Dear Reader,

Something really neat happened to me recently.

I’ve been a writer for quite a while and I’ve had many readers. But outside a setting such as a writers’ conference or a book signing, I’ve never actually had a chance encounter with a reader.

One evening my husband and I were out walking two of our dogs. We’d gone about a mile when I spotted a young woman sitting alone on a bench reading. Naturally, I checked out the book—I always do. Much to my surprise, it was my book—Lilly’s Law, my first Flipside! My initial impulse was to rush over and autograph it. Which I didn’t, of course, because sensibility, my husband and two big dogs held me back.

Instead, I watched her read for a few minutes. Watched her face and saw pretty much the same expression we all have when we read. Nothing good, nothing bad. But then she laughed out loud, and when the laugh was gone her smile remained a while longer. For those few minutes, I had made a difference. I made her laugh, maybe even feel a little better, and it’s such a privilege to be able to do that for someone I’ve never met.

It is also a privilege to be back with you again, and I’d like to thank Wanda Ottewell and everybody at Harlequin for allowing me to write this book for you.

Wishing you love and laughter!

Dianne

P.S. For a different kind of read, try my new Medical Romance novel, from Harlequin Mills & Boon, coming in May 2005. You’ll find it available for order at www.eHarlequin.com.

“Do you listen to her show? Valentine McCarthy’s?”

Roxy’s heart skipped a beat at Ned’s question. She never admitted to being her alter ego. “I’ve heard she’s really good. Cute. Smart. Nice voice. Great wardrobe. Good shoes. Very successful.” She couldn’t help applauding herself.

“Clearly you don’t listen to her much, do you?”

She got caught up in Ned’s eyes, forgetting who, what, when and where for a second. He was so hot. But then his words registered. He obviously was not a fan of her show.

“I listen sometimes,” Roxy said carefully. “She’s good entertainment. And popular.”

Ned laughed. “Well, you’re right about that. She’s popular. I guess that’s the way she wants to waste her Ph.D.”

“Waste?”

“Hack advice.” His voice was dismissive.

“Entertainment.” Funny, he wasn’t looking quite so attractive right now.

“Bad entertainment.”

That’s what he thought? “So would I be wrong in assuming you’re not a big Val fan?”

“Nope. Just listen when I can’t sleep.”

Great. She had just spent all this time ogling a guy who hated half of who she was. Not the best forecast for a relationship.

Playing Games
Dianne Drake

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

What’s life without a few pets? Dianne Drake and her hubby Joel have seven—four dogs and three cats, all rescued strays. In the few spare minutes her animals grant her, Dianne goes to the Indianapolis Symphony, the Indianapolis Colts NFL team, the Indiana Pacers NBA team—can you tell she lives in Indianapolis? And occasionally, she and Joel sneak away and do something really special, like take in a hockey game.

Books by Dianne Drake

HARLEQUIN FLIPSIDE

16—LILLY’S LAW

HARLEQUIN DUETS

58—THE DOCTOR DILEMMA

106—ISN’T IT ROMANTIC?

To Janie, the real spunk behind the heroine in this book

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

1

A Little Friday-Night Waiting & Shrink-baiting

“WELCOME TO MIDNIGHT SPECIAL, sugars. Are you ready for something special? Because if you are, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Doctor Val has something extra-specially special for you tonight.”

Roxy Rose gave her sound engineer, Doyle Hopps, the nod, and the program started on cue with caller number one, a thirty-something hubby-done-her-wrong from Olympia. Make that cheating husband number fifty-six for the week. Roxy always counted them—the cheating husbands. Just in case she landed a book deal somewhere down the line she wanted to be accurate. Not that she was planning on writing a book, like that obnoxious Doctor Edward Craig seemed to do about every two minutes. But she wasn’t ruling out anything because her career was on a big-time growth curve lately, and all those hanky-pankying husbands and two-timing boyfriends came in at a whopping fifty percent share of the calls.

Love ’em, hate ’em…she definitely counted on that loose zipper legion for some nice, fat ratings. And either way, Roxy needed them. They were one of the main reasons she was eyebrow-deep in building her new dream home…a million dollars’ worth of cement, steel and glass, along with a to-die-for panorama of Puget Sound.

“Eighteen years, Doctor Val. That’s how long I’ve been with him. I’ve kept myself up physically, stayed good in bed…at least I thought I was good in bed, until he started hunting down other beds. I’ve held down a full-time job, raised the kids. For eighteen long years. Then I find out he’s cheating on me. And it’s not like she’s some younger bimbo. She’s older…my age, and married, with four kids. So what’s he seeing in her? I mean, if she was twenty with a tight ass, I might be able to understand it, but she’s not!”

Astrid hit the bleep button as the a word popped out, then gave Roxy the thumbs-up to indicate she’d caught it. They were on a seven-second delay for such slippages.

Nodding, Roxy returned the thumbs-up to her friend. Best friend, actually. Astrid Billings—long auburn hair, figure of a goddess, the one who really looked like what Val sounded like—had come with the show when Roxy had inherited it from her predecessor.

“Whoa,” Roxy said, her Doctor Valentine drawl slow and Southern, even though she was Seattle-born and raised and didn’t have a drawl, slow, fast or otherwise. “Just calm down, now. Okay? Take a deep breath and pour yourself a big ol’ glass of wine. In fact, why don’t all of you go ahead and do the same.” Roxy nodded at Doyle to cue up the music, then purred into the microphone, “Be right back. Don’t you go away. Valentine’s counting on you.” Settling back into her chair, she took off her headset and gave Doyle the I need a drink in a bad way right now sign—the invisible cup tilting to her mouth, then tilting and tilting and tilting for emphasis. Unfortunately, Roxy’s invisible cup wasn’t filled with wine. Never was on air, hardly ever was in real life.

“Anything in particular?” Doyle asked from his booth.

“Anything wet. Other than that, I’m not picky.” Roxy looked at the monitor for the seconds left in this break. A one-minute break already one-quarter gone, meaning she didn’t have time to get it for herself. Or she would have.

“Told you we needed a wet bar in here, Rox,” he said, grinning through the glass at her. His booth was large, full of all kinds of gizmos and gadgets. Hers was tiny, big enough for a desk and not much else. “A pitcher of margaritas right now sounds pretty good to me.”

“Yeah, and with margaritas, you get Roxy dancing on the desk. Tap water’s okay.”

“Tap water…boring. You need to live a little, Rox. I keep telling you there’s more to life than business, and I, for one, would appreciate a good desk-dancin’ from you.”

“You got it. Tap or ballet?” Roxy laughed. Doyle was so close to hitting the nail on the head about her boring life that it wasn’t funny. Two hours on air was all anybody heard, but she managed her own Valentine publicity, hunted down sponsors, and lately, went cruising for a syndication deal. So her two hours really translated into at least fourteen. And then she slept. Oh, and did some house designing.

“I was thinking something in veils, or less. Little cymbals on your fingers.”

Astrid stuck her head into the booth and held up a can and a red plastic cup full of ice. “Hey, Rox. Before you put on your dancing shoes, or veils, is orange soda okay? They’re out of root beer and the tap water’s looking pretty brown.”

“Orange is just dandy,” Roxy said cheerfully, glancing back over at Doyle for the count. “Sorry. Guess the veils will have to wait.”

“Promises, promises.” Doyle held up three fingers on his pudgy right hand and made a zero sign with his left. “Thirty. And I ain’t lettin’ you off the hook for those cymbals.”

Short, a speck on the plump side, with long, scraggly brown hair always hanging out of a Seattle Mariner cap, in the control booth he knew his stuff like nobody else in the business. Like Astrid, he’d been with Roxy from the show’s get-go, grabbed off a sideline grunt job and given his domain on the boards. Roxy, Astrid and Doyle…the three of them together, thick and thin, yada, yada. And Roxy never forgot that. For all her quirks, she was loyal.

“I’ll put them on my to-do list right after tweaking the master bath.”

“Not the house again!” Doyle cracked, covering his face with his hands. “Please God, anything but the house.”

“Like you won’t be parking it out there when I get my entertainment room set up. Big projection TV, a sound system that’ll make you eat your heart out…”

“And you in veils…”

“We don’t talk veils until we talk about my house plans, and I got into some new ones today, in case you’re interested.” Which Roxy knew he wasn’t, but he sure liked teasing her about them.” And I’m thinking they could be the ones. Some pretty neat stuff.”

“Twenty. And I doubt it, Rox. Not with the way you’re killing every single architect in the greater Seattle area who comes within a mile of you and your house plans. Fifteen.”

Well, maybe she’d fired a few. Two, three? Definitely not more than five. But they couldn’t get it right. She wanted minimal with a homey feel. They couldn’t manage both in the same blueprint, and the homey part always got left out. So she was doing it on her own now, with the help of a CAD—computer assisted design—program and some old Bob Vila tapes. Plus in her spare time she stayed glued to Home and Garden TV, making up a wish list. Her house on her own beach would be nothing short of perfect.” Just cutting through the middle men. That’s all.” And sure, somewhere down the line when she roughed out exactly what she wanted, she’d go architect shopping for someone to whip it into proper form, find the general contractor, and all the rest of it. After she was finished with her own preliminaries.

