Two

      Amelia was stoked up and fuming like a steam engine when she got back to Marla’s office. She was dripping from the combined temperatures of Chicago in the summer and the winter trench coat she’d been wearing over the flamboyant belly dancer’s costume.

      Marla looked up, an elf with blond hair and blue eyes. “Well?” she asked, all wide smiles.

      “Wentworth Carson,” she began as she stripped off the trench coat and fumbled in Marla’s office closet for her neat gray suit and blouse, “is a giant dead fish. He has the sense of humor of a giant dead fish, and he looks like a giant dead fish.”

      Marla, who’d known Amelia for almost a year, as long as the Georgia girl had been in Chicago, had never heard her fume before. She stared. “Andy said he had a sense of humor,” she began.

      “Where is it, visiting relatives in New York?” Amelia demanded.

      Marla burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. “Oh, darling, I’m sorry, I know Andy didn’t mean…”

      “It wasn’t his birthday,” Amelia continued as she dragged on her slip and blouse and skirt with quick, methodical fury. “He said so. He accused me of being a prostitute. He threw me out of his office. He said not to jump out of his birthday cake. I hate him!”

      Marla had long since buried her face in her hands on the desk, and her thin shoulders were shaking.

      “What did you do?”

      “I kissed him.”

      The laughter got worse.

      “It made him furious, of course,” Amelia said. She fumbled for a small brush in her purse and dragged it through the tangle of her hair. “I couldn’t resist it, he looked so almighty arrogant. He should have tried to enjoy it, I can’t imagine that he’s ever been kissed by any woman who was actually willing and didn’t have to be paid!”

      Marla was just now catching her breath. “He did make an impression, didn’t he?” she gasped. “I’m so sorry! If Kerrie hadn’t been sick, you’d have been spared.”

      “I wouldn’t go near that man again for anything,” she grumbled. “He’s a…a…a…”

      “Giant dead fish?”

      “Yes!”

      “Andy will die when I tell him.” Marla sighed. “I hope Wentworth Carson is a forgiving man, or my poor Andy will be out looking for work again.”

      “What possessed Andy to pull such a joke on a man like that?” Amelia asked. “He obviously has no sense of humor, and it wasn’t even his birthday!”

      “Maybe Andy didn’t know that,” Marla said comfortingly. She studied the older woman, dressed now in her familiar staid business clothes, her hair neatly arranged in a French twist. No one who saw her now would believe her capable of pulling off a joke like that.

      “This is not how I want to spend my next hard-earned day off,” Amelia said.

      “Well, thanks a million for helping me out,” Marla said and hugged the taller girl affectionately. “Andy will be thrilled, even if you aren’t.”

      “I hope so. Tell him it was a sacrifice I’ll never make again, will you?” She waved as she went out the door.

      All the way home she thought about Wentworth Carson, and her teeth ground together. Horrible, humorless man, he must be the world’s worst lover. He couldn’t even kiss. Of course, he hadn’t wanted to kiss her back. She flushed, remembering the hardness of his closed mouth. He seemed like a lonely man. She shook herself. She even felt sorry for squashed spiders, she reminded herself forcibly.

      She went back to the sink in the small kitchen of the efficiency apartment she rented from a kindly couple in a residential area near the beach. It was really a garage apartment, but it had the advantage of being like a real house. She had the family, the Kennedys, nearby if she needed help, and she could walk to the beach. She had a phone of her own and even shared the family cat, Khan, a puffy Siamese-Persian, who visited her whenever she had chicken. She’d changed into a comfortable caftan and was just putting the finishing touches to tuna-salad sandwiches when her doorbell rang.

      She frowned. Nobody ever came calling except Marla, and Marla went out with Andy practically every night now. It could be one of the Kennedys, of course, except that they were an elderly couple and never bothered her. Perhaps it was a salesman. She grinned, thinking up ways to get rid of him. Her social life was so dull that even a salesman became a welcome pest. It was great fun deciding how to get rid of them tactfully.

      The last one had been selling subscriptions to an underwater publication. She promised to send a check as soon as her sunken living-room pool was finished. She’d closed the door on a face like a mask as he tried to decide between going meekly away or calling the nearest sanitarium on her behalf.

      She opened the door as far as the chain latch would allow—it was night, after all—and came face to face with the enemy.

      Her pale blue eyes glared at him through the crack. “I do not give private performances,” she informed Wentworth Carson.

      “Thank God,” he returned. “Are you going to open the door, or would you like it removed?”

      Heavens, he was the size of a battering ram! The Kennedys would surely throw her out if he put his shoulder to it….

      With an angry sigh, she opened the door and let him in. He was wearing a trendy blue blazer with an unbuttoned white shirt and white slacks, and a dark pelt of hair showed in the opening at his olive tan throat. He looked different than he had that afternoon in his office. Big and broad and oddly sensuous for a cold fish. He made her nervous.

      He stared down at her with a frown, his eyes on the blue-green-and-gold striped caftan she was wearing, with bare feet, no makeup and her dark hair still in its neat French