Peony Street
“You with the towels. Don’t look at me, don’t speak to me, and don’t touch anything. Stay right where you are. Tuppy! Why is no one monitoring who comes in the door? Where is security?”
A shudder ran through Chance Farthington “Tuppy” Tupworth’s body as the shriek of the diva preceded her noon-time appearance in the doorway to his hotel suite, where he was organizing her day. She had a plush towel wrapped around her head and a peony-patterned silk kimono floated around her whippet-thin body. Her muscles were so tightly stretched and defined they looked as if they might snap and roll up at any moment. Soft terry spa slippers with miniature padded straps between each freshly painted toenail cushioned her tiny, manicured feet.
She glared at Tuppy and then, distracted by a noise, pointed at someone further down the hallway.
“You! What’s your name? Speak up! I pay you people a fortune; why can’t you just for once do what I hired you to do?
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