“Cutting up the middle men’s more like it.” Doyle gave her the ten sign—ten chubby fingers wiggling at her.” And just when I thought you were working out your control issues. Eight, seven, six…”

“It’s not a control issue, Doyle.” Well, maybe. But she was working on it. “It’s just that I’m the only one who knows everything all the time.” Grinning, Roxy winked at Astrid, who’d returned to the producer booth, then acknowledged Doyle’s cue. “Valentine McCarthy back with you now, feeling so nice and mellow with a wonderful glass of…” She looked at her orange soda. “Chardonnay. Do you have your glass of wine, sugar?” she asked her caller.

“Bourbon,” the caller replied flatly.

Doyle tapped on the window between their booths and she glanced over. Plastered to the glass was a cardboard sign reading Control Freak with a dozen exclamation points after it.

She stuck out her tongue at Doyle, then without missing a beat went right back to her caller. “Well, whatever works best for you. Make it a double, if you have to, and while you’re doing that let me tell you what I think about your bed-hopping hubby. First, I think his cheating on you is only a fling. Usually is. Just sex. Men don’t leave their wives for older women with kids, unless there’s a whole lot of money involved. So, does she have money?”

“Not that I know of. She’s a waitress, I think.”

“Good, that means it’s just sex. He’s simply out for some exercise. And since he’s real busy exercising his male muscle in all the wrong places, you’ve got a decision to make. Unless you want to go through life getting taken advantage of by a bed-buzzing jerk, you can either kick him out or keep him. Either way, you’ve got to learn how to respect yourself so you’ll believe you don’t deserve what he’s doing to you.

“So like I said, you can dump the bum. Hold your head high, walk out that door, take everything you can get your little hands on, and don’t look back. He’s not worth it. And believe me when I tell you that, because this is an area where Valentine knows what she’s talking about.” Except when Roxy walked out that marriage door, the only thing in her little hands was the iron resolve to do better without him than she’d done with him. It was all she wanted, all she took. He got the three-legged card table, the brick and board bookshelves—no books, couldn’t afford them—and the lumpy mattress on the lumpy floor. A good deal for Roxy all the way around.

She drew in a deep breath, preparing herself to take the other approach—something she always did since most callers didn’t want advice, but rather validation for something they wanted to do or had already done. “Or here’s another plan that just might work for you. If you love him—and I think you do or you wouldn’t be calling trying to figure out how to fix this thing—and you want to keep him around, I think you should teach him a lesson. Revenge is so sweet. Good for the feminine ego, and if you do it the right way he won’t go wandering off again.” She glanced over at Astrid and smiled. “So which is it?”

“Keep him, give him another chance.”

A keeper. Not necessarily her personal choice. “And would you like to get even with him? Teach him a lesson that really counts? One he’ll remember before he drops his drawers anyplace but home?” In the next booth, Astrid was already visibly fretting about the imminent advice. Roxy feigned an innocent shrug. It was Friday night, after all. Somebody needed some Friday-night fun. “Because if you do, I’ve got just the right plan. One he won’t be forgetting for a long, long time. I promise you.”

“Yesh…”

Just great. One caller half-soused. She couldn’t blame her because that’s sure what she’d do if she had to go public with her life. Her life… If she took that public, her listeners would be getting all liquored up from boredom. “So are you ready to start teaching, ‘cause this is guaranteed to be a mighty fun lesson.”

“Yesh…because I don’t want to be pushed around by him anymore. And if I confront him, tell him what I know, he’ll just say he’s sorry, beg me to forgive him, then we’ll be fine until he starts sneaking out again.”

On that count, the caller was right. And Roxy was getting herself worked up for some good, on-air two-timer throttling. “You’re right. There sure will be a next time. If he gets away with it this time, he’ll figure he can go out and do it all over again. Once he’s had seconds, he’ll want thirds and fourths and it’ll never stop.”

“So tell me what to do, Doctor Val. I want to get even with the jerk, and I definitely want to teach him a lesson.”

Roxy took a drink of her orange soda, then laughed into the microphone. It was a throaty, deep, practiced laugh. A pseudo laugh, one that fit her pseudonym—Doctor Valentine McCarthy. Valentine was her real middle name, McCarthy her married name, although she’d dropped it right after the divorce and hung out her license to practice as Doctor Roxanna Rose, Ph.D. But she liked hiding behind her pseudonym, liked hiding behind her husky pseudo voice, too. And it fit the raven-haired, brown-eyed radio shrink who came out at midnight, talked sex for two hours, then went away to be just plain Roxy again. Make that Roxy with the bright, sunny laugh—cropped-cut, blond-haired, blue-eyed girl next door that she was. Not a thing like her pseudo self, thank heavens.

All things considered though, it worked out pretty well. For both of them.

“Well, my advice is simple. Do unto hubby as hubby would do, and apparently has done, unto you. Have yourself a little fling, too. Then let him know about it. Does his honey have a hunky hubby? Maybe he’d like to get in on some good extracurricular activity, since his little woman is already getting it on her own. Or does your hubby have a lonely hubba-hubba back at his office, down at the lodge, maybe his best friend? If he does, I say go for a young one if you have a choice—they’re so eager and willing to please when it comes to a more experienced woman.

“And that’s what you are. More experienced, not older. Also, finding yourself a younger man will definitely let your hubby know that you’re not over the hill or otherwise checked at the door, that there’s still some mighty good grazing left, even if he isn’t the grazer. Oh, and leave the clues, so he’ll find them. Be obvious. He deserves it.”

“And if I do all of this, Doctor Val, do you think he’ll leave me?”

“Honestly, he could. I’ve gotta be truthful about that. But if he leaves because you’re doing unto him, then he wasn’t going to stay around, anyway. And if he does leave, you’ve got options, ‘cause you can do a whole lot better. But if he doesn’t, I’ll bet he’ll think twice before he wanders off again, knowing you might be wandering off right behind him. Bottom line, dish the dirt, but have a little fun while you’re dishing it. Two more can play at hubby’s game besides hubby and his mistress. And call me back, will you? Let me know if it was good for you.”

Roxy cued Doyle to bring up the program music. “That answer got me all hot and bothered, thinking about all the exciting possibilities that are waiting for us out there if we care enough to go out and hunt them down. So let me go cool off for a minute, then I’ll be right back.” She went to break. Two minutes this time.

“Her husband?” Astrid screamed over the microphone into the booth. “You told her to go out and have an affair with her husband’s mistress’s husband? Come on, Rox. What’s wrong with you? That’s crazy, even for you!”

“You come on, Astrid. When you were dating that guy, Buford, last year, and found out he was sleeping with three other women besides you, didn’t you want some revenge? I mean, who was it that stalked him at night and poured syrup and feathers all over his car?”

“Burton, and yes, I wanted revenge. I’ll admit it. But that was different. And my revenge could be fixed at a car wash.”

“Yeah, you left him the ten-dollar bill under the wind-shield wiper, you wimp. But what I’m saying here is that the emotion’s the same. We get wronged, we want to fight back, whether it’s with the guy’s girlfriend’s hubby or a bottle of syrup. Same thing. And I just gave her an interesting way to fight back. Which she’s not going to do, Astrid. Human nature. She wants to fix her marriage, not make it worse. But I’m betting she’ll let him know, one way or another, that she knows what he’s doing. And if her marriage can be worked out, that’s the start of it.”

“And what if she takes your advice?”

Roxy wrinkled her nose. “Then she might just have some fun. And guess what, I’ll bet no one’s turning me off at the break right now and going over to that all-night sports talk show. When they’re talking home run, they mean home run, but when Valentine talks home run, her callers know exactly what she means.”

“I love it when you two fight.” Doyle chuckled. “I think people would pay big bucks to see you do it in person…in syrup and feathers.”

“Somebody gag him,” Roxy yelled, glancing up at the computer screen, checking for the name of the illustrious Doctor Edward Craig. Not there yet. Kind of a surprise because the spicier calls always brought him out.

“Gag you, next time you pull something like that,” Astrid muttered. “And next time you want something to drink, get it yourself.”

“She’s baiting him,” Doyle quipped. “That doctor dude. That’s just her way of asking him to come out and play.”

“And he’s ringing the bell right now,” Astrid announced over her microphone. Part of her job was to screen the calls—letting in the good, keeping out the bad. And her order was to always move the self-important Doctor Edward Craig right to the top of the call-in queue. Not because Roxy particularly liked him, because she didn’t. But the ratings! He brought ’em, she loved ’em. A match made in broadcaster’s heaven.

“So maybe I bait him a little….”

“A little?” Doyle sputtered. “Honey, you throw out the chum and he eats it up like a hungry shark. And you enjoy it, even if you won’t admit it.”

“Oh, yeah. I enjoy it all right. Just like brussels sprouts. My mom fixes me brussels sprouts when I go home and I eat them because I have to, but they give me gas.” Roxy thought about Doyle’s notion that she liked the great Eddie Craig’s calls, then dismissed it as ludicrous. He was a sprout, that’s all. Necessary, not gratifying. And he did cause a fair amount of gastric upset from time to time, even though somehow she always managed to walk away satisfied. In a professional sense, of course.

“Come on, Eddie, let’s see what you’ve got cooking for me tonight,” she said, checking his name on the monitor. Yep, he was there, first name on the top of the list, and ready to go. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be way better than brussels sprouts.”

“Good evening, Valentine. You’re in rare form tonight.”

At the sound of his voice, Roxy wrinkled her nose at Astrid. The man did come on so darn strident sometimes. Like sending her copies of the fifteen billion books he’d written—the ones still in the carton in the trunk of her car. Unopened. “Good evening, Doctor Craig. And let me just correct one thing you said before we go any further. I’m always in rare form. Not just tonight.” Something about his voice, that little Boston/British accent thing he had going on, made her voice go even sexier than her normal Valentine sexy. If dark chocolate could talk, it would sound like Edward Craig.

