So when she came up on the rear of a cluster of maids breathlessly discussing “Mr. Black” as they fake-dusted their way down the corridor, something with a small, mean soul reared its ugly head, baring pointy little teeth.

It didn’t help that all five maids were young and attractive: a tall, leggy brunette, a shorter curvy brunette, a voluptuous redhead, and two willowy blondes. Nor that they were currently debating whether Adam was a foreplay man or a get-right-to-it kind of guy.

“Well, he likes foreplay,” she was startled to hear herself say much too sweetly, “but he’s so terrible at it that it makes you wish he were a wham-bam kind of man.”

Five women turned to gape at her.

The leggy brunette regarded her skeptically. That she spoke with a sweet Scottish lilt only irritated Gabby even more. “Mr. Black? I’ll not be believing that. That braw man’s a lass’s dream.”

“A really bad dream maybe,” Gabby heard her wayward, lying lips say. “The man can’t even kiss.”

“What do you mean?” the brunette demanded.

“Drool,” Gabby said succinctly.

“ ‘Drool’?” the brunette echoed, frowning.

Gabby nodded, accepting that it was too late. She was in it, and she may as well do it up right and see it through to a Big Finish. What she might lack in character, she’d make up for with commitment. “Have you ever kissed someone who . . . well, it’s like they open their mouth too much? And they get your face all wet, and by the time they’re done kissing you, all you really want is a towel?”

The redhead nodded emphatically. “Aye, I have. Young Jamie down at the Haverton’s pub.” She made a face. “Ugh. It’s disgusting. He slobbers.”

“That’s how Mr. Black kisses?” a slender blonde exclaimed.

“Worse,” Gabby lied shamelessly. “He hardly ever brushes his teeth, and I swear the man wouldn’t know what dental floss was if you tied a little ribbon of it smack around his itty-bitty, er . . . well, that’s another matter. But, no, I shouldn’t . . .”

“Nay, you should, you most certainly should!” a blonde exclaimed.

“Aye, don’t be stopping there,” the short brunette chimed in.

“You wouldn’t be meaning his winkie, would you?” the redhead said faintly. “Oh, say it isn’t so!”

Gabby nodded sadly. “I’m afraid it is.”

“Just how itty and bitty?” the leggy brunette demanded.

“Well,” Gabby said, sighing, “you know how big and tall he is?”

Five heads bobbed.

She edged closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Let’s just say he’s not in proportion.”

“No!” they exclaimed again.

“Afraid so.” She could have left it at that, should have left it at that, but the green-eyed monster had a fistful of her hair, not to mention control of her lips. She was appalled to hear herself say “Take my word for it, the only one Mr. Happy is making happy is himself.”

The leggy brunette eyed her suspiciously. “Nay, I’ll hear none of this. Last eve I saw the bulge—”

“Socks,” Gabby cut her off, barely managing to conceal her scowl. How dare that woman be checking out Adam’s bulge? I’ve hardly even given myself permission to do that. “He stuffs socks down his pants. Though he prefers a banana if a nice green one is available. Says it gives the best firm impression. Says that since women wear Wonderbras, why shouldn’t men enhance themselves too?”

“No!” Scandalized, the maids twittered, exchanging glances among themselves.

Gabby nodded. “It’s true. I seriously considered suing the man for misrepresentation of material fact. Clothed, he might look like a dream, but out of those clothes, he’s a nightmare.”

The maids were all staring at her with varying degrees of shock and disappointment. Only the leggy brunette was still looking somewhat skeptical.

Gabby made a mental note to swipe a few bananas and deposit them in his room. She might have giggled at the thought had she not been so horrified with herself. Never in her life had she sunk to such depths. And apparently she wasn’t quite done yet.

“You haven’t noticed any bananas missing from the kitchen, have you? I’d keep a close eye on them if I were you. You might want to watch the sausages too.”

And with that, she swept past them. Well, in as much as a hungover woman in jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes (damn it, why hadn’t she taken the slinky dress and heels from Macy’s when she’d had the chance?) was capable of sweeping.