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chapter 1

Manhattan was in a tailspin. Literally. The Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show was in town, and if that didn't clog up midtown's grid of streets enough, it was also Fashion Week. There were bitches everywhere.

The sales floor at Pelham's, the venerable hundred-year-old jewelry store, was packed, and the grand revolving doors were glutted with browsing tourists. Lovers were making last-minute Valentine's Day purchases, and stylists were running in to borrow or return glittering gems for models on the various flashbulb-lined runways of Bryant Park.

A Pelham's trademark little sage-colored box was being nimbly tied with a chocolate brown signature satin ribbon, when the expert fingers were interrupted.

"Julia--we need you." Gisele Beauvoir, Pelham's director of public relations, had unexpectedly materialized, her tone laced with the pulse-pounding gravity of a Defcon One code red alert. "It's an emergency."

Julia's sassy associate (and roommate) Douglas took over the wrapping of an engagement ring for a nervous fiance-to-be. "I got this, honey--don't worry."

Julia shot him a look that was part thank you and part what do you think this could be about? In response, he smiled and shrugged.

"Girl, you look fierce in that skirt," he whispered as she smoothed her pleats to head up to Corporate. "Baby got back in that. And it works."

"Baby got backyard," she sighed, nervously.

"Please. You're the most stylish, knockout girl in this whole damn town."

"Thanks, dude. See you later." She straightened her blouse and went to the staff staircase. What the hell was this all about? Was she about to be fired? Was it because of that man who returned the necklace after she'd convinced him it was perfect for his wife? It wasn't her fault, the guy really liked it, or so he said. It was his wife who said it emphasized the elephant-sized lines on her neck. Or was it because she was unable to understand the Russian tourists? What had she done? She needed this job, dammit. Just as things were starting to come together. . . . Well, what could she do? Julia took a deep breath and continued up the stairs.

On the sixth floor, Julia pushed through the carved mahogany double doors leading into the PR conference room, where seven people were pacing in a state of sheer panic. Fourteen sharp Manolo Blahnik stiletto heels were grinding into the beige Stark carpet. The tension was palpable. Suddenly the room went quiet and the crowd parted to make way for Gisele, who was cradling a small velvet box in her perfectly manicured hands and walking toward Julia.

"Julia--here it is. Move over Queen Lizzie's crown jewels--this is one of the largest gems in the Pelham's archives: an antique seventy-carat diamond and emerald necklace from our Van Braques salon," pronounced Gisele. "You must leave immediately. You'll be accompanied by four armed guards."

"To . . . where?"

"Hello? Lell Pelham's bridal suite! At the Waldorf."

"It's only the wedding of the millennium," chirped another PR lackey.

"Oh. Okay. Should I go now?"

"Yes! We have to rush it over this second!" snapped Gisele. "Vogue's photographer is already there setting up lighting, and Ms. Pelham's assistant just called to say she changed her mind and wants to wear this piece instead of the Schlumstein deco necklace. Naturally we had...