As if on command, men turned and smiled lecherously at Sofia’s arrival. Her own brother, Michael, offered a typically male welcome as he straightened his bow tie and cracked a toothy grin. He’d stepped right out of a British spy movie, all the way down to his French cuffs and designer cuff links. He wouldn’t be dateless for long. She, on the other hand, had spent a good twenty minutes restyling her hair in the women’s lounge. Michael had brought his Porsche, with the top down, and all assemblage was demolished the minute he punched the gas. She’d barely been able to get her wrap over her head before every tucked and curled strand had come undone. He’d made some crack about her looking like a babushka or something. She couldn’t hear him due to the over-bassed music spewing from the speakers