Roxy glanced down at the dark-chocolate truffle on her desk. Every night, right about this time, she got the craving.

“Rare form, maybe. But rare doesn’t necessarily mean good. Not when you do such a disservice to your listeners with your advice.”

“My advice, Doctor Craig?”

“Keep it nice,” Astrid warned over the headphones. “We’ve got a couple of potential new sponsors listening in.”

Roxy slapped a sweet smile on her face just for Astrid’s benefit. “My advice, Doctor Craig, is what my listeners want. Or they wouldn’t call me, would they.” She felt a chill, awaiting his voice. Strange effect, but it happened a lot. She chalked it up to the adrenalin rush of a battle. “So what would you have me do?”

“I’d have you give the previous caller sound advice instead—”

“Yeah, yeah, Eddie,” Roxy interrupted. “We know your broken record. Get counseling, get counseling. But what good’s counseling going to do a cheating husband? It’s not a problem in his head. It’s in his pants. Actually, let me rephrase that. There wouldn’t be a problem if it was in his pants. You know a counselor’s going to charge her a couple hundred bucks an hour, and you know as well as I do that cheating hubbys don’t go to counseling. So she goes there by herself, plunks down all that money, and for what?”

“To fix her marriage.”

“Might be better spent if she could fix her hubby. But that’s not going to happen, so what I’m suggesting is an inexpensive alternative—revenge sex, Doctor.”

“And you really believe a knee-jerk reaction like revenge sex, Doctor, is sound advice for working through an indiscretion? By the way, do you really think revenge sex is a good label to put on what you’re advocating? That oversimplifies a serious problem.”

“Knee-jerk?” Instinctively, she looked down. The left knee of her jeans had a hole in it. The right was frayed. Not exactly the Valentine image she put out there. “And whatever do you mean by sound advice? Personally, I think my advice sounded awfully good. Oh, and if you don’t like to call it revenge sex, I’ll be glad to go with make-good sex, getting-even sex, do-unto-cheatin’-hubby sex. Take your pick.” This was getting particularly good between them tonight. Somehow she’d known it might when she’d given that little piece of revenge-sex advice to the caller.

“And you don’t think the wife plays a part in the husband’s actions?”

Oh, Eddie. You really opened yourself up with that one. Roxy glanced over at Astrid and winked. “A wife may play a part in the marital problems, but you and I both know it’s not always marital problems that send a man into another woman’s bed. So unless the wife actually drives her husband to his mistress’s door, and says, ‘There you go, dear. Go have a good time, and I’ll be back in an hour to get you,’ she’s not playing a part in his cheating. It’s a solo gig, Doc. He opened that door by himself, and he walked through it, and claiming she pushed him through it is a cop-out. Bottom line is, when he’s cheating it’s all about sex. Motivations don’t matter. So if that’s what it’s about for him, why can’t it be about that for her? I certainly think the first time he drops his pants for someone else he’s inviting his wife to do the same, if that’s what she wants to do.”

Edward let out an impatient breath meant to be heard on air. “Having an affair because she’s been hurt—what will that accomplish, Doctor, except to cause more hurt?”

“Sex, Doctor. Not an affair. And the only hurt it could possibly cause—since she’s a consenting adult—will be her husband’s, who deserves to be hurt for what he’s done to her. Like they say, an eye for an eye…or in this case…a romp for a romp.”

“Which will drag her down to her husband’s level. That, Valentine, solves nothing.”

Which was true, at least in Roxy’s thinking. But Roxy’s thinking wasn’t Valentine’s, and sometimes that little tug-of-war got rough. But, all for the ratings… “Quite the contrary, Doctor. It will serve as a catharsis. Surely, as a shrink, you realize the value of a good catharsis every now and then, don’t you?”

“As a shrink, Doctor McCarthy, surely you realize that catharsis is not an act of revenge, but an act of release—”

“And a good orgasm’s not a release, Eddie? If that’s what you think, then I’d say you don’t get around too much, do you?”

“An emotional release,” Edward said defensively, then nervously cleared his throat. “I’m talking about an emotional release, if you can forget about the sex for a minute.”

“Forget about the sex?” Roxy replied in her deepest, huskiest, sexiest voice. “Doesn’t sound like you’ve been having too much fun.” Roxy smiled, impressing a mental mark in her imaginary column. “Like I said before, you must not get around, because an orgasm can be as much of an emotional release as a physical one, and there are studies to back me up on that one, Doctor.” She added a second mark. “Think about it…Edward. Think about the last time you enjoyed that release…with another person, I mean.” She scrunched her nose at Astrid, at the thought of the pompous Doctor Craig indulging in that scenario. “Wasn’t it a wonderfully satisfying emotional surrender, as well as the obvious physical enjoyment?”

“It might have been, but this isn’t about me, Doctor,” he said, his voice so dark-chocolate it gave her goose bumps.

She glanced at her truffle. Never, ever until after Edward, but she wanted it so bad right now. “Isn’t it, Doctor?” she purred, claiming her third mark. “It’s about your ideas of right and wrong, which, like it or not, are affected by your life, your loves, your sexual experiences, and vice versa. My caller was hurt, she needed to vent, and yes, she needs to feel like she has some control in the matter. As a relationship counselor you know this, or you should. What I suggested, Eddie—a little revenge sex—gives her back some of that control. To me, that’s a pretty simple solution. You know what they say about two playing that game, and maybe when her husband finds out she’s been playing—and you know he’d never suspect she would, men never do—he might just rethink his playing if he wants that marriage to work out. If he doesn’t and he leaves, she’s better off without him.”

“Adultery, Doctor McCarthy, is never the solution. Not to any problem. It’s only a means to compound it.”

It was time to end this now. He was drifting off into levelheaded land, where it was hard to combat his real logic with Val sense. Meaning she had to cut him off before Edward succeeded in besting Valentine. That was not what her listeners wanted.

Roxy drew in a steadying breath, and looked to Astrid for her end-the-segment signal, but instead got the stretch sign, meaning she was going to have to roll this all the way to the next commercial break. “Adultery isn’t an issue for the husband, since he started it, Doctor, so don’t make it an issue for the wife, too.” She twisted toward Astrid, and gave her the slash-throat signal, but Astrid shook her head.’ Roxy shook her head emphatically, but Astrid countered with a nod to which Roxy mouthed the words, “You’re fired.” Astrid responded with a gesture Roxy knew was coming and turned away from before she saw it.

“I wouldn’t have to make it an issue for the wife, Doctor McCarthy, if you hadn’t given her license to go out and do what feels good simply as a way of getting back at her husband. But you did, and now…”

“And now nothing,” she countered. “It’s sex, Doctor Craig. Sex for the sake of getting even. Nooky for nooky, and that’s all it is, so don’t blow it out of proportion, okay?” A little over the top, she thought. Roxy had personal reactions. Val didn’t. Not ever. So, it was time to take a deep breath, refocus and bring Val back to the front of the line before Roxy went reactionary again and torpedoed the ratings.

“You know, Edward…” She whispered his name this time. Drew it out, turned it into husky need and silk sheets and promises. “It’s Friday…a little after midnight now. You should be in bed with someone…in bed and making mad, passionate love. You should be sweaty, and gasping for air, and on the verge of an orgasm so explosive you can literally feel the earth move. And afterwards, you should be sipping champagne in a bubble bath with her…I’m assuming it’s a her…and kissing her toes, feeling that familiar stirring down under the bubbles…the stirring that won’t let you make it all the way back to the bed this time. But you’re not. You’re on the phone debating sexual advice with a radio psychologist instead of indulging in some of those mighty fine pleasures yourself…pleasures I would certainly be indulging in if I weren’t working.” Yeah, right. Pleasures she hadn’t had since—she couldn’t remember when. “So I’m wondering, Doctor Edward Craig, why aren’t you?”

She shut her eyes, envisioning a wildly sexy Doctor Craig on her beach—she always envisioned him as wildly sexy—then jerked her eyes back open and glanced at Astrid, imploring her to end this thing. Which Astrid did with a slash gesture across her throat, laughing at the same time. Just in the nick of time, because that last image on the beach took deep root, wouldn’t go away even when her eyes were open.

“It’s not always about sex, Valentine,” Edward continued. “Sometimes it’s about making love. And that, my dear, is always the best sex, physically and emotionally. But we’ll save those fine distinctions for another night, if that’s okay with you.” With that, he clicked off.

The image of him on her beach still floating around in her head, Roxy grudgingly gave him a mark for that last remark. He deserved one every now and then. After all, Edward Craig translated into good rating points.

And good fantasies, when she let him. Very good fantasies.

“Be right back, sugars,” she said to her listeners. Then she grabbed the truffle, popped it into her mouth, and sank back into her chair to savor the taste.

2

Still Later, and Not a Creature Was Stirring, Except…

DRIP…DRIP…DRIP. Roxy shifted her stare from the computer screen, where she was designing the Rose Palace—her future home on the Sound—to the leaky kitchen faucet. An upright, with a nice, graceful, swan-curved neck and one handle. Drip! “Damn,” she muttered. She’d called that maintenance guy about it twice now. Begged him to come de-drip the durn thing. She’d been pretty blunt about how much it was annoying her, too, and how she really needed him over there as soon as possible. Which was yesterday, when it wasn’t even so much of an annoying drip as an occasional one.

