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was standing there, spying on the festivities. But it wasn’t what I feared—some photographer with a zoom lens.

    It was worse.

    A leggy blond in a business suit stood peering into the room. She wore expensive, rose-tinted sunglasses that shielded much of her face, but I would have recognized her anywhere. She appeared to be surveying the gathering, and she didn’t look happy. No surprise, given her focus on the hanging banner, the one with the unflattering poster of herself holding Matt’s leash.

    Matt hadn’t yet seen her. He’d been distracted by Roger’s toast, so I waited for the best man to finish and the gang to raise their glasses. Then I maneuvered through the guys to the center of the room and tapped my half-drunk ex-husband on the arm.

    “She’s here, Matt.”

    “Who’s here?” He looked down at me, his eyes slightly glazed.

    “The woman who threatened you with homicide if you had a bachelor party.” I pointed to the half-open door.

    Matt paled, his mug of beer freezing halfway to his lips.

    “I’m a dead man.”

THREE

    THE door swung fully open, banging like a gunshot against the back wall (and barely missing the framed photos of Dylan Thomas’s gravesite and writing shed). The sudden noise quieted the men, and they turned their heads to find Breanne Summour fuming in the doorway.

    Regally blond, the statuesque beauty was clad in a form-fitting business suit of pearl gray pinstripes. Her honey-colored hair was coiled in a tight bun, and even though the tavern’s lighting was dim and her eyes and much of her face were hidden behind the large rose-tinted sunglasses, there was no mistaking the sharp chin and pouting lips, glossed with her favorite Beaujolais Red lipstick. Sheer black stockings, four-inch pointy-toed heels, and a matching leather attaché completed the sleek trademark look.

    Matt winced. “Oh, jeez . . .”

    For a moment, nothing happened. Then, like a silent wave, the men parted, allowing Breanne to cut a swath through the room. The ominous bonging of the wall’s pendulum clock and the tap-tap-tapping of Fifth Avenue heels across worn hardwood planks were the only sounds in the dead quiet.

    Breanne slammed her attaché onto a stout table and popped the leather lid. A moment later, music flowed out of the case, a rhythmic throbbing. As a throaty saxophone began its song, Breanne stepped close to Matt.

    Without a word spoken, his broad shoulders sagged, as if in relief. And his tense expression—no doubt braced for a tongue-lashing—now visibly relaxed.

    It took me another moment to realize what was really happening. Breanne ripped away her tinted lenses, and I finally saw that this was not Matt’s bride, just a dead ringer for her—or, rather, a dead ringer for a much younger Breanne. Sans rose-colored glasses, the young woman was obviously half Breanne’s age. Unfortunately, she was also the bachelor party’s featured entertainer, so I could guess what was coming next.

    Using a chair for a step, the woman climbed onto a table, where she definitely had everyone’s attention. With her lips pursed in a seductive pout, she swayed her hips to the primal music and began to unbutton her fitted pinstriped jacket. She released her coiled hair next, letting it fall like a honey-colored curtain; then the dancer slid her hands down her thighs and lifted the hem of the skirt to reveal stocking tops and lacy black garters.

    Embarrassed, I looked away, searching the crowd for Koa. He shot me a knowingly amused thumbs-up, and I knew he was the one to arrange this frat-boy prank.

    So much for discretion.

    The younger guys were going crazy now—buck wild, actually. And I started going crazy, too, frantically pushing my way through the howling, testosterone-fueled mob to the room’s windows. I maneuvered the high blinds down to a closed position just in case Knox’s “Gotham Gossip” photographer was lurking out there in the night.

    Whistles and catcalls erupted