“That’s not the way the rest of us see it. She’s always stressed.”

“Being stressed is her recreation. You know that.”

“You’re so clueless. When are you going to figure out that holding on to that house is a headache she doesn’t need?”

The house. Another vulnerability. Even though Annabelle paid rent every month, she couldn’t escape the fact that she was living under Mommy’s roof.

“You need to move out of there so she can put the place on the market.”

Her spirits sank. “She wants to sell it?” As she gazed around at the shabby kitchen, she could see her grandmother standing next to the sink as they did the dishes together. Nana didn’t like messing up her manicures, so Annabelle always washed while she dried. They’d gossip about the boys Annabelle liked, about a new client Nana had just signed, talking about everything and nothing.

“I think it’s pretty clear what she wants,” Doug said. “She wants her daughter to step up to the plate and live responsibly. Instead, you’re freeloading.”

Was that what they called the rent money she barely managed to scrape up every month? Still, who was she kidding? Her mother would make a fortune if she sold this house to developers. Annabelle couldn’t take any more. “If Mom wants to sell the house, she can talk to me about it, so butt out.”

“You always do this. Can’t you, just once, discuss a problem logically?”

“If you want logic, talk to Adam. Or Candace. Or Jamison, for God’s sake, but leave me alone.”

She hung up on him like the mature thirty-one-year-old she wasn’t and promptly burst into tears. For a few moments she fought them, but then she grabbed a paper towel, sat down at the kitchen table, and gave in to her misery. She was tired of being the family outcast, tired of coming up short. And she was afraid…because no matter how much she fought it, she was falling in love with a man who was just like them.

By Monday morning, Heath still hadn’t contacted her. She had a business to run, and as much as she might want to, she couldn’t roll over and play dead any longer, so she left him a message. By Tuesday afternoon, he hadn’t replied. She was fairly certain her Oscar-winning performance had convinced him at the time that he’d only been her sex therapist, but more than a week had passed since then, and he seemed to be having second thoughts. It wasn’t in his nature to back away from confrontation, and sooner or later he’d contact her, but he’d want their showdown on his terms, which would put her at a disadvantage.

She still had Bodie’s cell number from the day they’d spent with Arté Palmer, and she used it that evening.

An early morning jogger clipped past as she wedged Sherman into a miraculously vacant parking space a few doors down from the Lincoln Park address Bodie had given her the night before. She’d set her alarm for five-thirty, a fine time for Mr. Bronicki and his cronies to hop out of bed, but hell on earth for her. After a quick shower, she’d slipped into an acid yellow sundress with a corset-structured bodice that made her feel as though she had a bust, run a little styling gel through her second-day hair, dabbed on eye makeup and a slick of gloss, and set off.