Fawn Morrison glided across the atrium of the crowded country-music theater, enjoying the glances aimed in her direction. So what if the stares weren't all filled with admiration? Those jealous women could learn to apply makeup the right way and emphasize their few positive qualities. Everybody had at least one or two. Almost everybody.

With a grin and a wink at the old geezer who stood behind the ticket counter, Fawn eased herself past a group of chattering people and strolled toward the ATM machine in the corner.

Some of these people probably thought she was one of the entertainers in the production - she'd never looked better in her life. She wore a calf-length gown of blue silk that Bruce had selected, telling her it matched the color of her eyes. The plunging neckline raised a few eyebrows, and the thigh-high slit had almost caused an accident out in the parking lot. She sure wasn't in Las Vegas anymore. Branson, Missouri, seemed like a different planet. Hokey, maybe, but she kind of liked this place.

As she waited for the cash to click out of the machine, Fawn enjoyed the sight of her reflection in the mirrored wall. She looked hot. Sophisticated and grown-up. She'd come a long way in eight months - from earning money the hardest way, to flouncing through the casino in her cutesy little monkey outfit, smiling and calling "Keno, Keno, Keno" like a brain-injured parrot, to riding in limousines and living in luxury, eating lobster and drinking champagne.

All because she didn't mind a balding man with a paunch, and pockmarks on his face.

Okay, sure he'd been acting a little wacky the past couple of days, but what did that matter? He could afford to act wacky. Besides, he knew how to treat a lady - if the lady didn't expect him to open doors for her and if she didn't mind a burp or two during the dinner conversation.