"Yes, but I enjoy every second of it. Now, question two." Mel swiped the magazine and read, "Your man has just given you an expensive gift that you hate. Do you A) jump up and down with excitement because he only wanted to make you happy and keep the gift. B) toss it in the trash and call him a bastard. Or C) exchange the gift for something else."

I recalled the orchids Royce had given me, and my chest constricted. "B," I said. "Toss it in the can so I won't have to look at it and remember how he has no business being so sweet to me."

"I would exchange the gift, no question," Mel said. "There's no need to toss a free item. Ever. And Naomi and I both know what your answer is, Kera. You'd pee your pants from excitement." There was a sullen quality to her voice.

"Very funny," Kera said, grinning. Then she frowned. "Hey, is anyone keeping track of our scores?" She jumped up and raced into the kitchen. Several minutes later, she returned with pen and notebook in hand. She immediately jotted down our previous answers. "All right. We're all caught up. Let's move on."

Mel tossed me the magazine. "It's your turn to read."

I lifted the pages between my fingers as if they were nuclear waste. "Question three. You've just finished making love. Do you A) relax beside your man and enjoy the rest of the night. B) try to slither away in the dark. Or C) see if you can generate the world record for number of sexual positions attempted in one night."

I already knew my answer. At least, the only one I could say out loud.

"B," Mel and I said in unison. I didn't mention that Royce and I had lived C. Nor did I mention that after our second marathon, I hadn't been so eager to get away.

Kera: "I'm A."

"Too bad for Colin," Mel grumbled, a hard glint in her eyes. "What's the next question?"

"I'll read." Kera swiped up the quiz. "You're dating one guy, but another, super-hot guy asks you out on a date. Do you A) turn him down-after all, you're perfectly content with the man you have at home. B) accept and tell your man you're going to see your sick aunt Ruby. Or C) accept and tell your man you thought you had agreed to see other people."

"A." Kera.

"C." Mel.

"D. Never get involved in the first place so you don't have to worry about this type of situation." Me.

Kera pursed her lips. "I thought we discussed not making up your own answers."

"All right. All right. I'll take A." I could never, never do to a man what had been done to me. I'd never be able to live with myself if I made someone doubt their appearance, their personality and their intelligence.

"Now," Kera said. "It's time to calculate our scores." She flipped open the calculator. Five minutes later, she smiled. "Naomi scored a five. Mel, an eight. And me, a fourteen."

"So what does that mean?" I asked.

"Let's see." Kera flipped a page in the magazine. "If you score a ten to fifteen-that's me," she said, then read, "your man is a keeper. Did you hear that Mel? Colin is a keeper. What's more, you art a keeper. You are highly motivated to succeed and care about those around you."

"What's it say about me?" Frowning, Mel grabbed the magazine and read, "If you scored a six to nine you need to readjust your priorities. Spend a little time thinking of all the wonderful things others have done for you because you may not be worthy of your man." She tossed the magazine to the ground. "That's the worst bunch of shit I've ever heard. I think of others all the time."

I couldn't wait to see what the stupid quiz had to say about me. Maybe I'd get the answers I needed and would know what to do about Royce. "My turn." I swiped City Girl from the floor. "If you scored a one to a five," I read, "seek professional help."

I looked up.

"What else does it say?" Kera asked.

"That's it." I couldn't believe it. That was the advice the quiz had for me? Seek help? What kind of dumb-ass advice was that? The stupid kind, that's what. It was like telling a burn victim to put salve on their wounds.

So I needed professional guidance. So what. I'd known that already. Dumb quiz.

Early Friday morning, I wolfed down two blueberry muffins and made a list of everything I wanted to get done that day.

. Call Royce and ask to borrow his car and a camera.

. Follow Jonathan and snap photos of him acting like a male whore.

. Take Mrs. Powell's invitation mock-up to printer so I could present a sample for Royce's approval.

After a moment's consideration, I scratched out number one. Added it back. Scratched it out again. I should avoid that man like the plague. However, I scowled and picked up the phone, hurriedly dialing his number.

It wasn't like this was a social call. I needed his help and, by God, I wouldn't be afraid to ask. Wouldn't be afraid to hear his voice. I would control my hormones or die trying.

And you know what? As the phone rang, I heard that stupid BlueJay beeping from the trash can. I ignored it. Royce finally answered, his voice scratchy with sleep. A shiver snaked down my spine, and an image of him lying in bed, naked, swept through my mind, his mouth finding my breasts, and his fingers-I growled. Damn hormones.

"Uh, hi Royce. It's Naomi."

"Hey, sweetheart. Something wrong?"

Another shiver. If only he hadn't uttered the endearment with such warmth and tenderness. "Can I borrow one of your cars?"

Pause. "Why?"

"I have to do something."

"What?"

"Can I borrow one of your cars or not?"

Another pause. "With me in it?"

"No."

"With me in it?" he asked again. "And you better answer it right this time, because your answer is the same as mine."

"Yes." Stubborn man. "Do you never have to work? You'll have to take a couple hours off if you go with me, because I need the car this morning."

"I'll call you right back," he said and hung up on me.

Openmouthed, I stared down at the phone. "No you did not," I muttered and redialed his number. He didn't answer. That decroded piece of-

The phone rang. I almost jumped out of my skin. "What?" I barked into the receiver.

"Done. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

My pulse fluttered at the thought of seeing him again. "Bring your camera. And wear a hat. And sunglasses."

"And a fake beard?" he asked on a husky laugh.

"If you have one," I said in all seriousness. "Drive your cheapest, most unnoticeable car. No limo today."

"What's going-"

This time, I hung up on him. I'd clue him in when he got here. Time to get busy. As I strode into my bedroom, I stripped. I belted a pillow over my stomach. The condom incident with Royce had given me an idea for a disguise. Dr. Johnnie would never know the pregnant woman following his every move was actually his stepdaughter, Detective Delacroix.

I slipped the largest dress I owned over my head and shimmied it down the rest of me. The plain, light blue material was tight around my middle, emphasizing my rounded belly. I ran my hands over the pillow and a thought occurred to me: This image might actually become a reality in the coming months. My heart skipped a beat.

Don't think about that, Naomi. For God's sake, don't think about it.

As I slipped into comfortable shoes, I stuffed Mrs. Powell's party invitation in my purse. I twisted the long length of my hair under a hat, then locked up my apartment. Fighting a sense of eagerness, I headed outside to wait for Royce. Thankfully, no Tattler reporters were behind the bushes-I checked-nor was anyone waiting beside the building.

Fifteen minutes later, I was a hot, sweaty mess-and still freaking waiting outside. Did no one believe in timeliness anymore? Royce finally eased his shiny, expensive sedan in the parking slot right in front of me. I would have preferred something less expensive, less noticeable, but this would have to do.