Bennett had organized more than a hundred shows named Rapture since then, and along the way, she’d learned some lessons. For the first few years, she displayed art on consignment and allowed each artist to attend. Not only did Bennett end up with painters and sculptors demeaning their competition, but several had also almost come to blows fighting for position for wall or floor space. Once she began purchasing the works outright and left the artists’ names off the guest list, things went far more smoothly. Yet, some things aren’t learned from mistakes made or from lessons taught. Some are made through observation, and over the years, Bennett had observed her guests.

A few women in attendance in the late 1800s had dared to show their ankles, and over the years, dozens had worn dresses with necklines dipping far lower than the decency of the day allowed. Men would arrive in top hats and tails with stilettos on their feet, and as time went by, latex tuxedos covered in metal studs made appearances, as did skintight fishnet shirts. It seemed to Bennett that Rapture oozed sex in more than one way, and if her clientele delighted in adding to the sensual atmosphere, who was she to argue?

Bennett stood in front of the mirror in the powder room, adjusting the drape of her single-breasted jacket. The lapels of black satin matched the classic stripe down her trousers' legs, and on her feet were a pair of highly polished Givenchy derby shoes. She’d used a gel that had added a hint of blue iridescence to her hair, giving it the sheen of a raven’s feathers, and eyeliner defined her eyes. The finishing touch was the single cloth-covered button on Bennett’s jacket for her privacy, or lack thereof, was now solely dependent on it, seeing that under the wool was nothing but skin.

“I wouldn’t slouch in that if I were you.”

Bennett seemed to light up from the inside, and she gazed at Lisa’s reflection in the mirror. “I don’t intend to, but tonight needs all the provocative atmosphere we can provide.”

“Is that what you call not wearing anything under your jacket? Atmosphere?” Lisa said with a laugh.

“Are you saying you don’t like it?” Bennett said, turning around.

For a moment, Lisa had a problem saying anything. “No, I…I like it a lot, but all of a sudden, I feel underdressed, or would that be overdressed?” she said, looking down at her floor-length gown.

Bennett drank in the view of Lisa’s dress, and like the woman who wore it, it was perfect. With a plunging V-neck and spaghetti straps, the shimmering black jersey was as elegant as it was sensual. The soft fabric flattered every inch of Lisa’s statuesque shape, and when she took a step, a well-placed slit provided a generous view of the woman’s toned thigh.