Free That Magic Mischief by Susan Conley Page A

exactly something to look forward to. The fact that these strangers had all been inveigled into doing something they probably didn’t have the time to do added another layer of lunacy to the whole mess.
    She felt like she owed Kelli, but she didn’t really, not in material terms. An editor of the popular and influential
NYC Weekly
, the city’s most highly regarded alternative newspaper, Kelli had basically, for all intents and purposes, been keeping Annabelle solvent for the last few years.
I
do
the work, it’s a fair exchange
, she scolded herself. But there was this thing about Kelli, this eternal feeling of obligation, like the exchange could never be even-handed, because wasn’t Kelli
so
thoughtful,
always
thinking of Annabelle,
ensuring
that her name stayed out there — whether she wanted it to or not?
    And publishing didn’t pay, as everyone knew, but nobody knew where Kelli’s money came from. Not her everyday capital, but the flow that allowed her to finance her thrice-yearly forays into theater, video, art installation … just about any idea Kelli had, she executed via a decidedly un-anorexic cash cow.
    I’m outta here
, Annabelle thought just as Kelli appeared at the top of the next flight. “There you are, sugar! We’re all just waiting for you!”
    Annabelle smiled wanly up at the vision that had appeared on the landing, turned out in a severely tailored oyster-colored designer suit. Unlike the majority of New York females of ‘a certain age’, Kelli actively cultivated a settled and matronly air, mitigated by expensive clothes and unmistakably real baubles. Her ash-blonde hair looked entirely natural, and her seemingly innocent ice-blue gaze was bracketed by barely discernible lines. In spite of all this — the Ladies Who Lunch suit, the limpid gaze, and the lazy drawl, Annabelle knew that if she so much as made a move to leave, Kelli would be on her like a puma on an antelope.
    She meekly followed Kelli into the exclusive eatery’s ritzy private dining room.
    Head down, she charged toward the only empty place, uncomfortably squeezing her bags between the table and her lap. She nodded to what looked like several ethereal dancers across the table, and sneaked a glance down the long — Maria Grazia!
    She raised her eyebrows slightly.
What are you doing here.
    MG flicked her lashes at Kelli.
    Annabelle waggled her head a shade.
Thought you were immune …
    Maria Grazia lightly rubbed her thumb over the fingertips of her right hand.
Amex.
    Annabelle smirked and sat back, and began arranging the tools of her trade on the table. She knew that Kelli liked to get business out of the way of the enjoyment of not only the food, but also of her own particular brand of bonding, which involved the amplification of everyone’s accomplishments, a continual recital of the project’s worth, a gentle reminder to all and sundry of the career-boosting properties of the job at hand, and matchmaking.
    Laptop was joined by pad and pen. Annabelle could cross-platform multitask, and relished any opportunity to do so. She set up her micro-cassette recorder with its multi-directional mic — better safe than sorry — and rolled some tape.
    “Testing … testing … one, two, three — ”
    “
Da da dada dum DADA dada dum —
”
    Annabelle heard the voice — a wordless rendering of the opening bars of
New York, New York,
in just about the worst Frank Sinatra impression she’d ever heard — but all she saw, at first, was an arm, male, sheathed in a blinding white shirt. The sleeve was turned up to reveal a rather fine specimen of forearm, but her vision was filled with the whiteness of the shirt, and the texture of lovely, heavy cotton. Her nose twitched, entranced by the shirt’s freshly laundered scent, with just the hint of the heat of the iron lingering. What was it about a clean white shirt on a man? A nicely pressed white shirt, as she let her gaze slide upwards, that billowed over the outline of a solid