So what if her call did have the dual purpose of drip-busting and getting an up-close and personal look at the man? Preferably from behind. Admittedly, she’d watched him a time or two. Or more. From the peephole in her door, from the elevator, in the lobby. He was the kind worth stopping and staring at. Gorgeous bod. Tight. She was betting six-pack abs under his T-shirt. A real appealing package in her 3D life—dull, dreary, dismal—even if all she got to do was look. Looking was good, though. Safe. Uninvolved. Easy.

Too bad she hadn’t taken that road the first time. But the appeal of a starving artist had seemed romantic at age twenty. Wore off fast, thank heavens. Funny how her working three jobs so that he could stare out the loft window and think about painting had a way of doing that.

So now she only looked. And Mr. Handyman was a looker well worth the effort. She was thanking her leaky swan-necked for choosing to slaver at that propitious moment, even if, so far, the plumbing Galahad had not come running to her watery rescue. All things considered, she thought she’d been pretty patient about waiting for him to haul his lethally fabulous butt through her front door to obliterate that damned dribble. But now it was getting ridiculous. The drip was running amuck and Roxy was actually more interested in a solution than the butt! Such a sad state of affairs. And pathetic.

Pathetic but true, Roxy. Admit it. Here it was, 3:30 a.m., and the damnable drippity-drip was so loud she just knew her snoopy neighbor on the other side of the wall would start banging out a Beethoven symphony. From day one in her apartment—was it only a month now?—he, she or whatever had pounded whenever Roxy sneezed, blinked, or when the light in her fridge came on. She did try hard to stay mouse quiet. Didn’t wear shoes, listened to music only through headphones, didn’t swing from the chandelier. The wee hours had always been good to her, and getting home at two-thirty every morning all wide-eyed and raring to do anything other than sleep furnished her with oodles of time to design her new house.

Until she moved in here. And Mr. Gorgeous Handyman cruising the hall in his drop-dead tool belt didn’t offset the inconvenience of having her nights interrupted by the Pounder.

Her house…. Roxy smiled, just thinking about it. It would be good. Better than that, it would be all hers with her own personal brand on every single aspect of it. She liked that, the total control, at least at this stage of the planning. The house that Roxy built, or would build, as soon as he got over here and took care of that demon drip from the very bowels of hydrous hell. It was driving her insane right now, not to mention ruining her creativity! And just when she was all set to choose between marble or granite on the…no, wait. That couldn’t be right. Marble or granite dining room chairs? Where’d the bathroom vanity go?

That demented demon drip stole it!

Roxy’s gaze shifted back over to the culpable faucet, the one devising its next move against her, and she scrunched her face into an I-dare-you-to-drip-one-more-time glare. Fat lot of good that did, because at that very moment the fiendish faucet morphed itself into a living, breathing entity, one blatantly defying her to do something about it. Okay bitch, you asked for it. Take this… Drip! One single, solitary drip! A laugh! That’s what it was. The faucet Lucifer was laughing at her. Ddd…ri…ppp! This time an exclamation point after the laugh! “That does it,” she snapped. Roxy stormed across the kitchen floor and smacked the faucet with her open palm. “Ouch,” she squealed, pulling her hand back and shaking it. Didn’t phase the drip at all. In fact, the dribbles started coming in punctuated pairs. Drip, drip! Ha, ha, ha! Drip, drip! Ha, ha, ha! Double-drip dare ya!

Of course, Pounder on the other side of the wall started right up.

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord for ear-plugs, please,” Roxy muttered, pulling open her junk drawer to see if anything in it was up to the task of silencing the one-handled dribble monster. A wrench, a sledgehammer, a stick of dynamite! As she expected, though, there wasn’t a single, solitary usable thing in there—only a red plastic flashlight with dead batteries, naturally, some emergency candles with no matches, of course, and a fistful of wooden skewer sticks, not that she’d ever skewered a thing in her life. Well, maybe Pounder once or twice…in her dreams. But nothing labeled drip-fixer.

Frustrated that a pipe wrench hadn’t magically materialized when she needed it, Roxy started to slam the drawer shut, but caught herself in the nick of time, gently pushing it back into its place lest the wall-banging dervish on the other side started all over. Then she glared at the dreaded wall, “I hate this place, I hate this place.” Close her eyes, click her heels three times and maybe she’d land in the Rose Palace.

But mercifully, this apartment was only a temp—a refuge from the rodents and roaches and fleas, oh my! in her former apartment. And it was a quick hop to work as well—a stopgap until the Rose Palace was built, which she hoped wouldn’t be more than a year down the road. Provided he, the fixer of drips, ever got his pipe wrench over here.

Drip…ka-drip…ka-drip…drrrripppp…

“Okay, that’s it!” Roxy didn’t care what time it was. She’d already been reasonable with the guy, it didn’t work, so now it was time for him to come play on her turf during her hours. And she had his number. Right at the top of an important phone numbers list stuck to her fridge, just below her fave food deliveries—pizza first, then Chinese. So, he was about to make a little home delivery himself, substituting tool belt for pepperoni, and a pipe wrench for egg roll. It was time for Mr. Dazzling Derriere to get over there and prove just what he was good for, other than filling out his jeans in some really unbelievable ways.

“Six-three-three,” Roxy repeated the phone number from the list as she dialed. “You’d better be home…with all your tools ready to go.” She drummed her fingers impatiently on the countertop as the first four rings went by unanswered. By the sixth ring, she was tapping her right foot. “Two more rings, then I’m going to…”

“Hello.” The voice was a little jagged, a little thick, a whole lot gruff. And sexier than anything she’d ever heard at 3:38 in the morning. Or any other time of the morning, for that matter. This guy could be worth two truffles, she thought. But I’ll trade you two truffles for one fixed drip. That’s how desperate she was!

“Is this building maintenance? You are the handyman, aren’t you?” She didn’t even know his name. Hadn’t bothered asking. No need, since enjoying the marvelous view had been more than enough for her—until now.

“Call back in the morning.”

Certainly not a very friendly response for someone who dealt with the public, Roxy thought. “In the morning I’ll need an ark. You don’t happen to have one handy, do you? Or some bailing buckets?”

“Huh?”

“My faucet’s leaking. More like gushing all over the place. By morning my apartment’s going to be flooded.” Well, maybe that was a slight exaggeration, but demented drips called for desperate measures. “I need someone to come over here right now to fix it, before it starts leaking through the floor into the apartment below.” Well, maybe another teensy, weensy exaggeration. But if that’s what it would take to get him over there…

“Do you know what time it is, lady?” He was making no attempt to hide his irritation. “Because if this isn’t an emergency…” Bordering on downright hostile. But still so sexy she was thinking junk food. Always the infallible substitute.

“Well…” Roxy shrugged, then looked at the bug-eyed, tail-ticking cat clock on the wall. “Yep, I know exactly what time it is. I know what time it was when I called before—both times. And I called at respectable times then—you know, during the day, when you had that message on your voice mail saying to leave a message, that you’d call right back. But that didn’t work, did it? Since you never called back, and you never came over. So this time I thought if I called in the middle of the night when you’d probably be sleeping, I could wake you up and talk to you directly.” Roxy shut her eyes, trying to conjure up his sleeping image. Dark and brooding, hair tousled, sheet coming up only to his waist. Strong arms, naked chest…He wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing under the sheet because men like that always slept in the nude. Or they should, anyway. Damn waste of a lot of good maleness if they didn’t. God, she needed a Twinkie. “And since you’re up right now, why don’t you come on over here and do something about the drip? Okay?” With or without clothes.

“I’ll put you on the list for first thing in the morning,” he grumbled.

A turndown? He was actually refusing after she pleaded her case so eloquently? Well, that wasn’t good enough. If she had to suffer the drip, so did he. Roxy gritted her teeth for the next round. “Which is when? Nine o’clock? Ten o’clock? It can’t wait that long. It’s already oozing through the floorboards. You’ll be getting a call from my downstairs neighbor any minute.”

“Then go stick your finger in the dike, lady. That’ll hold it until morning.”

Roxy’s foot began its impatient tapping again. At this rate there really would be a flood before he got over there. “So, will a bribe work on you?” she blurted into the phone. Drip, drip. “Anything I have, short of sexual favors.” Of course, if he came over there the way she’d pictured him in bed… “Just please, come and take care of it right now. Okay? Or bring me a pipe wrench so I can do it myself.”

“You ever used a pipe wrench, lady?”

“Well, no. But how hard could it be? You clamp it on the pipe then twist.”

“All that leaks isn’t in the pipe.”

“Hey, I’ve got plenty of Bob Vila tapes and I know how to use them.” The only response to what she thought was a reasonable request was an audible, and very vexed, sigh. So she continued. “And if you let me use your tool I’ll promise not to ever call you at three-thirty in the morning again.”

“Three-forty,” he grunted. “And no way in hell are you touching my tool.”

Touching his tool…Boy, oh boy, the ideas that came with that. The ideas and the images. You wish I’d touch your tool, Mr. Handyman! “Three-forty,” she agreed. “So if your tool is off-limits, that means you’re coming over and doing it yourself. Right?” It was beginning to sound promising, from a purely plumbing perspective, of course.

“Who the hell are you, and where the hell do you live?”

So he wasn’t very friendly. Brooding and temperamental types were good, too. Especially when they packed a pipe wrench. And right now, the wrench was all she really wanted. “Roxy Rose. Apartment five-B.”

“Five minutes.” Then he hung up.

