Amanda held up a glossy postcard to show the antique-shop owner which one she’d been reading. The front of the card had a wispy, vaguely Victorian Fantasy Heights banner in red and gold wrapped around a voluptuous woman’s silhouette. Sexy, but elegant at the same time. On the back, written in neat handwriting, was ‘Help Wanted: Now hiring support staff.’ The shop owner, a forty-something woman with pretty, gentle features and lovely green eyes looked up abruptly from the magazine she’d been reading, as if Amanda had asked where she might find a sawed-off shotgun and ski mask. Her eyes scanned Amanda from dark widow’s peak down to red toenails and designer sandals, then rose once more to linger around breasts and hips. Assessing. Judging. Maybe even imagining. In a voice that was eight parts polite and two parts ice water, the shopkeeper explained. “Fantasy Heights is a specialty resort. Very exclusive. Not your cup of tea, I’m sure.” “Relax. I’m not a cop or anything.
