Mystique Read Free Page A

Wednesdays, perhaps even on Thursdays—but never on
weekends. He must save those for the family, the little woman.
    "Hey, what are you thinking, Misty?
I can almost hear your red hair crackling with anger. Your eyes are sparkling
like emeralds. What's going through your mind?" Aileen leaned eagerly
forward, her chin in her hand.
    "Nothing. That type of man irritates
me, that's all."
    Aileen shrugged. "He's got
everything—money, women, a great position with the bank. He's sailed in the America's Cup race. He's a scratch golfer. He's even competed in the triathlon in Hawaii, and you have to be in superb shape to do that. You have to swim, run, and ride a
bike twelve miles without stopping in between." Aileen refilled her coffee
cup and added cream. "I suppose a man with that kind of record comes to
expect good things to tumble into his lap." She smiled at Misty. "I
know you've sworn off men for some reason." When Misty began to protest,
Aileen held up her hand, palm outward. "And, no, I'm not prying again. I
admit I'd like to know, but I'll wait until you're ready to tell me."
    I'll never be ready, Misty thought. Even
though you are the best friend I've ever had, I can't tell you.
    "But it wouldn't hurt to flirt a
little with a man like Luc Harrison," Aileen added.
    "I doubt I'll see him again,"
Misty said. "He came with his staff for the party. He won't be back. Men
like him go to private clubs."
    Aileen shook her head. "Don't sell
the Terrace Hotel short. Some of the most influential people in the world stay
there. David says you can walk into the Elm Bar any night and see celebrities.
From what you've said, quite a few frequent the Edwardian Room as well."
    "Quite a few," Misty conceded.
    She and Aileen talked of other things.
Then Aileen rounded up the twins and said good-bye. Misty was tired by the time
they left, but instead of going back to bed, she straightened the apartment,
showered, and shampooed her hair. She was due for a fitting at Morey
Weinstein's design studio downtown that afternoon, so she wouldn't have time
for a nap. If Morey didn't have any clothes ready for her to try on, she'd shop
for shoes and accessories instead. Morey designed most of the clothes she wore
while performing. Although he wasn't a commercial success yet, Misty had no
doubt he would be someday.
    Misty left her apartment at three o'clock
that afternoon, knowing she wouldn't be back until three the next morning. She
shook her head, trying not to think of the fatigue that would soon weigh on her
like an iron blanket. Luckily she had tomorrow night off.
    It took Misty half an hour to get to
Morey's garret like studio on the top floor of a run-down building encrusted
with grime. Morey had every intention of moving uptown one day, and Misty was
sure that, considering his talent, he would eventually make it.
    She rang the bell adjacent to a locked
oak door and submitted to being scrutinized by an eye at the peephole. The eye
disappeared, and the door was swung open by a whipcord-thin man of medium
height who radiated energy and enthusiasm.
    "Mystique! I've been thinking about
you for two days. If you hadn't come this afternoon I was going to call you. I
found some fabulous silk." Morey shoved his black-rimmed glasses up his
nose with an index finger and grinned, his pale blue eyes sparkling with
excitement.
    "Silk, Morey? I can't afford silk.
For that matter, neither can you." Misty laughed as her irrepressible
friend tugged her across his littered workroom to the cutting board under the
skylight.
    "True," he conceded. "But
this was water-damaged, so Fetler let me have it for almost nothing." He
grinned and waved his hand when she frowned. "Now, don't worry. Fetler
didn't bother to unravel the bolts. I did. The damage doesn't go through all
the way. This is great stuff—the finest silk from Japan. Look at the
colors—blue, green, burgundy, orange, cerise, lemon." He let out an
ecstatic sigh as Misty bent over the material.
    "It is