Five minutes—just enough time for him to get dressed. Damn! Another fantasy shot to pieces.

On her way from the kitchen into the dining nook she used as her office, Roxy passed by a large hall mirror and stopped, then hopped up on a plastic step to appraise her face. Whoever had hung that mirror must have been hanging it for Amazon women, because in her full five-foot-two glory she could just barely see her face. In fact, the mirror chopped her off at the nose, giving her a clear shot only of her eyes and forehead. So she’d bought the step. Easy solution. Just the way she liked things—easy.

Roxy smiled at the reflection and pushed her tangle of uncombed hair back from her face. “It’s a natural look, trendy-chic,” she always claimed, when friends asked why it was sticking out in odd directions, different odd directions. Truth was, she didn’t like the bother of fixing it, and she’d owned that disarrayed look long before it had become trendy-chic. “Oh well,” she sighed. “It’s not like this is a date.” Besides, no one had ever accused her of being a trendsetter—not in Roxy-mode. Roxy was no-fuss, nomuss, no makeup, with no particular concern over it. Trendy was Val’s gig, one she used for special appearances, photo shoots and the like. Geez, those mugs of her on the city buses. All over Seattle. Here a Valentine, there a Valentine, everywhere a Valentine. And all those billboards. Yikes! There were certain stretches of road she assiduously avoided because she loathed and detested being looked down upon by the pseudo-her camouflaged up to fit the public perception.

Hopping off the step, Roxy wondered if now would be a good time to get Mr. Beautiful Buns to lower the mirror, since he was already going to be there with his tools. Does-n’t hurt to ask, she decided, kicking her step back to the wall. Probably wouldn’t hurt to throw on a tighter T-shirt, either.

“WHO’S THERE?”

“It’s three forty-five, lady. Who do you think it is?”

“Can you show me some identification please—slip it under the door?”

“Lady, the only ID I have on me is my pipe wrench. So open up or I’m going back to bed.”

Smiling, she knew what ID she wanted to see. Yeah, like she’d really ask him to turn around so she could take a look. Only in your dreams, Rox. “Well, hold out that pipe wrench where I can see it,” she said, opening the door an inch. And there it was, his tool thrust right out there at her, and right behind it bare chest. Bare chest every bit as good as his backside. The she-gods were loving her tonight because this was pure, glorious male potency at its best. “Okay, I’m going to trust that that’s a pipe wrench.” Not that she had even looked at the wrench.

“It’s a pipe wrench, lady, so do you want me coming in and using it, because I’m two seconds away from going back across the hall to bed. Which is where I should have stayed in the first place.”

Mercy, mercy, please come in and use it. “Across the hall, as in you’re my neighbor?” Through the crack in the door, Roxy’s eyes wandered from his chest, down the low-riding jeans to his bare feet then back up to his chest. Hairless—somewhat surprising, since men with black hair usually had a fine mat on their chest. But his chest was boldly bare, showing off his flat, rippled stomach. Oh, my heavens, a six-pack! “I guess I’ve just been too busy to meet—”

“Your leak, lady?” he interrupted, his lack of interest in neighborly chitchat made abundantly clear by his testy intonation.

Roxy’s eyes went back up to his face. Except for the furious scowl it wasn’t bad—not bad at all. Probably the first time she’d looked past his…endowments, and she sure liked what she was seeing. Whiskey-brown eyes, dark eyebrows, and that nighttime shadow of stubble. Now, that would be something real nice to wake up to. She remembered waking up to Bruce. He looked more like the bad end of a mop in the mornings. “Please come in…um…neighbor.” She unlatched the chain, opened the door and pointed to the kitchen. “It’s through the living room…”

“I know where the kitchen is,” he snapped, his testiness booting up another notch.

“I guess you would…did you mention your name, by the way?”

“Ned,” he grunted in passing. “Ned Proctor.”

“Well, Ned Proctor. Welcome to my apartment.” Stepping back as he whooshed by, Roxy caught a trace of his scent. He smells great, too. Could this get any better? He was like a fresh splash of something bold and virile, unlike her one and only date in the past three months. What was his name? Michael? Or was it Rupert? Whichever…he’d shown up smelling like an array of discount cologne samples, and she’d sneezed her way around the first block with him before jumping out of his car and hoofing it all the way home—in the fresh air. It took a whole month for her aching sinuses to completely recover from that redolent attack.

“It’s been driving me insane,” she said, watching from the doorway while he tried to manipulate the faucet’s single handle to stop the drip. “And that won’t work. I’ve tried.” For Ned, it was scarcely dripping now. Barely one drop every five seconds, and a puny little drip at that. An ugly plumbing conspiracy meant to make her look silly.

“You couldn’t have lived with that drip until morning, Mizzz Rose?” Glancing down at the floor, he shook his head, letting out the impatient sigh she was already coming to know quite well. “It’s not exactly pouring over, getting ready to flood the apartment below, is it?”

“I’m on…a project. All the dripping was breaking my concentration.”

Frowning, Ned glanced across at Roxy’s makeshift, make-a-house desk area next to the pantry. “It needs a washer, and I don’t have a washer.” He tucked his tool in the waistband of his jeans and headed for the door. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Come on, Ned. I’ve been calling you for days.”

“One day, two times,” he grunted. “And you were on the list.”

“Well, I don’t want to go back on the list.”

“First thing in the morning.”

“I sleep all morning.”

“Then I guess you’ll know what it’s like to be awaken during a sound sleep, won’t you?”

Not to be thwarted on this, the night of her bathroom design, Roxy scooted in next to Ned and yanked at the faucet handle impatiently, hoping to…Well, she wasn’t sure what she hoped to do other than what he wasn’t doing—which was fixing it. But the only thing that happened was a drip that doubled in both frequency and resonance. “So, now what?”

“I’d tell you to live with it, but that’s not going to get me back to bed any quicker, is it?”

“My contract said maintenance emergencies twenty-four seven. All I need is a lousy washer.”

“All you needed was a lousy washer, lady. Heck if I know what it needs now, and I’m not going to find out until morning. What time did you say you get up?”

“Ten.”

“Then I’ll be here at eight.” He grinned at her. “G’night.”

“But what about the leak?”

“Wrap a towel around it, for Pete’s sake.” He pulled the pipe wrench out of his waistband and handed it to her. “I’ve changed my mind…be my guest.”

The wrench slipped from his hand and landed with a hollow thunk on the old wood-and-linoleum countertop. “Well, now you’ve done it,” Roxy warned, her face poker-straight.

“Done what?” he asked.

“Ten…nine…eight…seven…” Pounder next door started up on the five count, and the beat went on for nearly half a minute. “That,” she said, smiling. “That’s what I was warning you about. And this.” She opened a drawer then shut it, not particularly loud, either. With that came the encore, a sequence half again as long as the first chorus, accented, at the end of the performance, by one last clap that knocked an old, black trivet right off Roxy’s wall and into the sink. “So like I was saying, Ned,” Roxy continued, without missing a beat, “it’s driving me nuts—the dripping—and I have a lot of work to do tonight, and if you can please stop it for me, I’d be grateful.”

“How often does that happen?” he asked, nodding at the wall.

Roxy shrugged. “Not more than three, four times a night.” Grinning, “Someone over there’s a Listening Tom. Too bad for them it’s only my kitchen and not my bedroom.” Yeah, right. Sounds from the Roxy Rose boudoir were guaranteed to put anybody to sleep, including Roxy Rose herself.

Ned cleared his throat, turning back around to face the sink. “And what do you do every night to annoy her? Georgette Selby’s her name, by the way. She’s eighty-two. Sweet. Bakes chocolate chip cookies. Used to be a schoolteacher.”

“Normally, it’s just breathing.” Roxy grabbed up the pipe wrench, but he yanked it away from her. “Once in a while I eat Twinkies, and I have this little TMJ thing in my jaw…it sort of pops occasionally.”

Stepping back over to the sink, wrench in hand, Ned bumped into Roxy. “I’m going to bend down now, Miss Rose. Take a look under the sink. If you don’t mind moving back…”

Did she mind stepping back to get a better look at him bending down? About as much as she minded chocolate and orgasms and lots of money. “Just trying to see what you’re doing so I can do it myself next time. So tell me what you’re doing,” she said, struggling to reign herself back in.

“Turning off the water at the valve. That’ll stop the drip and when I get back over here at seven-thirty…”

“Eight.”

“Seven, I’ll get everything fixed up the right way.”

“Think it’s gonna work for tonight? No more drip?” The valve handle was tight and she watched him put extra muscle into his next twist—translating into something so sexy on his backside that it almost made Roxy squirm right out of her skin. Damn those baby-making hormones, anyway. They sure were in overdrive tonight. Success now, the rest later, she reminded herself. “Need another…” a slight tuchus wiggle caused her to gulp “…another tool?” she sputtered. Okay, Rox. Success now, blah, blah, blah. Remember?

“There!” he declared, rather than answering her question. “That should hold it, temporarily.” Ned’s head had barely cleared the open space under the sink when the valve groaned a plumbing obscenity, then let the full force of a geyser rip, shooting water everywhere—the walls, the ceiling, Roxy, Ned. Springing to his feet, Ned yanked the faucet handle, only to have it break off in his hand. No simple fixes now. It was a full-out water cataclysm in need of some instantaneous plumbing surgery, and Ned’s only surgical instrument or know-how, it seemed, was a pipe wrench that clunked to the floor when he leapt back from the deluge.

