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  The voice was real, she realized with a start, as were the fingers poking into her bare shoulder.

  "What?” She opened her eyes. She lay flat on her stomach, her chin propped over her crossed forearms.

  "There's no topless sunbathing here."

  Georgina looked up. Hairy muscular legs towered in front of her, leading up to navy shorts and a loose white T-shirt pristine enough for a detergent commercial.

  'You're in my sun.’ How she wanted to say it. She wanted to say it with a tone of bored annoyance which classified him as nothing more than a piece of matter blocking the ultraviolet rays. But she couldn't say it, because they were in the shade. A voluminous umbrella growing out of a circular concrete base created a canopy overhead, muting the fierce sunlight.

  She surveyed the far end of the pool, where plastic tables and chairs clustered under white umbrellas. The last group of chairs had no umbrella. A few people sat at other tables, sipping drinks. A large woman in a sarong read a book, and a little boy wearing brightly colored surfing shorts raced around, clutching a piece of transparent yellow plastic shaped like a machine gun.

  "Topless sunbathing is not allowed here,” the annoying cop from the downstairs apartment told her again. “Didn't you read the rules at the back of your rental contract?"

  "I heard you the first time,” Georgina said. “I'm not topless."

  "There's nothing covering your back."

  She had to crane her neck to see him. The baseball cap had reappeared, covering the cropped dark hair. The piercing black eyes were hiding behind opaque sunglasses. A gentleman would crouch down to her level so that she wouldn't have to strain her muscles in order to see him, Georgina thought indignantly.

  Of course, it would be unrealistic to expect such courtesy from her ill-mannered downstairs neighbor.

  "I've undone the straps,” she told him. “I didn't want to get lines."

  "That makes you topless. It's against the regulations."

  "I'm not topless,” Georgina explained, holding on to her patience. “My bikini top is right here under my chest, making full contact with my skin."

  "Look, lady,” he said, finally dropping to his haunches and lowering his voice. “I don't give a shit if you want to sunbathe naked, but some people here find it offensive."

  Georgina sent him a steely look. “I'd like you to point out what visible parts of my body anyone has the gall to call offensive."

  The man motioned toward the tables. “You see the woman over there?"

  "The lady in the sarong?"

  A quick grin transformed his face. “Is that what you'd call it? I'd call it a tent."

  "It's a sarong,” Georgina said primly. “They can look very attractive, and they are the height of fashion this season."

  The man laughed out loud. “If you say so.” His full mouth pursed into a reflective pout which, to Georgina's horror, made her insides tighten. Her face flushed as she recalled her dream about the kiss. Thank heavens for the heat. She could blame her rising color on the temperature.

  "I guess it might look different on someone like you,” the man said slowly. From the way his head moved, Georgina could tell his gaze swept along the curve of her bare back.

  "What about her?” she said, her voice sharp, although she didn't wish to be rude. It was an act of self defense.

  "What?” He raised one hand and slipped down his glasses to scrutinize her over the rim.

  "The lady in the sarong. What about her?” Georgina managed to say.

  He slipped the sunglasses back up. “Her little boy has been running around, getting a little too interested in what you're not wearing."

  Georgina squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them slowly and exhaled, her shoulders slumping.

  The kid in the surfing shorts. He kept tearing around the pool, yelling and making machine-gun noises. She'd been too preoccupied with the grown-up version in front of her to pay much attention.

  "I'm sorry,” she said hesitantly.

  "You've been asleep. You haven't exactly been still, you know. You've been twisting and turning a little, giving the boy a peek every now and then."

  Georgina hung her head, mortified. Heavens, she'd been guilty of corrupting a minor. Then she noticed her downstairs neighbor trying to suppress a grin, and her mouth begun to curve up at the corners, despite her best effort to maintain the hostilities.

  "I only intended to stay like this until ten,” she explained. “I thought it would be all right. I didn't expect anyone else so early. I planned to put on a T-shirt if anyone came."

