Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 14

I searched my vocabulary for a word and found it. “Sinuous,” I said aloud. The dress was full of devious curves. She liked the word and repeated it twice as she examined herself over her shoulder.

I enjoyed watching Nina, enjoyed her short black hair, high cheekbones, narrow nose, and generous mouth; enjoyed the curves she refused to diet away; enjoyed the way she moved so smoothly and effortlessly. But mostly I was charmed by her eyes, the most arresting eyes I had ever seen in a woman. From a distance they gleamed like polished silver. Up close they were the most amazing pale blue.

Watching her own movements in the shop window, Nina reached out for me. I took her hand, marveling not for the first time at how comfortable it felt in mine.

“What is it?” I asked.

“We make a nice-looking couple.”

“You make anyone look good,” I told her, although I had to admit the tuxedo I wore helped some.

She didn’t reply.

“Nina?”

“Hmm? Nothing. It’s just . . .” She curled her arm around mine. “Nothing.”

Which meant something. I knew she would get around to it when she was ready.

Nina tightened her grip on my arm and we moved to the edge of the atrium. The band was in full swing, playing a cover of one of Elvis’s early recordings for Sun Records. Yet while Elvis was content with guitar, bass, and drums, this orchestra added trumpets, saxophones, trombones, clarinets, violins, and piano to the mix—so many instruments that musicians were in danger of being crowded off the makeshift stage set up in front of the glass elevator. Directly across from it on the other side of the atrium, red-vested waiters and waitresses stood guard behind long buffet tables garnished with trays of hors-d’?uvres, pastries, and salads and shallow pans with silver lids and tiny fires glowing beneath them. A sunken pebblestone floor sprawled between the orchestra and the food. A temporary wooden dance floor in front of the orchestra took up half of it. Dozens of small round tables covered with white linen and adorned with fresh flower centerpieces filled the other half. More tables and chairs were scattered on the perimeter of the sunken floor, and long bars were strategically located in every corner. Most of the tables were occupied and the bars were crowded. Looking up, I could see the moon and a few of the brighter stars through the glass ceiling. It was jarring to think that on the other side of the glass was a world where it was cold almost beyond measure.

We glided to the steps and waited for several couples to descend before us. I studied the throng. All the women wore expensive gowns or cocktail dresses and the men were dressed in tuxedos or elegant suits. They had paid a thousand dollars each to be there. Their affluence was great, but while others might feel small and out of place among them, I did not. In the past few years I had come to understand money and I wasn’t intimidated by it.

Finally, Nina and I descended the short flight of stairs and twisted and turned our way across the dance floor and through the maze of tables beyond. Eyes and occasionally entire heads turned toward us as we passed. Nina pretended not to notice. Eventually, we found an empty space between tables. At least a dozen partygoers glanced our way. Some smiled to indicate they liked what they saw.

“Hey,” I said. “People are watching us.”

“Of course they are. We’re all dressed up,” Nina told me.

“So are they.”

“Yes, but we’re pretty.”

“That’s true.”

“Besides, at the risk of sounding even more conceited than I am . . .”

“You’re not conceited.”

“When I dress up like this, I expect to be watched.”

“Seriously?”

“Why else would I dress like this? Are you telling me you don’t ogle pretty girls as they walk by? Don’t lie, McKenzie. I’ve seen you do it. I’ve even seen you do it when you were out with me.”

“I didn’t think women noticed.”

“Of course we notice. You guys are so obvious. Besides, a woman—we can feel it. It’s almost instinctual. We don’t have to look around for it. We just know.”

“Doesn’t it piss you off, guys always checking you out?”

“No. I find it flattering, as long as they don’t cross the line.”

“What line?”

“If you want to give me a smile, an unobtrusive nod, the clandestine glance when you think your date isn’t looking, that’s cool. Only don’t speak to me unless we’re introduced. Don’t give me, ‘Hey, babe.’ Don’t give me, ‘It must be jelly cuz jam don’t shake like that.’ That’s just plain rude. And don’t stare. It makes me nervous when guys stare. Especially the guys who give you that million-mile stare, who don’t reveal anything in their expression or body language, who just stand there—they scare me most of all.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“No reason why you should.”

Nina glanced about the atrium.

“Do you know these people?” she asked.

“Some to nod at. You?”

“I don’t know anybody. Wait. Yes, I do.”

“Who?”

“The band.”