Chapter 2

“Okay,” he said, with a hearty chuckle. “I’ll be up in a few minutes then.”

Dillon smiled, nodded and slowly closed the door behind him. In the briefest of seconds before the door met the frame, I saw the towel drop and caught a glimpse of the most perfect, alabaster ass in the history of all mankind—oh joy, oh joy. Forget Botticelli, we’re talking Michelangelo’s David now.

I froze, relishing the moment, then turned and hightailed up the stairs, taking two then three at a time. I reentered my apartment, which, in the short while I’d been downstairs, had become a veritable oven, and quickly began putting my plan into action. Hurriedly, I tidied up, toweled off, put on some clean clothes, popped in some Barbra, circa 1971, poured two glasses of cold iced tea and then flung myself suggestively on the sofa, just as there came a knocking on my door.

“Come in,” I said, encouragingly, then gulped for air as my heart kerthumped in double-time. “It’s open.”