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pressed to one ear.
    “Harlots and whoresons, that is what I am surrounded by. No, Vikar, that is not a good thing. No, I am not tempted even a little bit. Can’t you intercede with Mike on my behalf and . . .” His words trailed off as he saw Marisa staring at him, arms folded under her breasts, tapping the toe of a Prada high-heeled sandal impatiently on the sidewalk. “Uh, I will talk with you later.” He pressed the off button and placed the phone in the clip on his belt, which had a strange gold buckle with an angel wing design on it.
    Lowering his Ray-Bans down his nose, he peered at her through brown-lashed, startlingly clear blue eyes. “Do you have a problem, m’lady?” he inquired.
    “I’m trying to figure if you’re going for a role as Zorro with Attitude in that all-black attire, or Rodeo Star, with the oversize belt buckle.”
    “My belt buckle is not oversize,” he said, glancing downward, then glowering.
    Cranky!
    Which caused her to look even lower, and, yes, he had some junk in his trunk. Not huge, like the Rocket Man, but definitely impressive.
    He noticed the direction of her glance and glowered even more. His disgust with the crowd obviously included her.
    Marisa felt herself blushing, and she hardly ever blushed anymore.
    “I repeat, do you have a problem? Other than ogling my body parts?” He pushed his sunglasses back up his nose.
    The jerk! “I heard you talking on the cell phone. Just for your information, not every woman is a whore. Not here or anywhere else.”
    “Is that a fact?” He couldn’t look more bored.
    “Absolutely.”
    “I believe the words I used were harlots and whoresons . Who else would be applying for a job with pornographers?” He shrugged. “People who eavesdrop rarely hear good things about themselves.”
    “You self-important, condescending jackass! Guess that means you’re one of the, uh, what did you call the men . . . whoresons?”
    “I have been called that on occasion,” he replied, apparently not at all offended by the insult.
    “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m applying for a job as a waitress. Or maybe a massage therapist.” She shouldn’t have mentioned that second possibility, she realized immediately.
    He arched a brow. The usual reaction.
    “Not that kind of a massage therapist. I’m a licensed . . . Oh, what’s the use!”
    He smiled.
    “Oh my God!”
    “Please do not use the Lord’s name in vain. A simple ‘Oh fuck!’ will do.”
    “Huh?” She was beginning to sound like Tiffany the Clueless. Then she noticed something interesting. “You have fangs,” she accused him.
    A rosy blush filled his stark cheeks. “Not really,” he said, and ran his tongue underneath his upper teeth. He was right. They were more like pointy incisors.
    “Are you with that erotic vampire movie that’s sweeping the cable networks? Are you Eric Northman?”
    “Alexander Skarsgård? Hardly.”
    “I heard rumors of a new porno flick series called Sucked! ” She’d read about it in a People magazine article last month in the oncologist’s waiting room. “Are you part of that deal?”
    “I am not an actor, nor do I aspire to be such. I am a physician.”
    She could tell that he also immediately regretted his hasty words. He probably felt she was baiting him. More like he was baiting her.
    “A physician, huh? Yeah, right. And I’m Joan of Arc.”
    “I have met Joan of Arc, and you are not she.” He gave her a head-to-toe survey that was not complimentary.
    Marisa was not used to such disdain from men. That’s probably why she said, “How many doctors does it take to screw in a light bulb?” When he didn’t react, she continued, “It all depends on their health plan.”
    He didn’t even crack a smile. Instead, just muttered something about politics and lackwit women.
    “Don’t take that attitude with me. You’re no different than all the other men in line. You aspire to be like that rooster up there.” She waved a hand