“Excellent.” She held out her hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

“You’re not watching my car tonight.”

The muscles in her throat worked as she swallowed. “Sure I am. Don’t worry. I’m a light sleeper. I’ll wake up the minute anybody gets too close.”

“You’re not sleeping in it, either.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those sexist jerks who thinks a woman can’t do a job as well as a man.”

“What I think is that you can’t afford a room.” He got out of the car. “I’ll sport you.”

She shot her sharp little nose up in the air and followed him. “I don’t need anybody ‘sporting’ me.”

“Really?”

“What I need is for you to let me guard your car.”

“Not going to happen.”

He could see her trying to find a way around him, and he wasn’t completely surprised when she began reeling off the price list for her portraits. “Even taking out the cost of a hotel room and a few meals,” she said when she finished, “you’ll have to agree that you’re getting the best end of the deal. I’ll start sketching you tomorrow over breakfast.”

The last thing he needed was another portrait of himself. What he really needed was…“You can start tonight.” He opened the trunk.

“Tonight? It’s…awfully late.”

“Barely nine o’clock.” This team could only have one quarterback, and he was it.

She muttered to herself and started rooting around in the trunk. He pulled out his suitcase and her navy duffel. She reached past him to snatch up one of the toolboxes that contained her art supplies and, still muttering, followed him to the entrance. He negotiated with the inn’s sole bellman to watch his car and headed for the reception desk. The Beav stayed at his side. Judging by the live music coming from the bar and the locals spilling out into the lobby, the Merry Time was the small town’s Saturday night hot spot. He noted the heads turning in his direction. Sometimes he could go for a couple of days without being recognized, but not tonight. A few people in the crowd openly stared. Those damn End Zone commercials. He set down the suitcases at the front desk.

The clerk, a studious-looking Middle Eastern guy in his twenties, greeted him politely, but without recognition. The Beav jabbed him in the ribs and cocked her head toward the bar. “Your fans,” she said, as if he hadn’t already noticed the two guys who’d detached themselves from the crowd and were heading his way. Both were middle-aged and overweight. One wore a Hawaiian shirt that bunched over his belly. The other had a handlebar mustache and cowboy boots.

“Time for me to start work,” the Beav said loftily. “I’ll take care of this.”

“No, you won’t. I’ll—”