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the phone call that had awaited her when she arrived home from work that afternoon.
    Fritzi Field was so much in demand that Alice Anson, Georgeanne’s agent, claimed a pending nervous breakdown from having to turn down so much money.
    â€œSo put on a wig, kid. No one will know it’s you. Think of the commission I could be making. Think of the publicity. Think of the money you could be making.”
    â€œBear up, Alice.” Georgeanne felt like a wicked agent-torturer. “If the fans can’t hear what Fritzi has to say, maybe they’ll fork over more money and buy their own copy of her book so they can read what she says.”
    Alice groaned. “You’re ruining my bank account, Georgie.”
    Georgeanne felt cruel, although reasonably satisfied. Alice would never jeopardize their relationship by revealing Georgeanne’s identity. But according to Alice, an enterprising investigator would uncover the truth eventually, no matter what steps Georgeanne took to remain anonymous.
    Not, Georgeanne thought, an uplifting view of the future.
    She gulped and wondered once more what had possessed her to write that book. She must have been a lot more devastated by her late, great marriage than she’d let herself believe.
    Maybe she ought to go ahead and reveal her identity.
    Georgeanne let herself contemplate that for about one second before a shiver of horror swept through her. She hated being in the limelight, especially when she thought about revealing the intimate details of her former marriage. Imagine having everyone know she hadn’t been woman enough to keep her husband. As for facing talk show hosts full of intimate questions, she couldn’t even bring herself to contemplate it.
    Thoughts of curious talk show hosts added extra energy to Georgeanne’s whisk broom, almost as much as fantasizing about the color of Zane Bryant’s eyes.
    When the entire clinic floor had been raked and swept, Georgeanne marshaled her small crew into order and passed out stepladders, scrub buckets, sponges, and brushes. While Vijay and Raza Baghri started on the big waiting room, Georgeanne began on the laboratory and assigned Zane one of the examining rooms.
    â€œDo you store all this equipment yourself?” Zane asked in belligerent tones. “It’s obvious you’re used to directing cleaning crews. You’ve got everything down to a fine art.”
    Georgeanne, balanced upon a stepladder with a brush in her hand and a bucket of hot water liberally laced with cleaner sitting on the ladder’s platform, laughed down at him. He stood in the center of the old laboratory with both fists planted on his lean hips. His smoky eyes were dark with concern, as if he feared she would fall off the ladder, she realized, astonished.
    â€œI’m friends with the owner of a rent-all store,” she said. “He advises me about what I need for different jobs.”
    â€œNow I see why you bought a four-wheel-drive with a roomy back end,” Zane said. “Do you do this every weekend?”
    â€œHeavens, no. If I did, I’d quit my job and open a professional cleaning service.” Georgeanne dipped her brush into the lemon-scented water and applied it vigorously to a patch of mildew on the ceiling.
    Zane dodged aside as water flew in all directions. “I want to know one thing, Georgie. What do you do for relaxation?”
    Georgeanne laughed. “My idea of relaxation is a good book and a fresh cup of coffee. Why do you think I’m so easy-going and even-tempered?”
    â€œIs that what you are?” Zane moved a little further away. “I thought I was working for one of those guys on a slave ship who walks up and down with a whip.”
    As Georgeanne knew her cleaning style tended to be vigorous and involved lots of water, she couldn’t blame him for keeping his distance.
    She dipped her brush in the water again. “I’m a sweet-tempered, laid-back