Huge palm trees festooned the orange and white exterior, which had a series of porthole windows in the facade, and the words South Seas Club blinked on and off in intermittent neon flashes on a large overhead sign. Stunning women in sarongs placed leis around the necks of various entering Hollywood gentry, whose admission was carefully monitored by tuxedoed doormen. Photographers and autograph hounds jockeyed each other for position at the velvet rope barricade, rubbernecking each new arrival. A black limousine rolled up to the curb and a uniformed valet immediately hopped forward to open the door. There was a cheer from the crowd as Neville Sinclair stepped from the car, turned, and extended his arm. Jenny emerged with the beauty of Botticelli’s Venus emerging from the clam shell. She was a bit more elaborately clothed than Venus, however, wearing a stunning evening gown so clinging that it looked as if it had been painted onto her. She looked around in wonder, her fantasy of an evening on the town being played out before her very eyes.
