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to break free from Stanton’s bear hug she retreated to the chair held out by the hostess and tried to melt into her seat.
    Kim always felt uncomfortably obvious around Stanton. Although they were cousins, Kim thought they were the social antithesis of each other. While she considered herself moderately shy, occasionally even awkward, he was a paragon of confidence: an urbane and aggressively assertive sophisticate. He was built like a ski racer and stood straight and tall, overpowering people as the consummate entrepreneur. Even his wife, Candice, despite her demure smile, made Kim feel socially inept.
    Kim hazarded a quick glance around her, and as she did so she inadvertently bumped the hostess, who was attempting to lay Kim’s napkin across her lap. Both apologized simultaneously.
    “Relax, cousin,” Stanton said after the hostess had departed. He reached across the table and poured Kim a glass of white wine. “As usual you’re wound up like a banjo wire.”
    “Telling me to relax only makes me more nervous,” Kim said. She took a drink of the wine.
    “You are a strange one,” Stanton said playfully. “I can never understand why you’re so damn self-conscious, especially sitting here with family in a room full of people you’ll never see again. Let your hair down.”
    “I have no control over what my hair chooses to do,” Kim joked. In spite of herself she was beginning to calm down. “As for your inability to understand my unease, it’s entirely understandable. You’re so totally self-assured that it’s impossible for you to imagine what it’s like not to be so.”
    “Why not give me a chance to understand?” Stanton said. “I challenge you to explain to me why you are feeling uncomfortable right at this moment. My God, woman, your hand is shaking.”
    Kim put down her glass and put her hands in her lap. “I’m nervous mainly because I feel thrown together,” she said. “After your call this evening, I barely had time to take a shower, much less find something to wear. And, if you must know, my bangs are driving me crazy.” Kim blindly tried to adjust the hair over her forehead.
    “I think your dress is smashing,” Candice said.
    “No doubt about it,” Stanton said. “Kimberly, you look gorgeous.”
    Kim laughed. “I’m smart enough to know that provoked compliments are invariably false.”
    “Balderdash,” Stanton said. “The irony of this discussion is that you are a sexy, beautiful woman even though you always act as if you haven’t a clue, which, I suppose, is somewhat endearing. How old are you now, twenty-five?”
    “Twenty-seven,” Kim said. She tried more of her wine.
    “Twenty-seven and improving with each year,” Stanton said. He smiled impishly. “You’ve got cheekbones other women would die for, skin like a baby’s bottom, and a ballerina’s figure, not to mention those emerald eyes that could mesmerize a Greek statue.”
    “The truth of the matter is somewhat different,” Kim said. “My facial-bone structure is certainly not exceptional although okay. My skin barely tans if at all, and ‘ballerina’s figure’ sounds like a nice way of saying I’m not stacked.”
    “You’re being unfair to yourself,” Candice said.
    “I think we should change the subject,” Kim said. “This conversation is not going to get me to relax. In fact it just makes me more uncomfortable.”
    “My apologies for being so truthfully complimentary,” Stanton said, his impish smile returning. “What would you prefer we discuss?”
    “How about explaining why my presence here at dinner was such an emergency,” Kim said.
    “I need your help.” Stanton leaned toward her.
    “Me?” Kim questioned. She had to laugh. “The great financier needs my help? Is this a joke?”
    “Quite the contrary,” Stanton said. “In a few months I’ll be launching an initial public offering for one of my biotech companies called Genetrix.”
    “I’m not investing,” Kim said. “You’ve