Brazen Virtue

talk, the men get their money’s worth, I’m paid well, and Fantasy gets its cut. Everyone’s happy.”
    “Sounds logical.” Grace swirled her wine and tried to push away any doubts. “And trendy. The new wave of sex as we rush toward the nineties. You can’t get AIDS from a phone call.”
    “Medically sound. Why are you laughing?”
    “Just getting a picture.” Grace wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “ ‘ Afraid of commitment, tired of the singles scene? Call Fantasy, Incorporated, talk to Desiree, Delilah, or DeeDee. Orgasms guaranteed or your money back. Major credit cards accepted.’ Christ, I should be writing ad copy.”
    “I have never considered it a joke.”
    “You never considered enough in life a joke,” Grace said, not unkindly. “Listen, the next time you’re working, can I sit in?”
    “No.”
    Grace shrugged off the refusal. “Well, let’s talk about it later. When do we eat?”

    When she slipped into bed that night in Kathleen’s guest room, full of pasta and wine, Grace felt an ease about her sister she hadn’t felt since they’d been children. She didn’t know the last time she and Kathleen had sat up late, drinking and talking, like friends. It was hard to admit that they never had.
    Kathleen was finally doing something unusual, and standing up for herself while she was about it. As long as it didn’t bring her sister any trouble, Grace was thrilled. Kathleen was taking charge of her life. And she was going to be just fine.
    H E LISTENED FOR THREE hours that night, waiting for her. Desiree never came. There were other women, of course, with exotic names and sexy voices, but they weren’t Desiree. Curled up in bed, he tried to get himself off by imagining her voice, but it wasn’t enough. So he lay, frustrated and sweaty, wondering when he would work up the nerve to go to her.
    Soon, he thought. She’d be so happy to see him. She’d take him to her, undress him just the way she described. And let him touch her. Wherever he wanted. It had to be soon.
    In the shadowy moonlight he rose and went back to his computer. He wanted to see it again before he went to sleep. The terminal came on with a quiet hum. His fingers, thin but competent, tapped out a series of numbers. In seconds the address came up on the screen. Desiree’s address.
    Soon.

Chapter 2
    G RACE HEARD THE LOW , droning buzz and blamed it on the wine. She didn’t groan or grumble about the hangover. She’d been taught that every sin, venial or mortal, required penance. It was one of the few aspects of her early Catholic training she carried with her into adulthood.
    The sun was up and strong enough to filter through the gauzy curtains at the windows. In defense, she buried her face in the pillow. She managed to block out the light, but not the buzzing. She was awake, and hating it.
    Thinking of aspirin and coffee, she pushed herself up in bed. It was then she realized the buzzing wasn’t inside her head, but outside the house. She rummaged through one of her bags and came up with a ratty terry-cloth robe. In her closet at home was a silk one, a gift from a former lover. Grace had fond memories of the lover, but preferred the terry-cloth robe. Still groggy, she stumbled to the window and pushed the curtain aside.

    It was a beautiful day, cool and smelling just faintly of spring and turned earth. There was a sagging chain-link fence separating her sister’s yard from the yard next door. Tangled and pitiful against it was a forsythia bush. It was struggling to bloom, and Grace thought its tiny yellow flowers looked brave and daring. It hadn’t occurred to her until then how tired she was of hothouse flowers and perfect petals. On a huge yawn, she looked beyond it.
    She saw him then, in the backyard of the house next door. Long narrow boards were braced on sawhorses. With the kind of easy competence she admired, he measured and marked and cut through. Intrigued, Grace shoved the window up to get a better look. The morning air was chill, but she leaned into it, pleased that it cleared her head. Like the forsythia, he was something to see.
    Paul Bunyan, she thought, and grinned. The man had to be six-four if he was an inch and built along the lines of a fullback. Even with the distance she could see the power of his muscles moving under his jacket. He had a mane of red hair and a full beard—not a trimmed little affectation, but the real thing. She could just see his mouth move in its cushion in