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somehow evolved to something neither of them dared to label. As a whore Rosalita had absolutely no morals and no shame, but as a businesswoman she had rock-solid ethics and the aggressiveness of a tiger. She was one of the few people J.T. respected, and one of even fewer people he trusted. Perhaps they'd become friends.
    She straddled his lap wearing a red gauzy skirt and a thin white top tied beneath her generous breasts. J.T. cradled her hip with one hand. She didn't notice. Her attention was focused absolutely on his face.
    She'd spread an old green hand towel over his naked chest. Now she whipped the shaving cream in the small basin on the right and lathered it generously over his face. Rosalita believed a man should be shaved the old-fashioned way — with a straight razor and plenty of devilish intent.
    He had enough respect for her temper to hold perfectly still.
    He sat there, watching the world take on the warm, fuzzy hue he'd come to know in the last few years, and even then, even then he knew when
she
walked into the room.
    Her feet were bare and silent on the hardwood floor, but she broadcasted her arrival with her scent. He'd been six when his father had taught him to air-dry his clothes, wash with odorless soap, and rinse his mouth with peroxide so the deer wouldn't smell anything as he crept up behind. In those days he'd accepted such teachings with reverent awe. His whipcord-lean, ramrod-straight, rattlesnake-tough father was omnipotent in his eyes, the only man he knew who could bag a six-point buck with a single shot. The colonel had had his talents.
    Rosalita sighted Angela hovering in the doorway. Her fingers instantly dug into his chin.
    “
Hijo de puta
!” she spat out.
    J.T. gave her a small shrug and lifted the Corona bottle to his lathered lips.
    “Angela, Rosalita. Rosalita, Angela. Angela is a current guest at our high-flying retirement resort. As for Rosalita… what shall we call you? An international hostess and entertainer?” He glanced at Angela. “Every year on September fourteenth Rosalita cleans me up. You might call it her frequent flyer program.”
    Angela nodded, her gaze going from him to Rosalita to him with open discomfort. The tension in the room was unmistakable. “Nice to meet you,” Angela said at last, her voice unfailingly polite.
    Rosalita froze, then began to smile. Then began to laugh. She repeated the words back to J.T. in Spanish, then chuckled harder.
Nice to meet you
wasn't something other women generally said to whores. Only a good girl would feel compelled to say such a thing, and at this stage of her life, Rosalita knew she had nothing to fear from “good girls.”
    She picked up the razor, shoved J.T.'s head back, and exposed his throat. She pressed the straight edge against his jawline and slowly rasped it down, her dark eyes gleaming.
    Angela sucked in her breath nervously.
    “She can't kill me yet,” J.T. volunteered conversationally. “I'm one of the few men who can pay her what she's worth.”
    Four forceful strokes, and his neck was clean. Rosalita shoved his head to the side and turned her attention to his cheek.
    Angela finally entered the room; she wore an old white tank top and frayed khaki shorts that had probably fit her once. Now, they hung on her frame. In daylight, her coarsely dyed, badly whacked hair looked even worse — as if she was wearing a bad wig. For no good reason, it annoyed him tremendously.
    “Your wrist?” he barked, startling Rosalita and Angela both.
    “My wrist? Oh, oh, that. It's fine. Just a bit bruised.”
    “I have some ice. We'll put that on it.”
    “No, it's not necessary. It's not even swollen.” She moved along the side of the room, up on the balls of her feet, her back to the wall. As he watched, still searching for something to do that would make him feel better, she took a careful inventory of all the exits. Someone had at least told her a thing or two.
    Her gaze fastened on his iguana, a frown marring her