In Hot Pursuit. Joanne Rock

hair spray and layering on lipstick. “They look like they can’t wait to get their talons into you. Want me to wait until the Buy a Celebrity’s Freedom event begins? Once you start your gig locking up the celebs, you should be okay.”

      Lexi still fumed to think she would be stuck filling the makeshift jail cell with wealthy patrons. She should be the MC tonight, but after the scathing letter, the charity had asked her to let someone else take center stage.

      “If they get too rough before then, I’ll just latch on to someone else.” Lexi eyed the stud on the condom machine and wondered if maybe tonight she’d live on the wild side and find herself another protector—one who wore a tux instead of blue taffeta. “Besides, how can I feel like I have more magnetism than a houseplant when I’m walking around next to the Revlon girl?” She shoved Amanda toward the door. “Get lost, girlfriend. You’ve got better ways to spend your Saturday night.”

      Amanda flashed a wicked grin. “Duke did say something about waiting up for me.”

      “See?” Lexi brushed away an escapee spiral of hair from her face and winked. “You’re supposed to be packing for your getaway, anyway. What time do you leave tomorrow?”

      “Nine. I can’t believe he’s taking me on a motorcycle trip. I’ve never done anything so exciting in my whole life.”

      “Call me a city girl, but I don’t know if three days perched on a motorcycle seat is my idea of fun.” Lexi grinned, the first smile she’d managed since waking to find the derisive letter to the editor in the very magazine she’d given the past five years of her life to. “Go home, Amanda. I can take it from here.”

      Amanda nodded as she adjusted Lexi’s borrowed diamond collar. “You’re right. You look ready to kick some gossipmonger hind-end.”

      Lexi laughed, tugging open the rest room door. “I dressed to kill for a reason, honey.” She withdrew her silver handcuffs from her purse and slid one end over her wrist. “Besides, maybe I can squeeze a small amount of satisfaction from my detractors by playing the dominatrix.”

      “No brutality, Lex,” Amanda warned. “And if you find yourself in any provocative situations with those cuffs, I highly recommend capturing it on videotape.”

      Lexi laughed, knowing she’d never have anywhere near the kind of sizzling adventures Amanda had stumbled into a few months ago with Duke Rawlins.

      “I’ll leave the video to you. I’m just going to have fun being Lexi, Mistress of the Night.”

      After they exchanged a quick hug near the bar, however, Lexi’s smile faded as she watched Amanda disappear in the cloakroom.

      Leaving Lexi alone to fend for herself.

      In a room stuffed full of people who couldn’t wait to see her crumble.

      Lexi clutched the polished mahogany bar and took deep breaths to ward off the feeling she’d just made a colossal mistake by excusing her bodyguard. The fashion world elite adored Amanda, the socially untouchable daughter of one of New York’s most influential designers. Lexi was a scrapper, a New Jersey transplant to Long Island’s upper-crust North Shore and eventually Manhattan’s fashion world. Although devoid of blue blood, she possessed a sharp eye and wit for commenting on style. And tonight, she was fair game for this crowd.

      Lexi was thankful that Simone Bertrand had not attended this function. But then, Simone resented spending a cent on anyone but herself. Lexi knew the author of the other letters could be here tonight, however, and the thought gave her pause.

      The notes had urged her to change topics in her column—or she’d be sorry. But Lexi often covered three or four different topics each week, and she could never be sure which topic in particular the note-writer referenced.

      Not that it would have shut Lexi up.

      Her need to speak her mind was as essential as breathing. She’d been hushed far too many times as a child. She didn’t let anybody muzzle her these days.

      As the band switched from a pop disco beat to a swing set, Lexi struggled to gather her bearings. Peering around the two-tiered disco that had closed its doors to the public for the fund-raiser, Lexi spied no friendly faces in the crowd. The elegant sea of tuxes and silk seemed to have closed ranks against her. She hadn’t felt like such an outsider since childhood, peeking into her parents’ book-lined study and wishing she could be a part of their academic discussions.

      Ignoring the urge to bolt and return to the security of her apartment full of nonjudgmental pets, Lexi reminded herself she was here for a good cause. The Shelter the Homeless organization had always been dear to her heart, and she ran frequent reminders of their activities as footnotes in her fashion column.

      Bracing herself for a night of mingling with the masses and imprisoning anyone she thought might bring in a big donation, Lexi approached the small platform and podium to immerse herself in her duties. She could inspect the makeshift jail cell—sort of a sixties-style go-go booth—that would house her captives. This would be more fun than an auction. Lexi merely had to handcuff celebrities and toss them in the cell, while the MC coerced the crowd into making a donation to free the jailbird.

      The jailer job was a definite step down from hosting the event, but she’d be damned if she would walk out of here tonight before last call. At least everyone would see her on stage, head held high, rather than cowering in the corner sucking down Fuzzy Navels.

      Determined to parlay her frustration into her role as the bad girl cop, Lexi sauntered off into the crowd in search of her first victim.

      AN HOUR LATER, Lexi realized she was not only far removed from her dominatrix fantasy, but also was enduring far more snide remarks than she’d ever anticipated.

      In the course of rounding up various fashion industry stars, she’d heard several versions of “here comes the houseplant,” two backhanded comments that she looked lovely in her “usual, nonmagnetic style,” and one outright slam that she had finally received her comeuppance for playing goddess of the fashion world.

      Lexi retreated to the bar and ordered a cosmopolitan—pretty much a martini, but the pink color made it look innocent. Wavering between tears and fury, she swayed to the Latin beats the band had switched to, trying not to glance at her watch. She didn’t want to know how many more hours she had to endure the lions’ den.

      Public humiliation she could deal with. But did her social circle really view her as the most unattractive woman in Manhattan? Sure, they veiled their insults by attacking her fashion stance. But the whispers she’d heard all night had been directed at her—her gaudy look, her tacky clothes, her attempts to fit into a world that didn’t seem to have room for her.

      Lexi peered down at her sequined dress, knowing it epitomized refinement. Could she help it that her tiny frame didn’t fill it out the way Amanda’s would? Was it such a crime that she didn’t care to butcher her Romanesque nose with a surgeon’s knife so she could meet some prepackaged, Stepford ideal of beauty?

      Maybe she could feel a little more self-righteous about her sense of style and personal magnetism if she’d actually attracted a man in the past few years. She’d told herself she had no love life because she dedicated her time to her job. What if lack of time had nothing to do with it? What if she couldn’t lure a man to her bed for all the lingerie in the Victoria’s Secret catalog?

      The notion scared her to her peau de soie covered toes.

      An image of the stud on the condom dispenser flashed in her mind. What if she went in search of a man here, tonight?

      She glanced around the disco at the guys in perfect tuxes, the ones who didn’t dance too much so as not to mess up their hair. How could she ever find a man among the Ken look-alike dolls who—

      Her gaze stopped abruptly on a slightly rumpled dinner jacket at the back of the room. Her eyes followed the dark fabric upward to glimpse a white shirt and a long tie—not a standard bow tie—that wavered between gray and silver.

      A