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hear the word voluptuous, they automatically think of Pam Anderson, Jane Russell and Helena Vance—every time just never fails.  I’m not voluptuous, Trey.  I’m chubby.  And since I define chocolate as both the fifth major food group and the primary reason for Helena Vance’s existence, I’m likely to remain chubby for the duration of my existence.  And you know what?  I’m perfectly and totally happy that way.”
         Trey nodded.
         “And don’t you see, Helena?  That’s why we need women like you writing romance.  Ladies these days need real, amazing role models like you.”  He paused here, stroking his chin thoughtfully as he added, “As a matter of fact, I do believe that we need to put your picture on the cover of your debut novel.”
         Helena froze, eyes wide.
         “Me, a cover model?” she asked, adding as she pursed her lips, “Yes, me—a cover model.  I like it.”
         She froze again as Trey surged across the table to sear her lips with another hot kiss.
         “I like you,” he whispered against her lips.  “Helena, would you like to come out with me Friday night?  I’d like to show you the Manhattan night life—maybe take you to my favorite night club for a bit of dancing.”
         Helena thought a moment as she ate another snail, then nodded.
         “Sure, I’d be pleased to go,” she assented finally, adding with an arched eyebrow, “But although Helena Vance is good and ready for Manhattan, is Manhattan really ready for Helena Vance?”
     

Chapter Six

     Helena still asked herself this question Friday evening, as she stood before yet another restrictive cubbyhole; this one the closet that formed a (very small) corner of her bedroom in her newly minted Manhattan loft.
         Doused in a design scheme that many top decorators would probably best describe as ‘white’, this owing to Helena’s chronic inability to coordinate the colors and styles of her clothing and furnishings (“And,” she often reasoned, “Nothing clashes with white”), her new loft came complete with her classic college futon—one that had just barely managed to survive two cats and a particularly hairy sophomore boyfriend—a basic camp bed with cotton sheets, a pair of sharp card table chairs that flanked a basic wooden table, and a bureau that contained her full assortment of bras and self-proclaimed granny panties.
         Her built in closet, by contrast, held a sensible wardrobe of shirts, slacks and pant suits ideal for the corporate environment; along with a small selection of casual T-shirts and worn blue jeans perfect for evenings, weekends and casual outings.
         And then there was The Dress.
         The Dress, a birthday gift from her youngest sister Hilda—the one that all too often inspired their mother to cross herself and say a litany of “Hail Marys,” when the family wasn’t even Catholic—was a flirty, flaring and decidedly silky number that dipped low at the neck and lifted at the hemline—creating an effect that was feminine, flirty, and, well….
         “Slutty,” she cringed at this adjective, adding as she pulled the dress from its place far, far, far back in her closet—or at least as far back as one could get in such a bloody tiny cubbyhole, “Then again, in comparison to my usual wardrobe, an oversized polo shirt and tacky khakis would be considered slutty.  And, well, the dress is white.  A decided and definite point in its favor.”
         She smiled nevertheless as she slipped in to the soft, figure-flattering dress; one that accentuated her womanly curves to lovely effect.
         Brushing out the length of her shoulder length blonde hair, Helena next applied a touch of blush and a coat of rarely worn red lipstick.
         Lipstick she just managed to smear half way across her face as a loud knock resounded from her front door.  Swearing softly, she fixed this mistake as she