"About what age are you looking for?"
"Well, I'm thirty. What do you think? Anything over that up to about forty. Or anything, really, that seems compatible."
She sounded so damn reasonable.
"I've never hired a husband before." She sighed. "I know this isn't your usual request. I did think of calling an escort service, but that seemed so sleazy."
She cleared her throat, steadying herself.
"Okay, I'll try to list the essential qualities." She paused, then began to tick them off. "Good-looking, charm ing, good manners. That about covers it. Oh, and he's got to look successful. You know what I mean? Someone an older woman would put a lot of faith in."
She was reasonable but confusing. Ross's forehead furled with puzzlement.
"An older woman?"
"Yes, you see, my Aunt Doris..." She sighed again. "But you don't want to hear about that. Let's just say I need someone who's obvious husband material. I'll pay the going rate. How soon can you send him over?"
This was obviously no joke. The woman was serious. Ross sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall. An appeal ing voice could take him only so far. He had other things to do with his life, and it was time to cut this short.
"You know," he said smoothly, "it's really a shame, but we've had a run on our male temps lately. I'm afraid we're fresh out."
"Really?" Her disappointment almost made him feel sorry for her. "You don't have anyone at all?"
"No one at all."
"Not even a younger man... ?"
"No. And not even an older man."
She sighed. "Can you take my name and number and call me if you have a cancellation?"
There was no point to it. Cancellations on make-believe husbands were few and far between. But still, Ross hesi tated, then grabbed a pen up off the blotter.
"Sure," he said shortly, ready to be rid of her but not ready to cut her off like he might have with some one else. "Your name?"
"If someone was available even just part-time-"
"Your name?" he repeated impatiently.
"Ames."
He wrote the letters down in a careless scrawl, then stared at them. Something was ringing a bell in the back of his memory. "Ames. A-M-E-S?" he asked, still staring.
"Yes."
He frowned. "First name?"
"Charity."
His eyes widened. His fingers gripped the receiver more tightly as he jotted the name down.
No. It couldn't be.
"And what is your occupation, Miss Ames?" he asked evenly, his gaze fixed, every muscle tense.
She seemed to be startled by the question. "What do you need that for?"
He shifted the receiver from one ear to the other. "Rules, Miss Ames. Forms must be filled out."