  She pointed at the neatly folded bundle next to her canvas beach bag, which contained the September issue of Harper's and Queen, yesterday's Financial Times, and a large bottle of lime flavored Seltzer water, together with an array of Coppertone sprays in various factors of sun protection.

  "Some people come down early to avoid the midday heat, but the busiest time is usually in the afternoon,” the man said, taking a half-hearted inventory of her reading matter.

  "What time is it now?” Georgina asked.

  He glanced at the multi-dialed chunk of steel strapped on his left wrist. “Quarter of one."

  "Oh no!” She craned her neck to examine the skin on her back. “I'm toast."

  "You'll be okay.” He gestured at the umbrella. “I carried the shade over before the sun got too strong."

  Georgina glanced at the white canvas above them, and then over to the seating area where the man must have removed it from. She slanted him a confused look. “Umm ... thank you. It was very considerate of you. I could have burned badly."

  He gave a little shrug, suddenly appearing awkward.

  Behind them came a banshee cry, and the patter of agile feet against the poolside concrete. Brown skin over colorful surfer shorts streaked by, pointing and shooting indiscriminately to all directions with the yellow plastic weapon.

  An icy spray landed across Georgina's back, causing her to shriek and flip up on her side. She was still fighting to get her breath back when the folded T-shirt was tossed into her face.

  "You'd better cover up the contraband before I'm forced to inspect it,” she heard him say, laughter rumbling in his deep voice.

  The tightening inside her stomach grew to new and alarming proportions, but to her surprise Georgina didn't lose the ability to think or speak. “At least you wouldn't be able to confiscate the contraband,” she blurted out.

  "Oh, but I could.” He straightened and regarded her from his height. “I'd just have to take the rest of you with it."

  She stared up at him, pressing the T-shirt against her chest to make up for the absence of the bikini top, which lay on the grass next to her, looking like a pair of discarded paper napkins.

  "By the way, what does the G stand for?” he asked her.

  "G?” Georgina stammered, squirming to burrow her torso into the T-shirt without offering another peep show, either to the man or the boy, who'd stopped running around and now stood by the edge of the pool, staring at her with open fascination.

  "G as in G. Coleman."

  "Oh,” she said. “Where did you get that from?"

  "I have a list of tenants that gets updated when someone moves. There are no first names, only initials. It's supposed to protect the female tenants."

  "Is it supposed to stop people from knowing they are female, or from knowing what they're called?"

  "Both."

  Georgina took a moment to work it through in her mind. “I see,” she agreed with a thoughtful nod. “Makes sense."

  "Are you going to tell me or not?"

  "What?” she said absently, running her hands over the front of the T-shirt to smooth out the creases in a manner which she hoped was doing something severe to his blood pressure. Dear God, what was happening to her? Her inner devil appeared to be alive and well, and eager to come out and play.

  "What the G stands for,” the man said, and she could hear the strain in his voice.

  "Georgina,” she told him.
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br />   "Georgina,” he repeated. “That's nice."

  She nodded, lowering her hands down to her lap.

  "I'm Rick Matisse,” the man said, but Georgina was too engrossed in her own plotting to pay any notice.

  "Not related,” he added.

  "What?"

  "To the painter,” he said.

  Georgina frowned. What was the man getting peevish about now? She'd stopped that sneaky fondling of her breasts. It had really been just a test, and boy had it worked. Scrambling up, she began to gather her belongings. Goodness, this was so exciting, she'd finally cracked it, and her life would be different from now on. She had never realized that if she turned her social life into a game, her brain and her competitiveness would take over, eliminating her nerves and allowing her to do things she'd never imagined herself capable of.

  "Oh, Henri Matisse, you mean,” Georgina said, tossing her bag over her shoulder and sweeping him with a careless glance. “You could have been, you know. One of his sons, Pierre, came to live in America. He would have been around the right age to be your grandfather."

  As she rushed toward the entrance of the building, she whirled back for a brief look. “Thanks for the umbrella!” she called out to him. Then she hurried inside to make plans for the revised rest of her life.

