Diamond Girl. Diana Palmer

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      “So were you.” She sighed. “I may not be a stacked blonde, and I may look like a frump, but I don’t faint at the thought of a man’s bedroom. It’s just that I’ve never wanted to occupy one.” She glared at him. “And the reason I don’t wear a bra is because it’s the mark of a liberated woman!”

      The elevator door had just opened, and a little old lady with blue-tinted hair actually gasped as she heard that last impassioned statement.

      Kenna stared at the elderly woman and slowly went beet-red. “Oh, my gosh,” she groaned.

      Regan, trying to keep a straight face, caught Kenna by the arm and half dragged her out of the elevator and through the lobby.

      “Liberated woman,” he scoffed, giving her a mocking glance. “You might as well give up the act. I know pure bravado when I see it.”

      She sighed. “I can’t even act like a normal woman,” she grumbled, jamming her hands in her pockets. “No wonder Denny doesn’t notice me.”

      “I notice you.”

      She didn’t even look up. “When you want a cup of coffee or a letter typed, you do.”

      He stopped and turned to face her, and she looked up to find his dark, steady eyes holding her own.

      “I know what it is to be lonely, Kenna,” he said quietly. “I know how it feels to look around and wonder if the world would ever miss you if you died.”

      “You’ve got all kinds of women,” she faltered.

      “I’ve got money. Of course I can have women,” he said with a cynical smile. “I’ve even been married, did you know?”

      That was faintly shocking. Denny never talked about Regan’s private life. “No,” she admitted.

      “Jessica was twenty-six. Blonde and blue-eyed and as perfect as a dream. The marriage lasted exactly a year.”

      She saw a flash of raw emotion in his face. “Were you divorced?” she asked.

      “No,” he replied curtly. “She died.”

      “Oh. I’m sorry,” she said gently, and meant it.

      His hands idly moved up and down on her arms. “It’s been almost three years. I’m older and wiser. But there are nights when...” He let go of her and moved away to light a cigarette, and she realized for the first time that he was, indeed, a lonely man. It was a shock to realize that she cared that he was lonely.

      “Life is too short to try living it in the past,” he remarked after a minute. He turned. “And far too short to long for things and not try to go and get them. Isn’t Denny worth a few changes in your life?”

      She had always thought so. “Yes,” she said, giving herself a mental shake. “Of course he is.”

      “Then let’s see what we can do to get his attention.”

      The first stop was the beauty salon. She watched her long, dark hair fall in strands onto the spotless floor while Mr. Andrew snipped and discussed the latest styles and called back and forth to other patrons. Kenna found herself caught up in the cheerful surroundings and the excitement of doing herself over. Perhaps Regan was right. She was twenty-five, and it was time she took herself in hand. It was time she started to live.

      When her hair was washed and blow-dried, she stared blankly at the girl in the mirror. She’d forgone makeup that morning, and now she was glad. With her rosy cheeks and full, soft mouth and unadorned eyes, she looked fresh and natural. And the short, beautifully shaped hair framed her face in darkness, making her look like a pixie with her slightly slanted eyes, thin brows and high cheekbones. She grinned at herself wonderingly.

      “Is nice, no?” Mr. Andrew chuckled. “Now, miss, you go to makeup counter and have face done and see difference. I promise, you like.”

      She did that, finding herself with an extra half hour before she was to meet Regan in the couture department. She watched, fascinated, as the makeup expert did her face like a canvas, outlining her lips in plum and filling them with a deep, rich magenta, then delicately tinting her cheeks and eyebrows, lengthening her lashes, shadowing her eyes and finally enhancing her lovely complexion with the faintest touch of powder.

      “Is that me?” she asked after a minute, captivated by the difference, wondering at the girl with the small, straight nose and big, shimmering green eyes and soft oval of a face with its bee-stung mouth.

      “Quite a difference,” the makeup expert agreed with a smile. She sold Kenna the right cosmetics to keep the new look daily and waved her off.

      Regan was wandering around the mannequins with a dark scowl, sizing up each dress, while the saleslady darted curious glances his way.

      “Waiting for me?” Kenna asked from behind him.

      He turned, still scowling, and his eyes widened suddenly as he recognized her. “My God.” It was all he said, but the inflection was enough to convey his meaning. He walked around her, staring. “Well, well, Cinderella, you do have something.”

      “While you’re trying to figure out what,” she said, “couldn’t we go into the budget shop and look for clothes? I’m going to owe you my soul if we have to buy anything in here. They don’t even have price tags on most of these things!”

      “You’re going to a ball, not a beach party,” he said curtly. “I’m not taking you to the Biltmore in a dress off the rack.”

      “But...”

      “Oh, shut up,” he said impatiently, and taking her arm, he led her to the saleslady. While she stood rigidly, Regan told the tall, thin elderly woman exactly what he wanted for Kenna and then waited impatiently while the saleslady went off to search through her stock.

      She came back in a minute with a long, sensuous confection of green-and-gold-and-aqua-patterned Quiana with a low crisscross neckline.

      “This is one of our designer models,” the woman said with a smile. “And perfect for a figure like yours, my dear,” she added to Kenna.

      “Well, try it on,” Regan said. “Then come out here and let me see it.”

      The saleslady sent Kenna into the back, where she tried on the dress in front of the long mirror in the plush dressing room. She stared at herself as if entranced.

      “How does it fit, my dear? Oh, my,” the saleslady murmured approvingly as Kenna walked out of the fitting room.

      “It fits like a dream,” she said sheepishly, almost afraid to touch the silky material for fear of running it. “Like gossamer...”

      “The color is perfect,” the older woman agreed. “Just perfect, with that light tan of yours.”

      She led Kenna back out into the showroom and stood with hands folded, while her client moved forward toward the tall, dark man who was waiting for her. Regan was idly watching passersby when he heard Kenna’s step and turned.

      He didn’t say anything. His eyes went up and down and up again, and his face hardened.

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