She folded the letter away and looked up. I stepped from behind the palm tree planted on the median as the fountains from the Bellagio soared up behind me, hidden speakers pumping Bocelli into the air as he sang about the sun in a language not his own. Regan swallowed hard, then squared her jaw and raised her wineglass my way, a forced smile playing on her new lips.
I smiled back and raised a wall of glass in front of her, my thoughts forcing her reflection back on itself, before I let it dissolve into smoke, like the mist drifting from the lake behind me. And while she was still considering who had whom boxed in, Ben returned. I watched him lean toward her, ask what was wrong. And before he could turn to see what had her so riveted, I walked away, and left him sitting with my enemy, who was still trembling.
Trembling in skin that was supposed to be mine.
Acknowledgments
Thanks be to the usual suspects-Roger Pettersson, Ellen Daniel, Linda Grimes, Kris Reekie-for early readings, and to Suzanne Frank for both holding me accountable and holding my hand. To those in the KWC forum for ensuring it lives up to its name, and my family for putting up with my mutterings and moods. To Miriam Kriss, without whom this book would have no title, no representation, and no home (you know, the little things). Special thanks to my child’s caregivers, Paula Peck and Dennis Stephenson, for enabling me to confidently leave this world for another. And to Diana Gill, who makes the other world a better place to be.
About the Author
After ten years with the Tropicana’s Folies Bergere, Las Vegas native VICKI PETTERSSON traded in her sequins for a laptop. But the author of
