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interview you about this."
    She stopped because the woman's face had gone white. "It's out then," she whispered to herself. "Everybody knows."
    "No, no," Dennie said again, frantically this time. "I only found out because I interviewed Tallie Gamble and—"
    "And you want to do a comparison interview with the two of us?" The iceberg suddenly flared into a propane torch. "No. Not while I have breath, do you understand?"
    "No, that's not it—" Dennie began, but the elevator doors were open, and Janice Meredith stormed out, her rage making her deaf to any argument.
    Dennie leaned back in the elevator and closed her eyes.
    Not good. She felt her panic rise and told herself to stay calm. This was what risking was all about. It was a setback, not a failure. All she had to do was analyze what she'd done wrong.
    Well, first, she'd been dumb. She was used to people who wanted to talk to her, who were dying to describe the centerpieces at their anniversary parties. She should have been more convincing. Second, she should have known that the serenity Janice Meredith had shown in the restaurant was at least partly a cover for her pain. She should have been more careful. And approaching her in the elevator, that had been stupid too. Think from now on , she told herself.
    All right. She was going to have to wait until the woman had calmed down before she could even hope to approach her, and even then it was going to be tough. Somehow she had to convince her of her sincerity. Somehow, she had to show Janice Meredith that she was a reputable journalist, a sympathetic ear. Of course the woman wouldn't talk to just anybody about this. Even if she was committed to a new life of risking, that didn't mean the wounds from the old life weren't still fresh.
    But if a friend approached her… If a friend told her that this marvelous journalist wanted to present her side of the story… If a friend—
    Somehow, she had to get an introduction from somebody Janice Meredith trusted.
    There had been two of them in the restaurant. Trella and Victoria. There might be several Victorias in the pop literature program, but Dennie was willing to bet there'd be only one Trella. And while Victoria looked sharp, Trella had been only marginally sentient, much like the two guys who'd tried to pick her up in the lobby. Trella was the one to go for.
    She punched the button for the lobby and went to pick up her bag and find a program and get her racing heart back under control.
    Alec was back sitting in his favorite seat by the brass archway to the bar when the brunette crossed the lobby again. At last , he thought She'd been gone from the restaurant when he'd gotten back from his phone call, and he'd lost her for half an hour. It made him nervous to think of the scores she could have been making while he was looking for her, but she was there now, steaming across the lobby to the phones.
    Didn't this woman ever just walk anywhere? Every time he saw her, she was moving full tilt. She'd run Bond into the ground with all that energy. The thought of Bond as recipient of the brunette's energy made him envious. Harry had told him to make a move on her again. It was his duty to draw a little of that energy for himself.
    He straightened to go join her, and then stopped. She was on the phone, checking her watch, and then she hung up and sat down, obviously waiting for someone. Alec relaxed back into his chair to see what she was up to.
    Fifteen minutes later, a little blue-haired woman in a silver-gray suit got off the elevator and crossed toward her, and Alec sighed. He knew her, Trella Madison, an old friend of his aunt's, and he also knew she was every con man's dream: friendly, wealthy, and dumb as a rock.
    It was starting.
    "Thank you for meeting me," Dennie said, sinking into a gilt chair next to Trella. The huge overplush lobby wasn't the best place for an interview—the gold furniture and red-flocked walls made the place look like a nineteenth century Whores "R"