the right clothes...” He pursed his lips, nodding. “I think you might be more than enough to catch my brother’s wandering eye.”

      “You’ve forgotten something,” she advised.

      He cocked a bushy eyebrow. “What? Your teeth are all right,” he began.

      “Oh, thanks, and they’re all my own, too!”

      He chuckled softly. “You’ll do. Well? Do you want to be alone for the rest of your life, or do you want to take a chance?”

      “I can’t,” she said, exasperated, as she came reluctantly around the chair. “What you’re talking about costs money, and I’m not independently wealthy. All I have is my salary, and out of it has to come my rent, utilities, groceries, clothes...”

      “I’ll take care of it,” he told her.

      “Like fun you will,” she tossed back, her eyes flaring up.

      “I said I’ll take care of it,” he replied. “It was my idea, and it’s my brother I’m trying to save from that Latin temptress. I don’t want a money-hungry tramp in my family.”

      “No, you’d rather have a secretary with no money, no connections, no social position...”

      “Do I look like a snob?” he asked incredulously.

      “I didn’t mean it like that,” she confessed. She drew in a deep, steadying breath. “Anyway, what’s Denny going to think if he knows you’re footing the bill?”

      “He won’t know,” he promised, “because we’re not going to tell him. I’ll pick you up Saturday morning at your apartment, and we’ll get started. Make yourself an appointment with Frederickson’s downtown.”

      “But they’re horribly expensive!” she protested.

      “Make the appointment early,” he continued, “because when we finish there, we’re going to Almon’s to have you outfitted.”

      Almon’s was a charming boutique with a resident designer and some of the trendiest new styles in the country. She stared at him as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

      “You’ll go to the ball, Cinderella,” he promised. “Even if you have to ride in a Mercedes instead of a coach drawn by white horses.”

      “There isn’t a ball...”

      “There most certainly is, next Saturday night at the Biltmore, and I’m taking you.” He shot back his white cuff and looked at his watch. “And that’s all the time we have this morning. Get back to your ashes, and don’t breathe a word to Denny next week. I’m going to have a photographer along just to capture his expression when he sees the new you.”

      “Could he get my expression while he’s at it?” she asked hopefully. “I’ll need something to convince me I’m not dreaming.”

      He looked at her for a long, long time before he