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remotely feminine—not his muscled forearms, his perfectly square jaw with its two-day stubble, or his crooked smile that showed glimpses of pearly white teeth.
    At six feet tall and with the finely honed physique of a long-distance runner, this god was in his late twenties, or maybe early thirties. His hair was short, thick, and dark, his complexion olive, his eyes dark brown and offset by even darker lashes. Then there were those creases, almost winking at me in friendly invitation.
    “Uh,” I said, stepping forward again to take hold of his outstretched hand. It felt smooth and dry in my palm. I was sorry to release it. “I’m here to see Mrs. Lamont.”
    “Well, come in.”
    Mr. GQ shifted away from the door so I could walk inside. And when he did, a cloud of cologne and fabric softener mixed in the air around him. My eyes drifted closed. Calvin Klein and Snuggles: my favorite smells.
    “We’ve been expecting you,” Mr. GQ continued.
    We? Who was he? He looked too young to be Mr. Lamont—Ms. Jacobs had said that man was a formidable middle-aged short seller—and was definitely too old to be one of my prospective students. A servant, maybe? But his Diesel jeans and Versace polo shirt seemed both too expensive and too casual for mere household staff.
    “She’ll be with you in a few minutes,” Mr. GQ said as he led me past some stairs, through a dining room with a massive steel contraption that resembled a chandelier, and into a living room that held little more than a white sofa. “She got delayed on a phone call in the office downstairs. So please, make yourself comfortable until she gets here.”
    “Okay,” I nodded, but I stood waiting, uncertain where to go. Make myself comfortable? Somehow, suddenly, that seemed impossible.
    I took my eyes off Mr. GQ and noticed the space around me: the clinically white walls; the occasional glimpses of steel; the ultramodern decor. The living room was stark in its sparseness. Even its fireplace and wooden floors—probably the only remnants of the house’s original nineteenth century grandeur—had been painted over with white latex. A black and white painting of a woman hung over the fireplace, but her obscured features only added to the room’s barrenness.
    I shuddered. The central air was on, but the temperature wasn’t that low. The room left me cold. I rubbed my bare arms and looked around again. Where to sit? The sofa was so white I feared staining it just by standing in its vicinity. And the few other furniture pieces in the room, like the two shell chairs, looked extremely breakable. I shuffled away from the chairs, about to risk the sofa, when Mr. GQ caught my eye.
    “Go ahead,” he smiled. “Sit. They won’t break, not under your weight.”
    I smiled back, conscious he now observed my every move, and gently slid into a chair, holding my breath until I knew for certain it would remain standing. It did.
    “See,” Mr. GQ chuckled, “I told you, nothing to fear. And just in the nick of time.” He winked at me. “I think I hear Monique—Mrs. Lamont—coming. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”
    Work? I guess he was an employee. Ms. Jacobs hadn’t been kidding when she said the Lamonts hired for looks.
    “Good luck,” Mr. GQ mouthed on his way out.
    And with that encouragement he disappeared from the room just as a statuesque brunette made her way in. I reluctantly took my eyes off his retreating back—he was one fine-looking man, although knowing New York, he was either gay or married—and focused them on the woman. Mooning after Mr. GQ wouldn’t pay my imminent housing bill. But this woman—Mrs. Lamont—could. One word from her, and my financial woes were over.
    She was extremely tall, taller than my five feet eight inches, and close to Mr. GQ’s six feet. Her hair was black, like finely honed obsidian. She was thin yet curvaceous, a throwback to the old Hollywood ideal. Her skin was pale. And her face … beautiful was not