And black. A column of long, slinky, shimmery black that grazed her curves, showed off her legs, and fastened with a jet-black choker collar around her neck. Crystal and jet earrings dusting her bare shoulders, framed by her tumbling curls, her only jewelry. A black sequined bag. Restrained makeup. A long glittery sweater coat to ward off the chill.Nothing out of line here. Perfectly fit, formal and worthy of a celebratory party. Even Angie couldn’t quibble. There wasn’t a hint of anything blatant. No cleavage. Nothing tight. No messages here that could be misinterpreted by anyone.But she was disabused of the comfort of that notion the moment she walked in the door of Mary Mackey Lee’s spacious Tudor home.Everything stopped dead as she paused in the archway to the sunken living room. She felt a wave of heat suffuse her whole body as she realized how many people were there, and that they all were staring at her.“Come on, Regan.” Tony came forward, and took her hand to help her down the step.
