She hadn't left work on time, research for the Carley case turning out to be more time-consuming than she'd expected. Then she'd found a deep stain on the dress she'd intended to wear, wine discoloring creamy velvet. Margrit had stood over the dress for long moments, too frustrated to move on. Finally she'd called, "Cameron?"

Her housemate, clad in a T-shirt and workout shorts that showed long legs and a dramatically scarred shin to great advantage, appeared at the bedroom door. "What's up?"

"Do you have anything I could wear to a posh reception at the Sherry-Netherland?" Margrit expected the laughing response. The other woman was eight inches taller and had a fashion model's slender build, in contrast to Margrit's hourglass curves. "I need a dress by eight."

"Nobody expects you to be on time," Cameron said airily. "Get shoes, put your hair up and we'll hit Prada."

"You've got a lot of faith in my credit line."

"Well, you can't go to the Sherry in something less," Cam said pragmatically. "Fear not. I'm the world's most efficient shopper. We'll be out of there in twenty minutes. Get your shoes."

Margrit got her shoes and Cam proclaimed them capable of going with anything, then hauled her across town to a boutique fashion shop. In the space of three minutes, she dismissed everything Margrit's eye landed on, instead settling on a white, knee-length raw silk dress. The saleswoman, whose expression on their arrival had indicated it was too close to quitting time to have to deal with customers, looked startled, then approving. Margrit fingered the dress gingerly, its long, off-the-shoulder sleeves and straight neckline unexciting to her eye. "Are you sure it's dressy enough?"

"I'm certain. Trust me on this, Grit. You're going to be overwhelmingly understated. Put it on and see if I'm right."