Tossing the book she’d been reading onto the glass coffee table in front of her, she padded barefoot across the hardwood floor. With a quick glance at her watch, she reached the door and gently pulled it open. “Hey!” The greeting was joined by a swirl of action, as a blonde-haired woman breezed across the threshold. “I know you said two,” she quickly added, barely pausing for breath, as she pulled at the tight-fitting skirt that was riding up her thighs. “I got caught at this stupid meeting, you know how it is.” It was barely an apology, but it was as close as the woman ever came to offering one. “It’s okay,” Allie responded, eyes wide as she found herself once again amazed by the mass of energy that was squeezed into an incredible hour-glass figure. She had been friends with Rosalinda Evans for almost five years. And, in all of that time, she’d been at a loss to quite explain why. On the surface of it, the women had nothing in common. They were in the same business, sort of, but writing for a fashion magazine was hardly Allie’s idea of serious journalism.
