She hadn’t hung the painting in the apartment’s most public room out of vanity, but because the natural light from the large windows displayed it best. This portrait had been more realistically executed than his later depictions of her, and looking at the figure’s soft curves and gentle shadings gave her a sense of peace. A spot of coral emphasized the slope of her breast, a brilliant patch of lemon illuminated the swell of her hip, and delicate lavender shadows were woven like silk threads through the paleness of her pubic hair. She seldom thought of the figure in the painting as herself, but as someone far better, a woman whose sexuality hadn’t been stolen from her.

Dan stood with his back to her, openly studying the painting in a way that reminded her exactly whose body was on display. As he turned to face her, she braced herself for a smarmy remark.

“Real pretty.” He walked over to one of the twig chairs. “Will this thing hold me?”

“If it breaks, I’ll send you a bill.”

As he sat, she saw that he had finally been distracted by the curves Simone’s clingy dress so blatantly displayed, and she gave a mental sigh of relief. This, at least, was familiar territory.

She smiled as she uncrossed her arms and let him look his fill. Years ago she had discovered that she could control her relationships with heterosexual men far better by playing the sexy siren than the blushing ingenue. Being the sexual aggressor put her subtly in charge. She was the one who defined the rules of the game instead of the man, and when she sent her suitor on his way, he assumed it was because he didn’t measure up to all the other men in her life. None of them ever figured out there was something wrong with her.

She added a dash of Kathleen Turner to her naturally husky voice. “What’s on your mind, Mr. Calebow? Other than the obvious.”

“The obvious?”

“Football, of course,” she replied innocently. “I can’t imagine that a man like you thinks about anything else. I know my father didn’t.”

“Now you might be surprised what a man like me thinks about.”

His hot-summer-night drawl licked her body, setting off all her internal alarm bells. She immediately hitched her hip onto the corner of a small brushed-nickel console, sending her tight skirt even higher on her thighs. Letting her sandal dangle from her toe, she uttered her lie in a silky voice. “Sorry, Mr. Calebow, but I already have more jockstraps hanging from my bedpost than I know what to do with.”

“Do you now?”

She dipped her head and gazed at him through the platinum lock of hair that brushed the corner of her eye, a pose she’d perfected years ago. “Athletes are s-o-o-o exhausting. I’ve moved on to the sort of men who wear boxer shorts.”

“Wall Street?”

“Congress.”

He laughed. “You’re making me sorry I put my wild and woolly days behind me.”