"It's better than a stick in the eye," she muttered. "Barely."

"I drew on your account to square your American Express bill. I don't suppose it occurred to you to fly back here coach." When she only stared coolly, he shook his head. "I don't know why I said that. You're back under the max on your Visa card, but I'd go easy on it. After you distribute the net from the sale of the flat, you'll only be about a hundred and fifty thousand in the hole, excluding interest and penalties."

"Pin money," she said dryly.

"You shouldn't plan on buying any pins for a while. Now, as your representative, I'm willing to clear your debts, and assist you in dealing with any you incur while initiating your business. You got a name for this place yet?"

"Pretenses," she said between her teeth as he flipped out more papers.

"Perfect. I've drawn up the necessary agreements."

"Have you?" she said slowly. "In triplicate?"

Warned by the tone, he looked up, met her icy stare equally. "Naturally."

"And just what would I be agreeing to, Counselor Templeton?"

"To pay back this personal loan in regular installments beginning six months after the date of signing. That gives you some breathing space. You also agree to live within your means during the term of the loan."

"I see. And what are my means, in your legal opinion?"

"I've worked up a budget for personal expenses. Food, lodging, medical."

"A budget?"

He'd expected an explosion. Even, perversely, hoped for one. Margo's tantrums were always so… stimulating. It didn't appear that he was going to be disappointed.

"A budget?" she repeated, storming to him. "Of all the unbelievable, bloody nerve. You arrogant son of a bitch. Do you think I'm going to stand here and let you treat me like some sort of brainless bimbo who needs to be told how much she can spend on face powder?"

"Face powder." Deliberately, he scanned the papers, took a pen out of his pocket, and made a quick note. "That would come under 'Miscellaneous Luxuries.' I think I've been very generous there. Now, as to your clothing allowance—"

"Allowance!" She used both hands to shove him back a step. "Just let me tell you what you can do with your fucking allowance."

"Careful, duchess." He brushed the front of his shirt. "Turnbill and Asser."

The strangled sound in her throat was the best she could do. If there had been anything, anything at all to throw, she'd have heaved it at his head. "I'd rather be picked apart, alive, by vultures than let you handle my money."

"You don't have any money," he began, but she barreled on as she whirled around the room. Watching her, he all but salivated.

"I'd rather be gang-raped by midgets, staked naked to a wasp nest, be force-fed garden slugs."