Free A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) by Dee Davis

Bergdorf’s, but I didn’t even hesitate as I held out my bag. “Of course you do. This will look amazing on you.”
    She took the sack and opened it, the Wendy Hill looking resplendent inside. “It’s gorgeous.” She paused as she contemplated the dress. “Mark Grayson is going to be there, isn’t he?”
    I nodded.
    “This is your battle gear.” She closed the bag and held it out to me. “I can’t take it. You need it.”
    I pushed her hand back. “Not as much as you need to feel beautiful tonight. I’ve got lots of other dresses. Besides, I’m not trying to attract Mark Grayson. At least not in that way. What I look like is irrelevant.” That, of course, was a blatant lie and we both knew it. But Cybil did need the dress more.
    “I’ve got the perfect shoes.” She hopped up, crumbs raining down on the carpet, already heading for her closet, her heartbreak not forgotten but at least numbed for the moment with the prospect of a new dress and a hot party.
    Priorities and all that.

Chapter 6
    Bungalow 8 . 515 West Twenty-seventh Street (between Tenth and Eleventh avenues), 212.629.3333.
     
    The name and decor are meant to invoke memories of the Beverly Hills Hotel and old Hollywood; thus the palm trees, concierge, and inevitable NO VACANCY sign glaring into the night at this far-West Chelsea spot. We would advise being utterly fabulous before attempting to cross the threshold or you’ll be doing the walk of shame. Trust us.
    —www.hipguide.com
    ∞∞∞
    Bungalow 8 has topped the Manhattan club scene for several years in a row now. And in a town famous for overnight failure, this is not a feat to be taken lightly. But then Amy Sacco, the brains behind LOT61 and Bette, knows her stuff. And the tightly guarded door only makes it more alluring. Maybe it’s the NO VACANCY sign in the window.
    Anyway, as we pulled up, I could see the usual assortment of cleavage-baring wannabes staggered amid Gap-clad gawkers and the occasional B-list celebrity. Even though tonight’s soiree was strictly invitation only, hopes of crossing the velvet frontier still apparently ran high.
    Fat chance.
    Plastering on my best ice princess smile, I stepped out of the town car. Cybil followed suit, looking stunning in the Wendy Hill. Frankly, it looked better on her. I’d chosen an Alberta Ferretti. It was two seasons old, granted. But it was also formfitting and red. And did I mention backless?
    If I had to call it, I’d say the two of us looked pretty damn good, especially when you considered the fact that we’d been gorging on cupcakes not three hours earlier. We paused on the sidewalk, playing for the paparazzi.
    Cybil usually drew a decent amount of attention. Between her position with the Murdochs and her old family money, she warranted at least a photo or two. And me, well, I had buzz. The kind that can turn on you in an instant, granted, but at least for the moment I was hot.
    After a couple of minutes of smiling at no one in particular, I grabbed Cybil’s hand and we moved past the crowd, as the beefy guy at the door smiled in recognition and waved us inside. I could hear the whispers rise as the Victoria’s Secret wannabes tried to figure out exactly who we were and why we were able to achieve what they had not—entrance into one of Manhattan’s coveted hot spots.
    It was all over in seconds, but I confess it gives me a thrill every time. That’s probably not the chic thing to say, but it’s true nevertheless. Limelight is a double-edged sword, there’s no doubt about it, but it’s a kick, too. It has to be, right? Otherwise no one would want it, and television shows like Extra would be out of business.
    Inside the club you could actually feel the vibrations from the music. On a normal night Bungalow 8 holds about a hundred people, and the strict door policy keeps it to that, maintaining the intimate feel of the place. Tonight, however, the place was overflowing, a short runway jutting out amid the potted palms,