Scrambling to avoid the fat force of the spray, lest she be caught up in a full-frontal wet T-shirt look, Roxy darted into the bathroom, grabbed up an armful of towels, and dashed back into the kitchen only to find Ned standing there in the middle of Niagara Falls clutching a cell phone, staring down at his pipe wrench. “Don’t just stand there,” she cried. “Stop it. Turn something. Or plug something up.”

Ned shrugged. “The plumber will be here in a few minutes.”

Shaking her head, Roxy stared at the kitchen wall, awaiting the inevitable. And sure enough, before she could even blink, Georgette “Pounder” Selby commenced doing her thing, this time, it seemed, with two fists, and perhaps, a foot.

3

Monday Night and All Is Dry

“WELL, HE’S NOT BAD to look at, but with a pipe wrench he’s lethal, and not in a good way.” Three nights since the great flood and Roxy’s apartment still wasn’t back to normal. To his credit, Ned had sent in a water damage restoration crew, and nothing was permanently ruined. Just soggy.

“And he didn’t come back after he did all that?” Astrid handed Roxy the broadcast notes for the night. Nothing out of the ordinary—a new sponsor, a proposal from station management to add another hour of programming at the top end of her show, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense since her show was called Midnight Special and not Eleven o’clock Special. “They might as well make me drive-time,” she snorted. Drive-time, either morning or afternoon, was a coveted slot. But a deadly one for Roxy’s show since her late-night topics weren’t even close to drive-time subject matter.

“They know you won’t do it,” Astrid said, “but they keep hoping.”

“They’re lucky they get two hours of me a night. And they know that!” Of course, she was lucky to get those two hours, and she knew that. Hiring someone who’d jumped right from clinical counselor to talk-show host in the blink of an eye, and without any radio experience, had been a big risk for her station owners. And now, backing her in a syndication deal, and letting her continue to broadcast from their facilities was a heck of a nice thing to do. Of course, she would own that show, with a piece of it going to Astrid and generous compensation to her station owners, so it was a win-win thing all the way around. She hoped. Gosh, did she hope.

“So you said he wasn’t wearing a shirt when he came over?” Astrid waved at Doyle who was settling into his chair in the engineering booth, ready to scarf down a pizza.

“Nothing but jeans, and I swear…” she raised her hand into the air as if swearing a solemn oath “…I was good. I mean this guy is…like…the best thing you’ve ever had in your dreams—or fantasies—right there in my apartment in the middle of the night. And all I can do is stand there practically drooling. Not that he would have noticed.” Roxy waved at Doyle, too, then sat down in her chair. Still thirty minutes until air. She spread out her latest house plans on the desk. Coming along pretty well, except that aviary where the kitchen should go. “Then I didn’t even see him in the hall all weekend. Not once. I mean, he’s right across from me, so I kept watching, but I don’t think he even opened his door all weekend. Worse than that, he sent this big, burly plumber over—the kind whose pants didn’t quite make it up to his belt line by a good four inches. Believe me, that’s not the bare butt I wanted to be seeing in my kitchen. But it’s fixed, so I may never see him again. The handyman, not the plumber, who I never want to see again.”

“So unfix something,” Astrid suggested. “Then call him back over.”

Roxy laughed. “You’ve been hanging around me too long. I already did that this morning. The bedroom window doesn’t seem to open anymore. Imagine that.”

“Bedroom?” Astrid raised her eyebrows. “Nothing subtle about that, is there?”

“Mind if I interrupt you two with some work matters and do sound levels now?” Doyle asked, still chewing his last bite.

“Check away,” Roxy answered, then laughed. “Which is what I’ll be saying to Mr. Pipe Wrench in a few hours, I hope.”

“In the middle of the night again?” Astrid asked.

“Best time. Just ask Doctor Val. I think for once the two of us would agree on something.” Roxy folded her latest house plans and crammed them in her canvas briefcase. “I think I may have to go buy another home design program. This one seems to have some kinks in it.”

“Could you squeeze in a couple of promos before we go on?” Astrid asked. Then turning to the engineering booth window, she asked Doyle, “Think we could get them in? I know I shouldn’t be springing this on you at the last minute, but management wants a couple of spots to stick on in evening drive-time. They think it’ll tap a new audience.”

“Always drive-time,” Roxy sighed. “But if it brings ’em in, what the heck.”

“Just give me five, and I’ll be good to go,” Doyle called back.

One pizza slice left, he was obviously debating whether to cram it down or leave it for later. Knowing Doyle, he’d go for the cram and order a whole ‘nother pizza for later. “Extra cheese,” Roxy said. “Thin crust. I’ll buy.”

He winked at her before he bit into the last slice. “You bet you will, sugar.”

“Here’s the copy. Go over it a couple of times before you do it.” Astrid plunked some papers down in front of Roxy.

“I prefer to do it spontaneously,” Roxy called after her.

“Just as long as you get the name in…”

“I know. Five times.”

“Seven, if you can. Plus the time it comes on.”

“Like anybody listening in drive-time will still be up to hear me.” These were the people who did Monday through Friday, nine to five. According to market research they were heading to bed after the eleven o’clock news, so there was no chance she was reaching the right audience with drive-time promos. But free advertising was free advertising. “So Doyle, are you ready?”

“For you, babe, I’m always ready. Let me cue up then I’ll give you the count.”

He was on the five count when Roxy picked up her copy and looked at it for the first time.

“One,” from Doyle.

“Good evening, sugars. This is Doctor Val reminding you to tune in tonight as we talk about love, sex, and all the other little things that rock your world…and mine.” Including a building maintenance man who was a solid ten on the rock scale. “I promise to have an extra-specially good show for you tonight, but you won’t know how good until you turn me on.” Ad-lib time because the rest of it was drivel. “And I do so want you to turn me on.” Much better. Much more Val. “So stop by and check me out on Midnight Special at…well, midnight. The best hour of every night for everything. I’ll be waiting for you, sugars.”

Doyle gave her the cut sign, and Roxy wadded the copy and lobbed it into the trash. “I know, I only got the name in once, but they’ll get the drift.”

“And I do so want you to turn me on,” Doyle mimicked. “Doctor Val, raising erections all over the interstate. I can just see all the accident reports. So is the next promo better than this one?”

“Aren’t you the critic?” Astrid snapped at Doyle.

“Hey, I call ’em as I hear ’em.” Doyle gave the cue sign for the next promo just as Roxy slid the copy sideways until it flittered down into the trash can. One more ad-lib coming up, but this one all the way.

“Hello out there in rush-hour traffic. This is Doctor Val with two pieces of advice for you. One is listen to my program, Midnight Special. You’ll be amazed what you’ll hear in grown-up time when we can talk about the good things, the sexy things you’ll never hear on your way home from work. And the other piece of advice is drive naked, sugars. Makes the whole experience much more fun, especially if everybody else commuting right along with you is driving naked, too. So try it, then call me tonight at midnight and let me know if it was good for you, ‘cause, if I’m the one commuting next to you, I’ll be watching, and it’ll sure be good for me. Midnight Special every night at…midnight.”

Roxy turned to Astrid. “Got the name in more.”

“And you’ve got two minutes to do the right one,” Astrid yelled from her glass booth. “Doyle, erase that last mess and get ready for the correct promo.”

“Yeah, Doyle,” Roxy said, grudgingly grabbing the copy from the trash. “Cue me up to do the really good one. The one that will put everybody to sleep.”

Smiling, he gave her the sign, and Roxy read, “This is Doctor Val reminding you to listen to Midnight Special every weeknight at midnight. On Midnight Special we’re full of all kinds of surprises…” She couldn’t help herself. “And on Midnight Special we like to talk real dirty. Lots of sex on Midnight Special. So if you like sex, if that’s what makes you hot at midnight, you’d better tune in and listen to just how hot it can get on Midnight Special. ‘Cause sugars, Valentine gets hot every night on Midnight Special. That’s Midnight Special every weeknight at midnight.” She made a slashing gesture at Doyle and grinned at Astrid. “Seven times, count them. So is that better?”

“After work, the real thing. And Doyle’s locking the doors so you can’t get away,” Astrid grumbled, sitting down in her chair.

“You didn’t really expect me to stick to plain old boring, did you?” Roxy countered.

“Boring pays the—”

“I know,” Roxy said. “It pays the bills, but it doesn’t attract the listeners. And without listeners, there’s no program, and without a program we’re all slapping burgers on a grill somewhere down on the waterfront.” Astrid with her business degree, Doyle with one in engineering and Roxy’s in psychology—the trio couldn’t flip a burger together. But the burger-flipping imagery was good, she thought. “So I do what I have to do to keep us in this job.” She laughed. “And deep down you know I’m right, even though you won’t admit it. So just edit it, okay? Whatever you thinks works.”

“Five minutes,” Doyle said.

Roxy glanced up at the clock, wondering momentarily if Doctor Craig would be calling tonight. For sure he would if her ad-libbed, driving naked promo made it out on the air. Too bad Doyle had erased it.

Then briefly, Roxy imagined Ned Proctor driving naked.

ALMOST MIDNIGHT. He was tempted to turn on the radio and listen to the reigning queen of babble, since his plan to wander across the hall and ask Roxy Rose how her plumbing was doing went down the dumper when she went out a couple of hours ago. Going back across the hall…He’d been wanting to do that for several days now, but he needed some distance between himself and that whole humiliating faucet incident. What was he thinking, anyway, strapping on a tool belt and playing handyman? “Good disguise, Ned,” he muttered, plodding to the fridge for a beer. Three now, on an empty stomach, and he was getting a little buzz. But he didn’t care, since all he was going to do was settle in. “Bet she really bought that handyman bit hook, line and bailing bucket,” he added sarcastically.

