“Dean only dates party girls.”

She knew what he really meant, and a streak of masochism made her push him to say it aloud. “Spit it out. You don’t think I’m hot enough for him.”

“Stop putting words in my mouth. All I’m saying is that the two of you aren’t going to make a love connection.”

“True. But we might make a sex connection.”

She’d flung the last remnants of caution to the winds, and a long, lean finger came right at her. “You’re not having sex with him. I know these guys, and you don’t. I’m trusting you about Claudia Reeshman. You need to trust me about Dean Robillard.”

She wouldn’t let him off that easily. “You’re looking for a wife. Maybe I’m just looking for a little fun.”

“If you need fun,” he shot back, “I’ll give you fun.”

She was stunned.

A car raced by in the street outside, its radio blaring. They stared at each other. He looked surprised, too. Or maybe not. Slowly, deliberately, the corner of his mouth curled, and she realized the Python was toying with her again.

“Gotta go, Tinker Bell. I have some work I need to catch up on. Thanks for dinner.”

Only after the front door closed behind him did she manage a weak “You’re welcome.”

Yes…Yes, all right. Send him up.” Portia’s hands trembled as she set down the phone. Bodie was in the lobby.

He hadn’t called once since their date at the sports bar ten days ago, and now he’d shown up at her condo at nine o’clock on the night of the Fourth of July, expecting her to be waiting for him. She should have told the doorman to send him away, but she hadn’t.

She moved automatically toward her bedroom, stepping out of her cotton shift on the way. The Jensons had invited her out on their boat tonight to watch the fireworks, but fireworks depressed her, like most holiday rituals, and she’d declined. It had been a terrible week. First the Claudia Reeshman debacle, then the assistant she’d hired to replace SuSu Kaplan had quit, saying the job was “too stressful.” Portia desperately missed the mentoring program. She’d even tried to set up a lunch with Juanita to discuss the situation, but the director was dodging her calls.

She tried to imagine how Bodie would react to the condo she’d bought after her divorce. Because she used her home to host monthly cocktail parties for her most important clients, she’d chosen a spacious unit on the top floor of an excruciatingly expensive prewar limestone just off Lakeshore Drive. She wanted to project old-world elegance, so she’d borrowed from the color palate of the Dutch masters: rich shades of brown, antique gold, muted olive, along with subtle touches of bittersweet. In the living room, a pair of masculine, deep-seated couches and a big leather club chair bordered the tea-stained oriental rug. A similar oriental rug complemented the heavy teak dining room table with its lushly upholstered side chairs. It was important for men to feel comfortable here, so she kept the tables free of bric-a-brac and the liquor cabinet well stocked. Only in her bedroom did she indulge her passion for over-the top femininity. Her bed was a confection of ivory and ecru satin, with lace pillows and beribboned shams. Chunky silver candleholders sat on delicate chests, and a small crystal froth of a chandelier dangled in the corner near a powder puff reading chair piled with fashion magazines, several literary novels, and a self-help book that purported to help women find their inner happiness.