  Son of a bitch, Rick Matisse thought, staring after the slender legs beneath the hem of the T-shirt as Georgina dashed indoors. What was all that about?

  He could have sworn she'd run her flattened palms over her breasts as a tease. It stood completely at odds with the way she'd been the night before, stiff and formal, with the kind of keep-your-hands-off-me haughty superiority that many of the female tenants at Hillside Heights Apartments wore like a suit of armor.

  Rick shook his head. Either he knew nothing about women, or something very peculiar had just taken place before his eyes.

  It had been like watching a tabby cat change the color of her stripes and turn into a tiger.

  Even his Matisse-the-Painter trick had fallen flat. Normally it worked a dream with women, because they wanted to demonstrate how cultured they were. This one ignores him at first, and then rattles out more facts than he knew himself, even after having looked up Matisse on Wikipedia.

  Rick snatched the Toronto Blue Jays cap from his head and smoothed his hand over his cropped hair. Slowly, he replaced the cap, staring at the doorway which had swallowed up Georgina.

  He'd be damned he if knew what was going on.

  Perhaps he should ask Angelina about it.

  Nah, he decided after a moment of consideration. Not yet, anyway. The girl had enough problems of her own right now.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Two

  The overhead traffic light turned amber just as Georgina was about to sail past. She rammed her foot on the break. The red Chevy Cobalt from AVIS lurched to a dead stop. Shoving the curtain of hair out of her eyes, Georgina conducted a careful survey through the windscreen. A smug smile spread on her face.

  She was getting the hang of it, being behind the wheel again, despite having to drive on the wrong side of the road.

  In London it made no sense to have a car. The underground was faster, and there was nowhere to park. She'd got her license at eighteen, but with hardly any practice since then, she'd worried about being rusty.

  No need to be concerned. Her reflexes were good. She'd overshot the white line only by a couple of yards.

  She slid the gear into reverse, carefully loosening her seatbelt to turn around, so that she could see where she was going. And it was a good thing too that she had turned to look, because there was no room for her to back up behind the white line. Why on earth was that other car so close? And why was the man behind the wheel glaring at her, his mouth moving in what appeared to be a silent curse. Georgina scowled at the man. What a jerk, now he was hooting his horn! Some drivers had absolutely no manners.

  When the light turned green, Georgina pressed her foot on the accelerator. A block later she took a sharp right into the Pacific Bank parking lot.

  After slotting her car next to a white Mercedes with ‘Surfers Do It Standing Up’ decal on the rear bumper, Georgina rushed inside and crossed the lobby to the elevators. She loved the noise her new spiky heels made on the gleaming marble, even if it made her gait a bit wobbly, particularly when it was wet. As it hardly ever rained in California, she wasn't going to worry about that.

  The up-arrow on the wall glowed red. Georgina pushed her way past a tall chap in beige chinos hiding behind a Wall Street Journal spread open at eye height, and gave the button another jab, just in case. Then she spotted something interesting on the back page of the newspaper and craned her neck to read. She was only halfway through the article when the lift arrived with a ping.

  The tall chap with the Chinos lowered the newspaper and found Georgina, her up-tilted face only inches away from his.

  "Hi,” he said with a big lecherous grin.

  Georgina felt her face burn with embarrassment.

  "I'm Simon from Compliance,” the man said. “What's your name?"

  "I'm Georgina from Settlements.” She slowly backed toward the elevator.

  "Georgina?” Simon's brows winged into his forehead. “That's a cute name. You must be new.” He gave her a wink, although it looked more like a twitch. “If I'd seen you, trust me, I'd remember."

  "I'm not new,” Georgina replied, her voice a mousy squeak. “I've just transferred in from London.” She took a backward step into the elevator, blocking Simon's way, and pressed the button. The elevator doors slid between them, leaving the perplexed-looking Simon standing in the lobby, the Wall Street Journal dangling limply from his hand.

  What's happening to me, Georgina fretted. Yesterday I corrupted a minor and exposed my breasts to a man, and today I've made an idiot of myself before eight o'clock in the morning.

