The Manolo Matrix Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    important, he’d agreed to join us because Fifi was in a snit, and Brian wanted to get out of his apartment.
    Fifi’s a lot of fun. But, as Brian will be the first to say, he’s best enjoyed in small doses.
    He met us in front of Givenchy at 63rd and Madison, where Mel bought two dresses, a pair of shoes, a skirt, and a pair of sunglasses. I’d drooled so much that Mel offered to take pity on me and purchase the haute couture item of my choosing, but I’m lousy at taking charity. That’s one of the reasons I’m making a go of it in New York on my own, with no help from my parents.
    (Or, very little help. I’m more than willing to accept pricey Christmas and birthday gifts.) My parents may have bucks, but my dad’s stock options can’t buy me a starring role in a musical.
    And even if he could write a check and get me on
    Broadway, I’d turn it down. I want to do it myself. And I will. It’s just taking me a while.
    Once Brian joined the party, we’d traipsed to Bergdorf’s and headed straight down to the makeup. I
    never buy makeup without having Brian around. The man can be a pushy little queen, but he’s got more taste in his little finger than most of the women I know. (Case in point: You know those women with pale foundation topped by two inch slashes of cream rouge on their cheeks?
    Brian once started a petition that would have them all charged with some sort of anti-beautification misdemeanor. It didn’t pass, but his heart was in the right place.) We’d been discussing the pros and cons of crème versus powder eyeshadow when I’d noticed the blonde. I didn’t think anything of it at first, but there was just something about the way she was watching me from across the room. And when I caught her gaze, she didn’t look away. Just kept her eyes locked on mine.
    I was starting to get creeped out enough to leave when she broke eye contact and turned her back to me, apparently fascinated with the display of oil-free moisturizers. She wore a D&G
    camisole and tight
    Diesel jeans that looked like she’d purchased them five minutes before. She had the grace and bearing of a model, tall and thin and totally perfect. But that wasn’t what I noticed about her Page 15

    (there are a lot of model types in New York, and they often cluster in the Bergdorf basement).
    No, it was the tattoo on her left shoulder blade that really caught my eye. A tropical bird, resplendent in a rainbow of colors, his tail feathers trailing down her back and head turned so that one eye seemed to be keeping a lookout.
    I stared longer than I should have, something about the woman oddly fascinating to me. But then she turned and aimed a slow smile in my direction, before dividing her attention between me and a display of lipstick samples.
    Busted.
    I snagged Brian’s sleeve, earning a contemptuous look before I explained the sitch in hushed tones.
    After reasonably pointing out that he couldn’t analyze the situation without looking at the girl, he managed to shift around until he found a position from which he could take a look at her without being too obvious.
    He watched her watching me for a full minute, then turned back to me with a shrug. “So she’s checking you out. She probably thinks you’re hot.” He lifted a brow. “Or are you interested, too?”
    “No!” I’ve had my share of girl-crushes, but never like that. I’m totally and completely open-minded when it comes to other people. But as for me, sharing of bodily fluids is strictly limited to the male of the species. Just call it one of my quirks. “Do you really think that’s it?” I whispered.
    “Probably. Why?”
    I shook my head, something about the woman making me nervous. I guess it was her eyes.
    Piercing blue
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    and very intense. If this woman was on the prowl, I felt sorry for all the lesbians in the