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  The cat jumped up on the bed and padded across to her. “Hey,” she said as it curled up by her side. She petted it, feeling its skinny little body under its fur, and it opened both eyes. They were different colors, one of them stained with a blotch that matched the blotch of its fur. “Patchwork cat,” she said, and it snuggled next to her, incredibly comforting. She turned on her bedside stereo and listened to Elvis sing about how lousy life had been since his baby left him. The cat pricked up its ears for about a verse, and then relaxed into the comforter again. “Moving into Heartbreak Hotel, are you?” Min said to it, and scratched it behind the ears. It lifted its head to press closer to her fingers, and she looked at its weird little face, screwed up in ecstasy with both eyes shut, and felt a rush of affection for it. It began to purr, and the sound was more comforting than she could have imagined. “It would not be sensible to keep you,” she told it, and it opened its eyes slowly and then closed them again, and she kept petting it as it curled close, warm and peaceful and comforting. No wonder all those single women kept cats. They certainly beat charming, lying, compulsive gamblers who kissed like gods and had hands like— “Oh, I’m so lonely, baby,” Elvis sang, and Min reached over and punched the UP button. The cat picked up its head, but it seemed to like “Don’t Be Cruel” as well as “Heartbreak Hotel” and curled up again, warm against her stomach. “You can stay,” she told it, and they lay together in companionable silence, listening to Elvis, until they both fell asleep.

  “There’s a real babe waiting in your office,” David’s assistant said when David came in on Wednesday. “Very nice.”

  Min, David thought and then realized with disappointment that it couldn’t be. Nobody described Min as a babe.

  When he opened the door, Cynthie was sitting across from his desk, looking phenomenal in a red suit.

  “There you are,” she said, standing up.

  “That’s a great suit,” he said, closing the door behind him. He walked around her, impressed by the way the skirt curved under her tight little butt without hugging it.

  “David,” Cynthia said. “Forget the suit. Why is Cal still dating the woman you love?”

  “Dating?” David lost interest in Cynthie’s suit and sat down behind his desk.

  “He took her to lunch on Monday, which meant he couldn’t go with me. He took her dinner last night at her place.” Cynthie leaned closer, her lovely little face tense. “I thought you were going to call Greg. Why is he still with her?”

  “I did call Greg.” David moved some papers around while he thought fast. “I don’t know why it didn’t work. Maybe Cal had a good time when he was with her.” Maybe he wants to win ten thousand dollars.

  “But no sex,” Cynthie said.

  “No,” David said, praying Min was still frigid. “They will not be having sex.”

  “I think you’re right.” Cynthie began to pace. “She doesn’t sound like a woman who would do it that fast, and he wouldn’t push it. He has great instincts.”

  “Well, hooray for him,” David said. “Is there anything else you wanted?”

  Cynthie leaned over the desk. “I want you to call Min. Ask her to lunch, ask her to dinner, pay for it, and get her back.”

  David looked down the neckline of her suit and revisited her cleavage. “You do this on purpose, don’t you?”

  Cynthie took a deep breath, her jaw rigid. “David, I am a dating expert who is losing the man she loves. This isn’t just about my private life, this is about my public life, it’s about my whole life. I have a potential bestseller on my hands, my editor wants to put our wedding picture on the back cover, everything is riding on this, and I am not going to see it go down the drain because you’re too spineless to get your girlfriend back.” She leaned closer. “I’ll go away when you promise me you’ll call her for lunch, and you tell me who her best friends are. I saw two in the bar on Friday. A little blonde and a tall redhead. Are they close to her?”

  Her perfume wafted toward him, very faint, a whisper of a scent that made him dizzy. “What perfume are you wearing?” he said, trying to ignore the “spineless” crack.

  “It’s a special blend made just for me,” Cynthie said, her voice lower now. “It’s made of the scents that most strongly activate a man’s libido. I put it on for you, David. Who’s her best friend?”

  David shook his head to clear it and slid his chair back, away from her. “What’s in that stuff?”

  “Lavender and pumpkin pie.” Cynthie straightened. “I need to know her best friend. I’m helping you, David. You want the actuary back, right?”

  She stood in front of him, lithe and lean in red wool crepe, smelling like lavender and cinnamon, and it took him a minute to remember who the actuary was.

  “I don’t even like you,” he told her. “Why am I so turned on?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Because you’re male. Who’s her friend?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Cynthie exhaled through her teeth. “I told you this. Attraction. If I can tell her best friend about Cal’s pathology with women, I can ensure that the friend finds out enough to worry, and then she will tell Min she dislikes him. And that will help to ward off the infatuation stage. It’s all science, David. Nobody is going to get mugged in an alley.”

  “Okay,” David said, still fixated on her breasts. “Are you wearing anything under that jacket?”

  “If I show you, will you give me a name?” Cynthie said.

  “Yes,” David said, knowing he was low and weak and not caring.

  Cynthie popped the two buttons on her jacket and opened it. Her red silk bra matched the lining of the suit, and her breasts were perfect B cups, high and taut and, from where he sat, real.

  “Oh, God,” David said, freezing in his seat.

  “Damn right,” Cynthie said, buttoning back up again. “Now give me the name.”

  “The redhead,” David said. “Liza Tyler. She thinks all men are bastards anyway.”

  “She’s right,” Cynthie said. “Call Min for lunch.”

  Then she left and David watched her go, the afterimage of her perfect breasts imprinted on his retinas, trying to tell himself that he’d done the right thing because somebody had to stop Cal Morrisey. And save Min, that was important, too.

  “Very hot,” his assistant said from the doorway. He sniffed the air. “Wow. Is that her perfume?”

  “Yes,” David said, picking up his phone. “It’s brimstone. Don’t let her in here again.”

  At eight that night, Liza was sitting with Tony and Roger in The Long Shot waiting for Bonnie and Min to come back from the bathroom when Tony said, “Uh oh,” and turned away from the bar.

  “What?” Roger followed his gaze. “Oh.” He shrugged. “She’s clear across the room.”

  “She who?” Liza squinted through the dim light. A brunette lounged at the bar, looking expensive, lean, and bored while the guy next to her made his pitch. “Old girlfriend?”

  “Nope,” Tony said as Bonnie came back from the bathroom. “I don’t date the insane. Well, not until you.”

  “Do you date the insane?” Bonnie said to Roger with interest as she sat down.

  “No, no, Cal, not me,” Roger said, almost falling off his chair. “I hardly ever date.”

  “It’s all right, baby.” Bonnie patted his knee. “You’re allowed to date.”

  “I don’t want to date,” Roger said and Tony rolled his eyes.

  “So that’s Cal’s old girlfriend.” Liza stood. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Wait a minute,” Tony said and caught her arm. “Why do you care about Cal’s love life?”

  “He’s dating my best friend,” Liza said, trying to sound innocent. “I’m curious.”

  “What I meant by the not-dating thing,” Roger said to Bonnie, “was not dating anybody but you.”

  “I really don’t expect monogamy on the third date,” Bonnie said.

  “Okay,” Roger said. “But it’s here anyway.”