He’d been watching Mizzz Rose for the past month, since she’d moved in. Quick glances in the hall mostly. Cute as hell. Sexy, actually. She was like an approaching electrical storm, all full of spark and sizzle. And sure, she was a little off center from normal, in the sense of the women he usually dated, anyway. They were all pretty much run-of-the-mill—good-looking, a lot taller, a whole lot more sophisticated. But Mizzz Rose fascinated him. Had since the day Oswald, the building super, had rented her the apartment across the hall from him and she burst into it like a tornado sweeping through a wide-open Oklahoma plain.

Sure, he’d wanted an introduction to her. Just not the one he’d gotten. There was no turning back from an embarrassment like that one, and no conceivable way to undo it, except maybe switch apartments. Which was as easily said as done, since he owned the building. Unfortunately, it was full right now, with a pretty long waiting list. Nothing open except the boiler room in the basement. So he was staying put for the time being, abject humiliation notwithstanding.

“So do I avoid her, Hep?” he asked his Siamese cat. She was named after Katharine Hepburn—elegance galore with a set of big claws. “Or just pretend it didn’t happen?”

Hep’s answer was a guttural I don’t give a damn growl, as she strutted through the kitchen, back arched, tail up, in search of a fluffed pillow for her nighttime nap.

“You’re right. Just ignore it.” Plodding back into his study with his beer and a bag of chips, Ned looked at the jumble of words on the computer screen, decided to call it a day, hit save then backed it up. No reason killing himself over this one. It wasn’t like he hadn’t cranked out a dozen books just like it before. Pop psychology had a way of bringing out all kinds of issues in people who’d never before had an issue until they read one of his books. To date, twelve bestsellers—the reason he could afford this building. A good investment, his financial guy had told him. Not that he wanted to be a landlord, because he didn’t. But he had to do something with the money he was making. And real estate was as good as anything else. Gave him a place to live, too—an upside that didn’t matter much, since he’d managed to get along for thirty-five years without getting himself too entangled in the usual trappings.

“Well, what will she be doing tonight?” he asked Hep, as he settled into his trusty ten-year-old recliner to listen to Doctor Val McCarthy. Pretty much everything that came out of her mouth was wrong. Bad psychology, bad advice, bad reasoning. But what the hell. She killed a couple of hours, and he sure liked her voice. It was a nice one to hear last thing before he nodded off.

“Welcome to Midnight Special, sugars. Are you ready for something special? Because if you are, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Doctor Val has something extra-specially special for you tonight.”

“That’s what she thinks,” Ned snorted, stretching out in his chair and turning off the floor stand reading light.

“So tell me, what’s on your mind,” Val continued.

“Don’t worry. I always do.” Callers number one, two and three all rang with cheating spouses, boyfriends or both. And Val pretty much rang true with her advice, which was becoming predictable, Ned thought. Same ol’ same ol’. Of course, how many ways could you spin it? You either dump them or you keep them. He chuckled. Or sleep with their significant other’s significant other. That certainly wasn’t a theory he’d seen in any of the books he’d read. Or written!

“Just be true to yourself,” Valentine said, wrapping up a conversation he’d apparently spaced out on. But she was right. Too bad he’d missed it. “There are more big hunks out there for you if you want to go looking. Make sure you’re looking in the right place, though. Someplace without a wedding ring, because if you get yourself hooked into that again, like you did last time, you’ll end up like you are now, wondering why he’s wandering. Now Doctor Val’s gonna go treat herself to something sweet for two minutes. So sugars, I’ll be right back, better than ever.”

“Two minutes, Hep? So she can go look under a rock for more advice?” Chuckling, Ned grabbed his cell phone and punched in the number for Midnight Special. “I have a question for Doctor Val,” he said, when a live voice came on. His Ned voice, only a little higher, because he didn’t want anybody he knew hearing him call that hack. It was a little slurred, too, he noticed, thanks to that beer buzz he had going and a rasp of exhaustion. “But it doesn’t involve a cheating spouse. Do you think she’ll answer my question, anyway?”

“And the nature of your problem is?” the voice on the other end asked. They always qualified the callers. Some made it through, a lot didn’t. He kept his fingers crossed.

“Met a woman I’d like to impress, but the first thing I ever did was pretty damned inept. Performance anxiety, I’d guess you could call it, and now I’m embarrassed to see her again. I just want to know some ways I could start it over between us. Or if I can start it over.” Sure, he’d twist it until it sounded like this was about bad bed performance. But never, ever let ’em know how he’d failed with a pipe wrench. Man, oh man, talk about bored silly, doing something like this. But since Roxy wasn’t home, he wouldn’t get the do-over he’d been plotting all weekend in case he ran into her again. Shutting his eyes, Ned cringed.

“You’ll be caller number one in the next segment,” the screener told him.

“That’s fast.” Actually, this wasn’t the call he’d intended to make. It just sort of slipped out. But what the hell! Go for it, anyway.

“Well, normally we hold that slot for someone else, a program regular, but apparently that’s not happening tonight, so you’re in luck. Just make sure you turn off your radio, okay? And no swearing or graphic words, because we’ll have to cut you off.”

Two minutes later, he got the cue. “Hello, sugar. And what can Doctor Val help you with tonight? I understand you sort of embarrassed yourself the first time you were with her and you’re looking for a way to redeem yourself? Is that it?”

Ned cleared his throat, not so much because he was nervous, but because he was preparing to raise the pitch a tad more, just in case Roxy was listening. Bad with a pipe wrench and getting advice from a radio shrink. Two strikes for sure. “I’ve wanted to meet her for a while,” he began. “And I finally did. But something happened, and yeah, I guess you could say I embarrassed myself.”

“How? We’re all on your side, so tell us the juicy.”

“Let’s just say it was something that comes naturally to most men, and I thought I could do it, but I found myself lacking in the skill. And she was definitely in need of that skill, but I had to call in someone else to help her out when I couldn’t, well, take care of the job.” Ned smiled. Should be interesting.

“You say you called in someone else to finish up for you?”

“That’s what happened, but that’s not why I called you. I just wanted your opinion on whether or not I should try it again with her. If you think she’ll have me back. And how you might suggest that I go about it after humiliating myself like I did the first time.”

“Well, I’m not a medical doctor, but I do know that it happens to all men at one time or another. No need to be embarrassed. And I’ve got to admit that Doctor Val is somewhat amazed at the lengths you’d go to for that woman of yours. Calling in someone else to finish—don’t think I’ve ever heard that one before. But if it was between three consenting adults, I guess that’s okay. I’m curious though. Since you were the one at the starting gate, wouldn’t you rather be the one at the finish, too? And since you were her first choice, I’m assuming she’d like you to go the distance with her. So does she? Does she want you there with her at trophy time?”

“That’s the problem…I really don’t know. After what I did…”

“Give it another shot. I mean, this gal is really lucky to have someone so considerate, someone who cares about her pleasure and fulfillment more than he does his own. And I’m betting she’ll be glad to have you back. Just make sure you take a little blue pill with you next time. Okay, sugar? Go on and knock on her door and tell her you want to give it another try.”

“WHAT WAS THAT?” Roxy asked Astrid on the next break. “I mean, he’s sending in the second string. Think the high and mighty Doctor Craig was listening? ‘Cause I’d sure like to hear what he has to say on the subject. Especially since it’s not me being off the wall for a change.”

“He’s in the queue. Just called in,” Astrid said. “And he was listening. In fact, he’s raring to go.”

Roxy smiled. “Should be interesting.”

“Twenty,” Doyle called. “And if you give me the last caller’s name, I’d be glad to stand in for him sometime when he needs that second string.”

“I’ll bet you would.” Roxy laughed. “You and every other guy listening tonight, except Doctor Craig, who wouldn’t even volunteer to stand in for himself.”

“Five, four, three…” Doyle gave her the cue to go.

“Well, Doctor Craig. Welcome back. You’re a little late, and I was beginning to think you were cheating on us, plying some other late-night talk show with your refutable advice.”

“Not a chance, Doctor. Not after what I just heard. Your callers need someone to set them straight—”

He sounds a little tired, she thought. Probably exhausted himself coming up with a response. “Straight? You mean after I bend them, Doctor?” She glanced at her dark-chocolate truffle. Someday she was going to make that man buy her a whole box of them!

“After you bend their ears with your refutable advice.”

“Come on, Doctor. Don’t hold back. Tell me what you really think.”

“I think, Valentine, that you wouldn’t be so excited with the prospect of a pinch-hitter if you were the one committed to the regular hitter. You know, committed as in love.”

Roxy leaned back in her chair and smiled at Astrid. “Sounds like you want to get into my personal life, Edward. Is that what you’re trying to do? Catch a little glimpse of Valentine at home…in the bedroom?”

“Believe me, over the months I’ve caught that glimpse, and I threw it back.”

Wow! Pretty peckish, even for him. Roxy scrunched her nose at Astrid, like she was smelling something bad. “You’re forgetting, my caller was the one who’d already come up with a solution to his problem. At least his problem in the sack. And while that might not work for you, it seems to be working for him.”

“If it’s working so well, then why did he call you?”

“Maybe because he wants some advice on how to set things right between them, sexually.”

“So you told him to go take a pill and all his sexual problems will be over.”

