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dutifully follow Jane into another part of the rain forest, an intimate dimly lit room with two huge lengthwise logs topped with thin foam padding.
    â€œSo is this a good surprise?” Bradford asks, taking my hand again and grinning.
    â€œProbably—if I knew what we were doing here,” I say, laughing.
    â€œWe’re in Shangri-La,” he says, kissing me as Jane discreetly disappears. “Our chance to relax.”
    Relax, huh? If we’re here for our own nooner, I would have picked the Ritz Carlton. At least the minibar has some unhealthy drinks in it. And I’d like something larger than those twin logs. Not to mention softer.
    The luscious Jane comes back, followed by a heavyset gray-haired woman who looks like her job in the jungle might be leading guerrilla warfare.
    â€œCouple’s massage,” Bradford whispers, coming over and gently unzipping my skirt.
    â€œDo you need robes?” Jane asks perkily.
    â€œNo, it’s warm in here,” says Bradford, unbuttoning his Brooks Brothers shirt and strolling over to a log massage table. He’s getting into that ol’ relaxed spirit faster than I would have imagined, and seeing Jane eye him appreciatively, I’m thinking that uptight has its upside, after all.
    Jane positions herself by Bradford’s side. “I’ll take him, you take her,” Jane announces to her colleague, Olga, who’s old enough to be her grandmother.
    Feeling not quite so blithe as Bradford, I take my place on the other massage table. From my perch, I see the comely Jane lining up small bottles of aromatic oils for Bradford to choose from.
    â€œMmmm,” Bradford sighs blissfully as Jane wafts one sensuous scent in front of him. “That’s heaven.”
    â€œWe’re just starting,” she coos, leaning across him to dab a droplet of another fragrant oil on his wrist. “Do you prefer this one?”
    What I’d prefer is for Jane to be a little less attentive. But I’m deciding which of the warm oils I’ll choose for myself when a dollop of cold, stinging lotion lands square on my back.
    â€œOuch,” I say. “What are you doing?”
    â€œA deep tissue orthopedic myofascial release massage,” declares the muscular Olga. “Not that wimpy touchy-feely treatment that Jane gives. You’re lucky you got me.”
    And I’m feeling oh-so-lucky. Another squirt of cold lotion, and then she begins pounding my back as if she were trying to tenderize a too-tough side of beef.
    â€œCould you go a little easier there?” I ask.
    â€œYou’ll get used to it,” Olga says, grinding her elbows into my back and pummeling harder.
    The tweet-tweet-tweeting on the background tape that’s meant to be calm-calm-calming is definitely not-not-not. Still it’s not nearly as annoying as the other noise that’s filling the room—the blissed-out moans of my lover being satisfied by a woman. A woman who’s not me.
    â€œHoney, you okay?” I call over to him.
    â€œMmmm. Mmm-hmmm,” he replies, apparently too ecstatic to articulate an actual word.
    Great. My lover has reached the Seventh Level of Happiness and I’m going ten rounds with Evander Holyfield’s mother.
    And she won’t let up. “Ugh, Ugh. Ugh!” I pant in pain.
    Meanwhile, Bradford’s sighing happily. “Mmmm-mmmm-mmmm,” he murmurs.
    â€œUrgh. Urgh. Urgh,” I wheeze, raising the decibel level. Olga won’t quit.
    â€œMmmm-mmmm-mmmm,” Bradford sings back contentedly under Jane’s gentle hand.
    â€œUGH. URGH. AARGH,” I yelp, hitting a louder pitch with each punch.
    Finally, Bradford realizes that our mating call is a little off-key.
    â€œWhat’s going on over there?” he asks, raising his head to look over at me. “Everything all right?”
    â€œNo. Not all right. This hurts,” I say petulantly. I sit up and turn to the mighty