  When the elevator doors opened again, she hurtled down the hallway, until she reached the safety of her corner office. The computer dominating the cherry-wood desk obeyed her every command and never did anything unpredictable. She powered up, slumping in relief as she immersed herself in the familiar workday routines.

  An hour later, when her secretary Annabel Fairfax arrived, Georgina leapt out of her chair. She'd dissected the problem and she'd come up with a solution, and she was bursting to tell someone about it. In the six weeks they'd worked together, Annabel had not only become a friend, she'd proved a good keeper of secrets.

  "Annie?” Georgina peeked out through the gap in the door. “When you have a moment, can we talk?"

  "Now's fine,” Annabel said, hanging up her Burberry trench coat.

  "Do you want to get a coffee first?"

  "I'd love one, if you can wait."

  "Of course I can wait.” Georgina pulled back from the doorway. Why would anyone think she'd object to them getting a refreshment before they came into her office? It sometimes happened, people making remarks that suggested they considered her some kind of an ogre. In fact, it happened quite regularly, and it never ceased to amaze her.

  Georgina shook her head. Then she switched on the electric kettle she'd smuggled into the office and prepared herself a cup of Earl Gray tea.

  Appliances were not allowed in the offices, only in the break room, she'd been told. Could there be anything sillier than that? A copier was an appliance, as was a computer, and a fax machine, and the office was littered with them.

  Georgina didn't drink coffee, and no way would she tolerate that foul stuff they called tea that gurgled out of the beverage machine in the kitchen. No, not the kitchen, the break room, Georgina corrected herself. To satisfy her perfectly reasonable desire for a cup of tea during the working day, she had to behave like a criminal, sneaking into the kitchen to fill the electric kettle. Every night she emptied the leftover water into the potted palm in the corner of her office and hid the kettle in the safe, next to her collection of ID tokens and the passwords for the wire transfer systems.

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nbsp; "Do you want a cookie?” Annabel asked.

  "What do you have?"

  "If you mean, do I have oatmeal raisin, the answer is yes."

  "Thanks.” Georgina shot out a greedy hand. “It's my turn to pay. Take the money out of the till.” She pointed at the little red jar in the shape of a London double-decker bus on the shelf behind her.

  "Sure,” Annabel said.

  Georgina stared at her through narrowed eyes. “I know exactly how much money I have in there, and if it's still the same tomorrow, I'm going to sack you."

  Annabel sighed. “Yes, boss."

  "Good.” Georgina nodded as she bit into the biscuit, scattering crumbs over the lined notepad in front of her.

  Annabel's little generosities were a delight, but they were also a problem, since they were something Annabel could ill afford. Georgina had realized that shortly after she'd started her new job and tuned into the office grapevine.

  Anyone could have been fooled, she consoled herself, since Annabel Fairfax was the most elegant creature ever to walk the earth. Her layered blond hair curled softly around a pale gold skin. A straight nose was teamed with classic cheekbones and a calm wide mouth. Her clothes were to die for, and she had the figure to carry them well.

  'Old Money’ was stamped loud and clear all over Annabel Fairfax.

  "Fairfax, as in Pittsburgh Steel,” the chairman's secretary had told Georgina in a whisper loud enough to overcome the gurgling of the beverage machine in the break room. “She's just divorced her husband. Carl Gundersen. He builds shopping malls."

  In another week Georgina had learned that Annabel's paternal grandfather, the founder of Pittsburgh Steel, held a firm belief that women shouldn't control wealth. Annabel's brother and male cousins had inherited the company. That wouldn't have mattered, if it hadn't been for the fact that eight months ago Annabel had walked out on her husband with nothing but the clothes on her back, a handbag containing forty-eight dollars and seventeen cents, and a stack of credit cards which by the following morning had become useless.

  Although, as Annabel had confessed to Georgina over drinks one evening after work, she'd sent her maid back a few days later to retrieve the rest of her clothes.