“He wants sex, Doctor Craig. That’s all he asked about. Sex. Not love everlasting or some other storybook fairy tale. He likes the gal, and he wants to know if he should try it with her again.”

“I know we come from completely different disciplines, but tell me, Valentine—would you let your man line you up with someone else if he couldn’t perform?”

Her man…if only. “You’re assuming I’d get myself involved with a man who couldn’t satisfy me, which is an incorrect assumption.” Actually none of them had satisfied her, and she didn’t mean in the physical sense. But that was none of his business. “In terms of an early relationship—mine, yours, my caller’s—you simply don’t know what will satisfy you. You have an idea what you’d like, what you’ve liked in the past, but when you’re clean-slating it with someone new, it’s always a great big question mark. My caller got to that great big question mark and unfortunately he turned it into a great big huge question mark, so I told him it’s worth taking another chance on. Simple as that. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Roxy winked at Astrid, then continued. “Unless you’re burying your head in the sand, Edward, there are signals, hunches, tinglings telling you this is someone you want to pursue. And tinglings are the best indicators. The kind that start at your toes and don’t stop. Haven’t you ever met a woman and started tingling right away?”

She’d certainly started tingling the instant she saw Ned Proctor standing outside her door. Maybe even before that, when he was so grumpy on the phone. Or even before that, passing in the hall, or watching him through her peephole. Whatever the case, there had been tinglings. Strong ones. Still were when she thought about him.

“But your caller wasn’t talking about tinglings,” he countered.

“Wasn’t he? Something made him want to go back and try again, and it sure wasn’t good sex since he had to bring in the second string. And since you, Edward, are always the champion of hanging around, trying to work things out, which is what I told him to do, I don’t know how you could argue the point. Even though what my caller’s doing isn’t the way you’d do it…” Or the way she’d do it. “He deserves a do-over.” And she was betting Doctor Edward Craig had never, ever had a tingling or he’d know it was worth doing over.

“The way you’d do it, Valentine?”

Roxy leaned a little closer to the microphone. “The way I’d do it, Doctor Craig, is open to a whole lot of possibilities, many of which, I’m sure, you’ve never considered.” Possibilities she wouldn’t mind exploring with her not-so-handy handyman.

“Actually, the only one I consider is love, Valentine. That’s the only thing that comes with all those possibilities you talk about.”

Love? Well, that wasn’t one of her possibilities, no way, no how. But score one for him, anyway. When he was right he was right. Even though she’d never admit it. “You almost sound like a romantic, Doctor. But of course, I know better. You write books that espouse all that academic thinking, and your readers walk away, what? Happy? Enlightened? Glad their pockets are lighter by the cost of a book? Sorry, Doc. You’re still not ringing…or tingling my bell. And I’m sticking by what I said earlier. My caller needs to go back and try again. And take the pill with him, if that’s what it takes.”

“And I’m sticking by what I’ve said time and time again. You’ve skirted around the only truly important issue. But then, you always do, don’t you, Valentine?”

Doyle gave Roxy the slash-throat signal, then a five count into a commercial break. Good timing. The hard and fast rule for Edward Craig’s calls was that she always got the last word.

“What I skirt, Doctor, is being close-minded about issues my callers consider to be serious problems. That’s all we have time for tonight. Thanks for calling, again.” Then she was off. Truffle time!

“Whoa,” Astrid said, stepping into Roxy’s booth. “You two almost agreeing there?”

“Not agreeing,” Roxy argued.

“But getting pretty darn close. I mean, you guys were just a couple chapters off from being on the same page. Good thing you still managed to find a way to argue about it, because the last thing our listeners need is Valentine and Edward in bed together.”

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen. The guy’s a snore. The only thing in bed with him is a pillow.”

“But it was close, Rox. You know it.”

“So I agreed with him tonight…on some points. Big deal. And he was right…on some points. That caller needed a lot more than a little blue pill to fix his problems, but that’s all Valentine can do—hand out the snappy fixer-upper, which is not necessarily the best one.”

“Is this really about that caller?” Astrid asked. “Because you’re sounding more like Roxy than Val right now.”

Yeah, because she was Roxy right now. Roxy tingling over Ned. “Just tired.” And full of expectations and anticipations and not sure what to do with them. “Not my usual self, I guess.”

“Want me to stick in a rerun for the last half of the show so you can get out of here and go find your usual self?”

“Nope. I’m okay. Just pour me a root beer and I’ll do better next segment.” Roxy saw Doyle’s ten-second signal and asked Astrid, “What’s up next?”

“In a nutshell, big-time mamma’s boy, age forty-two. She’s seventy-five. He’s unmarried, two of them live together. He wants a life, she won’t let him have it, and don’t you dare tell him to take his balls back from her like you did last time one of them called, okay?”

She crossed her heart, grinning. “Promise.” And just when she thought she might have some fun. “Welcome to Midnight Special, sugar. I understand you have a little problem with your mother? So before we get started, let me just say one thing.” She really hated mamma’s boys. They were all whiners. Didn’t listen. Made excuses. Got defensive. Horrible on the ratings. Her listeners turned them off, went to get a snack, have sex, grab a beer, or all of the above. “Mamma needs a man, junior. Even at her age, she’s still got it in her. So you go out and find her one, ya hear? Find her one who will give her some good, hot mamma sex and I’ll guarantee she won’t be bothering you about whatever she bothers you about, and you’ll be able to go out and get some good, hot junior sex for yourself.”

She smiled at Astrid, giving her the thumbs-up. Val was back, all the way.

4

No 3:00 a.m. Cat-Nappin’ for Roxy

NIGHTS LIKE TONIGHT WERE made for the dumper, and Roxy didn’t dwell on the show once it was over and she was home. Done, finito, put to bed and that was it. Edward got all the points, damn him, she got none.

“Get Eddie off the brain,” she muttered, padding over to the peephole for the tenth time since she’d been home. “Time to think about you-know-who.” Except you-know-who wasn’t out there. Worse than that, he wasn’t in her apartment. So, to call him, or not to call? She wanted to. Wanted to really bad. That’s all she’d thought about all night. Probably one of the reasons why she’d hadn’t ripped apart the good Doctor Craig like she should have. But now that she was on the verge of calling Ned, she was actually nervous about going through with it. Nervous, indecisive, weak-willed, just plain chicken. Which was just totally bizarre because normally if she wanted it she went after it. And she wanted it, but her feet were lead. So were her fingers. Couldn’t dial the phone. Couldn’t go across the hall. Couldn’t even open the durn door so she could hang out in the entryway hoping he’d see her. Hi Ned. I’ve just been hanging out here in the doorway for thirteen hours hoping you’d notice me sooner or later. Go figure! No control issues here because she had no control.

“Well, no Twinkies for you tonight,” she said. It was the only decision she’d been able to make since she got home. That, and just giving it up for the night and going to bed. “Good place for us chickens, huh?” she said, plopping down in bed, and looking up at the window she’d superglued shut earlier. “Stupid. Really stu—”

“Rrrooww!”

“What the…” Roxy jumped straight up, looked around, saw the cat. It was in the corner of her bedroom, shredding the seat cushion in her rocking chair with its claws. “Who are you?” she asked, not sure whether to get up and toss the cat out, risking the same fate as her cushion, or simply let it continue wreaking its havoc undisturbed. “Kitty, tell me. What am I supposed to do here? What’s the protocol?”

The cat merely glared at her for a moment, then turned tail and lay down, apparently intent on spending the night where it was.

“You have a home, cat?” she asked. “Someone I should call?” Like it would answer her. “I’ll bet someone’s really missing you right now.” Missing it, like missing a toothache. “So why don’t you run along home.” Cats were supposed to be sweet and cuddly. This one had goblin eyes that glowed pure, luminescent evil in the dark. “Home, you know, the place where people feed you. Where people actually like you.”

No clues on where that was, but suddenly, inspiration hit, and she wanted to kiss the kitty for it…almost. “And I know just how to find out where that is,” she said, picking up her bedside phone. Ah, the lead fingers suddenly work. Punching the numbers she’d memorized the first time she’d dialed them, she was prepared for a ten-ring wait, but amazingly, Ned picked up on the second.

“Yeah, what do you want?” he said, his voice a little gruffer than she remembered his 3:00 a.m. voice to be last time.

“It’s about a cat.”

“Pet deposit’s five hundred bucks,” he snapped. “Write a check, leave it under the office door in the morning.”

“I don’t have a cat, but somebody does, somebody who’s missing one. So do you know who’s missing one? And what should I do about the one who broke into my apartment?”

“I suppose you want me to come over there at…”

“Three-oh-three,” Roxy supplied, smiling. Providence was also smiling a little, it seemed. Serendipity in the form of one cranky cat.

“Three-oh-three…and figure out where the cat belongs. Is that correct, Mizzz Rose?”

So he remembered her voice. Promising…very promising. “You have a list of pet owners in the building, don’t you? This one’s such a sweet little kitty, and I’m sure somebody’s heartbroken over losing him.” Sweet as straight lemon juice with a vinegar chaser. With claws! “And while you’re here, I have this window that sticks. Maybe you could bring your tools.”

And come without your shirt. She glanced at the irritated feline, its claws extended a good two feet and envisioned the cat scratches the beast could rake all over Ned’s chest. “Better wear your shirt,” she said grudgingly. Damn that cat, anyway.

TWO HOURS’ SLEEP. It bit through some of the exhaustion, but barely took care of the beer buzz. Well, Ned, it’s what you wanted.

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