case. The pro bono cases I’ve been doing don’t seem to carry any weight with the executive board.” Her dream was to become a partner at Hancock, Potter and King. Once she did that, surely her aunt and uncle would stop worrying that she was going to blemish the Potter name by running away with a ne’er-do-well like her mother had.
Claire exchanged a glance with Samantha, then said, “It’s a little hard to predict exactly what will happen when you wear it. The skirt has a tendency to surprise you.”
That was one of the reasons A.J. had waited nearly two months to give the skirt a whirl. And first, she’d done some research. The simple black skirt that had helped them rent Tavish Mclain’s apartment already had quite a history in Manhattan. She’d found the three articles that had appeared in Metropolitan magazine, all giving evidence to the skirt’s power to attract men. It had even made the news on a morning talk show, and a smart entrepreneur had sold a department store chain a whole line of knockoffs.
But the skirt A.J. was wearing was the real McCoy. Samantha’s cousin, Kate Talavera-Logan, had mailed it to her right after her wedding. And both Claire and Samantha had testified to the fact that the incident that had gotten them the apartment had not been an isolated one. The skirt did have some kind of power over men.
“Too late for second thoughts,” Samantha said glancing at her watch. “You’re already running late.”
“Besides, what have you got to lose?” Claire asked. “Even if you strike out at the office, you’ll probably get a date with a tall, dark and handsome stranger.”
“I’ll pass on the date,” A.J. said. “The only tall, dark and handsome stranger I’ve seen lately is the homeless man camped around the corner of 75th Street. And I’m certainly not going to date him.” She bit down hard on her tongue before she told them that she was trying to get the homeless man a job. They would think she was nuts. And how could she explain why? It had to do with his eyes—and that intent, searching look he’d given her the first time their eyes had met. She could still recall the strange sense of recognition that she’d experienced. “I’d really be in a pickle if he turned out to be my true love.”
She’d be just like her mother then—falling in love with the wrong kind of man. To push the uncomfortable thought out of her mind, she raised her coffee mug. “I propose a toast. To the power of the skirt.” She clinked mugs with her roommates and was about to take a drink of her coffee when she saw a flash of light in the mirror. “What was that?”
“What was what?” Claire asked.
“I saw something. I think the skirt flashed,” A.J. said.
“Nerves.” Claire put a hand on her shoulder. “I felt a little apprehensive the first time I wore the skirt too. But you’ll get used to it.”
“Eventually you might even get used to the strange way that men react to it,” Samantha added.
A.J. studied her friends’ faces in the mirror. Their faint smiles told her that they were slipping off into their own private worlds again. They’d been doing that more and more lately, and it had all started when they had each first worn the skirt. It was beginning to make her feel like an outsider. The moment the thought drifted into her mind, she stiffened her shoulders. That was not going to happen. Living with Samantha and Claire for the past two months, she’d felt as if she’d belonged for the first time since her parents had died. She liked it. And she wanted to feel that way at the law firm too. “Okay, I’m off to give this thing a little test drive at the office.”
“Good luck,” Claire said, taking her mug.
“You go girl,” Samantha said, handing A.J. her purse.
A.J. was smiling when Claire and Samantha pushed her out into the hall and closed the door behind her. How different her life had become since she moved into this apartment. She had never felt this at home growing up in her uncle and aunt’s place.
“Yoo hoo! Ms. Potter, how fortuitous that we should run into each other. I was just going to knock on your door.”
A.J. bit back a sigh. Of course, every silver lining had its cloud. And Mrs. Higgenbotham and her French poodle Cleo were a huge gray one that daily threatened to rain on apartment 6C’s parade. The three-month rental of 6C came with a catch—an expectation—as Roger the broker had explained to them. And what it boiled down to was the care of Cleo, a prize-winning show dog. Strictly speaking, sublets were illegal in the building, but regular tenants looked the other way and never breathed a word of it to Marlon, the owner, as long as certain “neighborly favors” were exchanged. A.J. could only thank her lucky stars that it was Claire’s turn to walk Cleo in the park on Thursdays.
A.J. turned to give Mrs. Higgenbotham a smile and blinked at the peach cloud filling the hallway. In two months she should have grown used to the older woman’s appearance, but then she was never quite sure what color the hair would be. Today it was definitely peach, a perfect match to the billowing caftan that seemed to be in perpetual motion around her.
“Cleo isn’t eating again. I’ve decided she needs an emergency therapy session. Dr. Fielding is opening up his office early to fit her in. Isn’t that wonderful of him?”
Several more appropriate adjectives ran through A.J.’s mind—greedy and opportunistic heading the list—but she kept them to herself as she began to edge her way backwards toward the elevator. She didn’t need a Ph.D. in pet therapy to recognize that Cleo’s problem was that she was lonely. She wanted a mate. Most of the male dogs that she met on her daily walks in the park could testify to that in court. The problem was that Mrs. H. was determined to mate Cleo with another pedigreed poodle, and Cleo preferred commoners.
Mrs. Higgenbotham and the peach cloud wafted toward her. “I have a favor to ask. Could you possibly drop Cleo off? I’m not dressed to go out, and Dr. Fielding wants her at 7:45. Miss Dellafield isn’t scheduled to take her on her walk until this afternoon. You don’t have to wait for her. I can pick her up myself. Or…” she paused to glance back at the door of 6C, “or I can make other arrangements.”
A.J. took the leash from Mrs. Higgenbotham’s outstretched hand. “No problem.” Experience had taught her the hard way that agreeing to the woman’s requests was the quickest way out of the apartment building.
“Bless you.” Mrs. Higgenbotham pressed a card into her hand. “Dr. Fielding’s office is on Park Avenue. I’ll wave goodbye to Cleo from my living room window.”
In the safety of the elevator, A.J. glanced at her watch. Seven twenty-five. She was ten minutes behind schedule and delivering Cleo to Dr. Fielding would delay her even further. And there was still Franco Rossi to deal with. Hopefully, she could slip past him before he could notice she was wearing the skirt.
All hope of accomplishing that vaporized when the doors slid open and she found herself staring at the doorman.
“Thank heavens,” Franco said, sweeping a hand to his chest and fluttering a small Japanese fan with the other. “I was worried. You’re ten minutes late!”
“Mrs. H. stopped me,” A.J. explained as Cleo yipped at Franco and then, head down, dashed for the door. For some reason, Franco seemed to be the one male that Cleo had no use for. A.J. picked up her pace.
The door to the building was less than ten yards away, but, thanks to Franco, her best personal time for crossing the lobby was five minutes. And that was only if she kept her sentences short, avoided asking questions, and didn’t comment on anything he was wearing—like
