His initial reaction was nothing, but then he gave the matter some thought. “Princess, would you mind getting me something to eat? I think there’s a vending machine with fruit on the first floor. How about an apple and a banana?”

“Got it.” Cindy stood. “Do you want anything, Marge?”

“An apple sounds great.”

“On the double.”

Cindy did a jog to the elevator. When she was out of sight, Decker slumped back on the couch and closed his eyes.

“Do you want some coffee, Pete?” Marge asked.

“Nothing, thanks.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“It’s serious, Margie…I’m scared.”

He swabbed his wet cheeks with his fingers. She hugged his shoulder but didn’t speak. Decker was grateful for the silence.

3

It wasn’t as if she was narcissistic or anything as psychologically disturbed as that. It was just that hers was a body worth looking at. Like admiring a work of art.

Because that was what she was—a work of art.

Stripped down naked, sweat glistening from smooth, bronzed skin, she regarded herself in the mirror. Perfect round, pronounced breasts because of the developed pecs underneath. The just rewards of really hard work. She’d gained shape without gaining an ounce of fat. She patted her flat abdomen, did a couple of arm rolls, then ran through a couple of poses—all sleek, defined muscle.

Definitely, she had developed the definition—the cut!

She swiped her damp body with a thick white Turkish towel, then wrapped it around her trunk, eyes never leaving the mirror. Short wisps of downy-fine facial hair ran down her cheek parallel to her ear—peach-fuzz sideburns. It went with the territory. At least it was blond. Good thing, because her coloring was naturally dark.

She unclipped her hair, and black satin fell to her shoulders.

Exotic. That’s what everyone had said about her. She was exotic-looking.

Again she studied her reflection in the silver glass.

In only two years, she had turned from a nothing into a something. From a tall, shapeless form to a Greek sculpture. But she was so much more than just a perfect body. With the discipline had come the control—real control. Not the artificial kind that comes when the mind is altered by chemicals. Drugs that hide but don’t cure. Now she was in control. Her mind was as disciplined as an army general’s, as meticulously organized as a dictionary. She was master of her destiny. There was nothing she couldn’t conquer, nothing she couldn’t overcome.

Best of all, the voices had stopped.

The door opened and closed. In the mirror, she saw him coming at her. This time it was Eric. He was naked, his biceps like veined footballs. He duck-walked to her, his thighs so buffed they had rubbed the inner skin raw.

She didn’t bother to turn around, just dropped on all fours.