Vixen by Jillian Larkin Page A

“He’s away on business, but not even his work can keep those two apart!” The women smiled wistfully.
    Clutching Clara’s arm, Mrs. Carmody cleared her throat. “Why, yes—you know young love!” She croaked out an entirely fake laugh. “Now hold on to those appetites, ladies. Wait till you see what our chef, Henri—imported directly from l’Hôtel Plaza Athénée—has whipped up for you!”
    The room fell into a pleased chatter, and Aunt Beastealthily guided Clara into the hall. “Why didn’t Gloria come downstairs with you?”
    Clara honestly had no idea. But as she looked into her aunt’s worried face, she decided that this was the perfect opportunity to play the responsible older cousin. “Would you like me to lasso her for you?”
    “Thank you, dear.” Aunt Bea gave her a frightening smile. “And don’t be afraid to use an actual lasso if need be.”
    Clara dashed upstairs, relieved to get away from the gawking. She knocked on Gloria’s door.
    No response.
    She knocked harder, then tried the doorknob. Locked. Finally, she knelt down and peered through the keyhole. Not only was it dark, but a sharp breeze stung her eye.
    The window was open.
    It wasn’t possible. No girl would be so harebrained as to sneak out of the house on the night of her own deb dinner. Though Gloria
had
been acting strange since last night.
    After they had left the Green Mill, she had slumped in the backseat of Marcus’s car with her eyes closed, presumably blacked out, for the entire ride home. At breakfast this morning, Gloria had stared blankly into her bowl of oatmeal, her face as pale as the lumpy gruel. Clara had assumed she was just overwhelmed by it all—she had felt the exact same way when she started going out in New York. But now …
    Clara couldn’t help thinking of that black jazz pianist, the one Gloria had danced with at the Green Mill. The wayGloria had looked at him, the way his hand kept dropping to her hip, the starry glaze that had sparkled in her eyes—it all spelled trouble. And the kind Clara knew all too well.
    Aunt Bea was waiting nervously at the bottom of the staircase when Clara came back down. “Is something wrong with her dress?”
    This was the moment, when her aunt was at her most vulnerable, to win her over for good. Once that trust was established, the threat of reform school would have no real weight anymore.
    Clara made a quick decision.
    “Aunt Bea, I have some bad news. Your daughter is not in her room.” She waited for her aunt to gasp before continuing. “You go and search for her,” Clara instructed, taking command of the situation. “Inquire with the waiters, check to see whether all the cars are here, unlock her door. I’ll take care of the guests—they won’t even notice her absence.” She watched her aunt’s face contort, shifting from confusion to panic. “And don’t worry,” Clara added, giving Aunt Bea’s hand a firm squeeze, “I’ll call the
Tribune
and tell them not to send the photographer.”

    It quickly became clear that Gloria was nowhere in the house or on the grounds. Mrs. Carmody rearranged seating plans while Archibald sent in a fresh round of hors d’oeuvres.
    By the time Clara rejoined the party, the house was overflowing with guests. A year before, Clara’s instinct would have been to shamelessly flirt with the good-looking waiter in the white tuxedo while nibbling the caviar canapés he carried. But the new Clara had responsibilities. Instead, she would have to curry favor with this witless battalion of girls and their fat mothers.
    “So you’re Gloria’s cousin,” the leader of the pack began. She was an angelic-looking girl, complete with dimples and blond ringlets. In her pink dress, she looked like a half-chewed wad of chewing gum. “How long are you planning on staying with the Carmodys?”
    “At least until I don my bridesmaid’s dress at Gloria’s wedding—which I’m sure you already know is the main reason I’m here,”