“The hair on one of them,” she said with a disdainful sniff, and Jules started thinking about the way Vivian’s own hair whispered and tickled at her ears and the back of her neck. Whoever her stylist was, they’d given a slight ruffle to her pixie that made it look as if she’d just gotten out of bed but in a sexy way. Like she’d just finished doing something fun while she was in there.

Vivian broke off in the middle of her tirade to ask, “What are you staring at?”

“Nothing,” Jules heard herself say. “Didn’t Simon like the one who works at Elle?”

“Oh, my God, that one,” Vivian said, then she was off and running again while Jules sat there and thought about her earlobes and tried not to stare at her breasts.

By the time they arrived at the ball, Jules was pretty sure she’d used up at least a quarter of her allotted heartbeats for the coming year. And it wasn’t over yet. She had to watch Vivian’s shawl slide back off her shoulders and into the hands of a waiting attendant. And then she realized she was staring again, only they were in front of other people now and she had to stop.

So then she had to pretend she neither noticed nor cared about the appreciative looks Vivian was getting even from much younger men. That made her throat close up. Then it got difficult to breathe. And it was harder to disguise feelings of murderous jealousy than it was to disguise lust. Rage tended to gleam in the eyes.

It was easier to concentrate on the envious glances Vivian got from other women at the ball. Those Jules could handle, even take pride in, because her boss looked better than all of them.

If other women were giving Vivian looks that were more inviting than envious, Jules didn’t want to know about it.

Now she and Vivian were making their way through the party. The venue was appropriately grand: the Dorchester London’s ballroom. Surrounded by gilded Art Deco architecture, servers circulated in balletic patterns, and the wealthy nibbled on the hors d’oeuvres they offered. The guests were all attired in immaculately tailored formal wear. It wasn’t much like the parties with celebrities filling VIP rooms and models doing lines in the back. Those venues didn’t have marble floors.

Vivian seemed perfectly at home as she chatted with acquaintances. Sometimes she introduced Jules, who hardly saw their faces, let alone remembered their names. Thankfully, Vivian didn’t seem to notice anything wrong.

At one point, Vivian accepted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. Before she could stop herself, Jules gasped and had to turn it into an embarrassed cough when Vivian’s current tuxedoed interlocutor glanced at her. Vivian gave her a pointed glare and didn’t stop talking to him.