On his arm that night was Tiffany Blake, twenty-six years old, lacquered blonde, red-mouthed, and vibrating with the energy of a woman who knew she was somewhere she had once only seen in celebrity magazines. Her dress was bright red and aggressively expensive-looking in the way counterfeit luxury always is, fitted too tightly through the waist, glittering in the wrong places, trying very hard to look like old money and achieving only the effect of new ambition.
She squeezed his elbow and whispered too loudly, “Oh my God, is that the mayor?”
Preston gave her the smile he reserved for women he wanted to keep dazzled and manageable. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” she squealed. “You know if that’s the mayor.”
“I know a lot of people in this room.”
That wasn’t entirely true. He recognized faces. He knew enough names to fake intimacy. More importantly, he knew how to act like a man who never had to prove he belonged among them. Most people, he had learned, would let confidence stand in for credentials if the suit was good enough.