Ten minutes later, I was standing in the skimpiest cocktail dress I had ever seen. The kind of dress that just might fall off in a gentle breeze. Give up and surrender without putting up a lick of fight. Two wide silk straps cut at a diagonal down the front of it, leaving triangular cutouts through which you could see my back and hips. The shoulders were also bare, and save for a delicate little zipper holding the whole thing together—it was hanging on by a prayer.
“Gina,” I muttered under my breath, “why did it have to be Gina?”
Gina Arlison was an ironically-named diamond heiress who Nicholas had dated off and on for the better part of two years. She had become a regular fixture at the house (along with about half a dozen others), and as such, she still had leftover clothes in several
