he was first starting out at the paper, he’d done a stint as a copy editor. Fodgother’s name had appeared frequently in the society column: The Donald Dazzled the Dames in His Exclusive Harry Fodgother Tux…. “You’re the tailor, right?”
Harry’s features pinched with mock disdain. “Gentlemen’s clothier, if you please.” He laughed. “I call myself that, I get to charge double.”
He extracted a wad of keys from his pocket and opened a heavy steel door marked Deliveries. Jack followed him, passing through a large room filled with bolts of fabric, sewing machines, dress dummies and drafting tables. The walls boasted photos of Who’s Who types sporting Fodgother’s creations.
When they entered the shop, Jack’s feet sank two inches into the plush carpet. The showroom was done in leather, brass and hunter green, like a gentlemen’s English bar, complete with hunting scenes on the walls. There wasn’t a stitch of clothing in sight. He suspected the ready-to-wears were tucked into the antique armoires, chests and highboys.
“Nice place,” he remarked.
“Indeed.” Harry switched on a green-shaded banker’s lamp on a desk and picked up the phone. “There’s an icebox under the counter there. Have a beer.”
Jack opened a beer for himself and one for Harry while Fodgother called for a cab. When he hung up, Jack asked, “Aren’t you going to report this to the police?”
Fodgother shook his head. “They were just a couple of dopers. I didn’t really get a look at them. You came along before they took anything except my pride. Police would take all night and …” His voice trailed off as Jack drew something out of his pocket.
“Damn,” Jack said, frowning. “I thought I threw this away.” Actually, he had thrown the invitation away, but on impulse he had rescued the card. Maybe to show his mother, who always wanted to hear about his highfalutin’ New York City friends. She never could get it into her head that he didn’t hobnob with John F. Kennedy, Jr., on a regular basis.
He came out from behind the counter and handed Harry a beer.
“You were working late,” Jack observed. “Cheers.”
“I work all through the season.” He lifted his beer bottle. “Mazel tov.”
Jack grinned and took a sip. “Same to you.”
“You’re not from around here.”
“Texas, but my accent’s fading fast unless I think about it.”
Harry picked up the cream stock card. He read it quickly, then slapped his forehead. “An invitation from Madeleine Langston! How on earth did you come by this?”
Jack took another slug of beer. “She’s my boss. Otherwise known as the bitch goddess.”
“Gorgeous, though. She used to go out with one of my 46-Regulars.”
Jack chuckled, picturing Madeleine Langston accompanied by an empty suit. Then his amusement faded as the empty suit changed into an image of himself. Sheesh. He was losing his mind. He was one sick puppy. He wanted her.
“Don’t tell me you aren’t smitten with her.” Harry pointed his cane at Jack. “I was young once, too.”
“She’s a snow queen,” Jack protested. “Cruella De Vil. I’d have better luck with an ice sculpture.”
“Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”
“I don’t even know her. Met her once, maybe twice. And believe me, the earth did not move.”
“The Dakota,” Harry murmured. “That’s her late father’s annual party.” He shook his head sadly. “It’ll be her first year without him. Her last year for the party. Just think how that must make her feel.”
Jack nearly gagged on his beer. Harry made him actually think of Madeleine as a person—someone with feelings, someone who could be hurt. He shouldn’t care. But he did.
“She’s probably dancing holes in the rug,” he said.
“She’s probably drinking too much and smiling too hard and wishing someone would rescue her.”
“How would you know?” Jack asked, taking a swallow of beer.
Harry pointed the tip of his cane at Jack’s chest. “I know. Trust me.”
Pushy little squirt, Jack thought. Harry just kept staring at him. His scrutiny was so drawn out and intense that Jack’s ears heated. “I guess I don’t look much like your usual clients, right?”
“I like a challenge. Maybe there’s a prince beneath those rags.” Twirling his cane, Harry walked in a slow circle around Jack, muttering numbers under his breath. “Jack Riley, I’m going to outfit you like you never dreamed. It’ll be like magic. You won’t know yourself.”
“Er, I’m not really into clothes, Harry.”
“Come on, haven’t you ever wanted to walk into a roomful of people and knock ’em dead?”
“Only if they’re Republicans.”
“Bah. You joke when you could go to this ball and meet the woman of your dreams.”
Jack couldn’t help himself. He laughed out loud.
Harry pointed the cane again. “Let me do this for you. You saved my life.”
“Actually, I’m more the down-home, beer-and-TV type, Harry.”
“Miracles happen, my boy.”
Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his Yankees jacket. “She’s not my type—”
“I think you’re the type who likes to have fun. Who can’t stand the thought of a lonely lady at a party where everyone wants something from her.” Harry eyed the card meaningfully. He reached up and removed Jack’s glasses. “Drink your beer, cowboy. We’ve got work to do—and fast.”
Hell, Jack decided in amused resignation, had no fury like a tailor—er, gentleman clothier—in the throes of gratitude.
Madeleine caught herself squinting at the clock again. Ten-thirty. Two whole minutes had passed since she had last checked. She had smiled a hundred plastic smiles, murmured a hundred lame greetings and taken a hundred sips of her now lukewarm Dom Pérignon. The bubbly was starting to take its toll.
She was, as always, graceful and cautious when tipsy. Objects took on a rather pleasant warm fuzziness. Watching a model in a dress that appeared to be constructed entirely of soda-can pull tabs, Madeleine repressed a tiny urge to giggle.
The urge died when Britt Beckworth III started across the room toward her. Like a human Ken doll, he had a square jaw, comb-furrowed
