A woman emerged from the crowd and strode over to us. She shot Owen a dazzling smile, then smoothly threaded her arm through his like it was something she’d done a dozen times before. My heart clenched at the sight, but I forced myself to stay calm and study her. She wasn’t as beautiful as some of the other women here tonight, but she knew how to play up her features. Smoke-black shadow rimmed her eyes, making them seem darker and larger than they really were, while the soft waves of her dark brown hair just tickled her shoulders, drawing attention to her toned arms and back.

“I thought I’d lost you. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She smiled up at him again, then turned toward me. “Who are you talking to? You’ll have to introduce me—”

Her words died on her red lips, and she did a double take, her eyes widening with surprise. It took me a second to realize that she wasn’t reacting to how close I was standing to Owen or the tension simmering between us. Oh, no. There was a far more serious reason for her horrified expression.

I had on the exact same dress she did.

Fitted top, cinched waist, flowing skirt. Her scarlet gown was identical to mine, right down to the teardrop-shaped crystals that sparked and flashed beneath the white lights. My gaze dropped to her feet, which were peeking out from beneath the edge of her skirt. She even had on the same color shoes as I did, although she’d gone all out and opted for the four-inch stilettos.

“Owen?” the woman asked.

“Sorry,” he said, finally glancing away from me. “I got . . . distracted and lost sight of you. I’ve been looking for you too.”

Oh. So that’s why he’d been behind me. Some small part of me had thought—no, hoped—that Owen had seen me from across the room and had come over to me on his own. But he’d really been searching for another woman the whole time, and the dress had only fooled him. Well, that and the fact that the mystery woman and I were roughly the same height. I supposed we even looked a little alike from the back, since we both were wearing our dark hair down loose around our shoulders. A simple mistake, but it still made bitterness burn in my throat all the same.

She kept staring at me, and I at her, both of us sizing each other up the way women so often do.

Owen cleared his throat and made the introductions. “Gin, this is Jillian Delancey, a business associate of mine from Atlanta. Jillian, this is Gin Blanco—”

“An old friend,” I interrupted him, and held out my hand to her.