He set the suitcases in the back then tossed her the keys. "You drive."

She repressed a smile as she climbed behind the wheel. "With each passing day, your reasons for wanting a wife become clearer.

Maybe I should let my faithful manservant answer the rest of your questions, since he seems to have all the answers."

"I'm saving her time," Bodie replied. "She brings you a redhead, you'll give her grief. Look for women with class, Annabelle. That's most important. The sophisticated types who went to boarding schools and speak French. She has to be the real thing because he can spot a phony a mile away. And he likes them athletic."

"Of course he does," she said dryly. "Athletic, domestic, gorgeous, brilliant, socially connected, and pathologically submissive. It'll be a snap."

"You forgot hot." Heath smiled. "And defeatist thinking is for losers. If you want to be a success in this world, Annabelle, you need a positive attitude. Whatever the client wants, you get it for him. First rule of a successful business."

"Uh-huh. What about career women?"

"I don't see how that would work."

"The kind of potential mate you're describing isn't going to be sitting around waiting for her prince to show up. She's heading a major corporation. In between those Victoria's Secret modeling gigs."

He lifted an eyebrow. "Attitude, Annabelle. Attitude.

You couldn't be satisfied with being an amateur asshole, could you, Jimbo! You had to go and turn pro on me!

Did you eat my Twinkies?"
She gulped. Keeping her eyes glued to the whip, she said, "Exactly what Twinkies are we talking about?"
"The Twinkies in the cupboard over the sink. The only Twinkies in the trailer." His fingers convulsed around the coils of leather.
Oh, Lord, she thought. Flayed to death for a Twinkle.
"Well?"
"It, uh — it won't happen again, I promise you. But they didn't have any special marking on them, so there was no way I could tell they were yours." Her eyes remained riveted on the whip. "And normally I wouldn't have eaten them— I never eat junk food-—but I was hungry last night, and, well, when you think about it, you'll have to admit I did you a favor because they're clogging my arteries now instead of yours."
His voice was quiet. Too quiet. In her mind she heard the howl of a rampaging Cossack baying at a Russian moon. "Don't touch my Twinkies. Ever. If you want Twinkies, buy your own.

The point I was trying to make before you interrupted with your inventory
of my personality is that neither of us is going to be able to stay celibate for the next six months."

She dropped her eyes. If only he knew that she'd stayed that way all her life.

We'll be living in close quarters," he went on. "We're legally married, and it's only natural that we're going to get it on."

Get it on? His bluntness reminded her that none of this meant anything to him emotionally, and contrary to all logic, she'd wanted to hear something romantic. With some pique, she said, "In other words, you expect me to keep house, work for the circus, and 'get it on' with you."

He thought it over. "I guess that's about the size of it.

Make-up? What happened? You look almost female."
"Thanks. You look almost straight.