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"I hope it doesn't make you uncomfortable when I talk about Peter," Angela said as she yanked the tie to the bikini top. She kicked the two-hundred-dollar scrap of Lycra across the floor of the dressing room. "N-no," Carlotta said, scrambling to rescue her merchandise. She straightened, then handed Angela a one-piece suit and gave a little laugh. "Why should it?"

Angela stepped out of the minuscule bikini bottoms and stood nude before Carlotta for a few seconds before stretching the next swimsuit over her tight bod.

"Because, well, you know, the whole pretend engagement you two had when we were in high school, "Angela said, preening in the mirror.

The Cartier engagement ring was proof that it had been more than a "pretend" engagement, but Carlotta wet her lips and forced a casual note into her voice. "That was a lifetime ago. We were...kids."

"That's what he says," Angela offered cheerfully. "And that if the two of you had actually married — " she laughed at the improbability " — that it never would have lasted."

Carlotta's heart twisted, but she managed a smile. "Then everything worked out for the best, didn't it?"

In the mirror, Angela leveled her feline gaze on Carlotta. "I suppose so."

Carlotta steered the conversation back to clothes and, thankfully, Angela was distracted by the appearance of the "perfect" bikini (two of them) and the armfuls of designer dresses and pantsuits that Carlotta pulled from every couture department. A phone call to the shoe department on the lower floor brought Michael Lane to the women's clothing department. He headed toward Carlotta, pushing a hand truck laden with colorful boxes of Pucci and Gucci, Don Ciccillo and Donald J. Pliner. "Here's everything we have in size seven narrow."

"Thanks — you're a dear."

He gave Carlotta a wry smile. "How are you holding up?" Carlotta scowled toward the closed door of the dressing room. "I'm ready to strangle her."

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