The woman waved a dismissive hand. “You are most welcome, of course. We are pleased to have you.”

“Je vous présente Sinclair Manhoney,” said Hunter with what sounded like a perfect accent.

Sinclair held out her hand, trying very hard not to feel as if she’d dropped through the looking glass. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“And you,” the woman returned. “I am Jeanette. Would you care to browse? Or shall I bring out a few things?”

“We’re looking for something glamorous, sophisticated but young,” Hunter put in.

Jeanette nodded. “Please, this way.”

She led them along an aisle, skirting a six-story atrium, to a group of peach and gold armchairs. The furniture sat on a large dais, outside a semicircle of mirrored changing rooms.

“Would either of you care for a drink?” asked Jeanette. “Some champagne?”

“Champagne would be very nice,” said Hunter. “Merci.”

Jeanette turned to walk away, and Hunter gestured to one of the chairs.

Sinclair dropped into it. “Overkill. Did I mention this is overkill?”

“Come on, get into the spirit of things.”

“This place is…” She gestured to the furnishings, the paintings, the clothing and the atrium. “Out of my league.”

“It’s exactly in your league.”

“You should have warned me.”

“Warned you about what? That we’re getting clothes? That we’re getting jewelry? What part of makeover didn’t you understand?”

“The part where you go bankrupt.”

“You couldn’t bankrupt me if you tried.”

“I’m not going to try.”

“Oh, please. It would be so much more fun if you did.”

Jeanette reappeared, and Sinclair’s attention shifted to the half a dozen assistants who followed her, carrying a colorful array of clothes.

“Those are pink,” whispered Sinclair, her stomach falling. “And fuzzy. And shiny.” Okay, there was makeover, and then there was comic relief.

“Time for you to go to work,” said Hunter.