He looked from the dog to Phoebe. “If she pees on me, I’m skinnin’ her.”

Phoebe rushed forward to snatch up her pet. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

He studied her face rather than her curves, which immediately set him apart from most men. “Your doorman’s a big Giants’ fan. Heck of a nice guy. He surely enjoyed those stories I told him about my encounters with L.T.”

Phoebe had no idea who L.T. was, but she remembered the flippant instructions she’d left with Tony when she’d gone to walk Pooh. “I’m expecting a gentleman caller,” she had said. “Let him in, will you?”

The conversation she’d just had with her doorman took on a whole new light.

“Who’s L.T.?” she asked, while she tried to calm Pooh, who was struggling to get out of her arms.

Dan looked at her as if she’d just been beamed down from outer space. Sticking his fingers in the side pockets of his slacks, he said softly, “Ma’am, it’s questions like that are gonna get you in a heap of trouble at team owners’ meetings.”

“I’m not going to any team owners’ meetings,” she replied with enough saccharine to supply a Weight Watchers convention, “so it won’t be a problem.”

“Is that so?” His country boy grin was at odds with the chill in his eyes. “Well, then, ma’am, Lawrence Taylor used to be the team chaplain for the New York Giants. A real sweet-tempered gentleman who’d lead us all in prayer sessions, before the game.”

She knew she was missing something, but she wasn’t going to inquire further. His intrusion into her apartment had shaken her, and she wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible. “Mr. Calebow, as much as I adore having uninvited company scare the wits out of me, I’m afraid I don’t have time to talk right now.”

“This won’t take long.”

She could see that she wasn’t going to budge him until he’d had his say, so she did her best to assume an air of studied boredom. “Five minutes then, but I’ll have to get rid of my critter first.” She made her way to the kitchen to deposit Pooh. The poodle looked pitiable as Phoebe shut the door on her.

When she returned to her unwelcome visitor, he was standing in the middle of the room taking in the owner’s trendy decorating scheme. Frail, twig-shaped metal chairs were juxtaposed with oversized couches upholstered in charcoal gray canvas. The lacquered walls and slate floor emphasized the room’s cool, stark lines. Her own more comfortable, and considerably less expensive, furniture was in storage—everything except the large painting that hung on the room’s single unbroken wall.

The languorous nude was the first painting Arturo had done of her, and even though it was quite valuable, she would never part with it. She lay on a simple wood-framed bed in Arturo’s cottage, her blond hair spilling over the pillow as she gazed out of the canvas. The sun dappled her bare skin from the light that shone through a single window set high in the white stucco wall.