LITMIR.BIZ

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or not. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

      Marcy shook her head. “Of course it matters. This is radio, sweetie—where numbers rule the day and the only thing you can count on is change. You need this article to be good, or at least provocative. A good scandal wouldn’t hurt at all.”

      “Oh man, you’re serious, aren’t you.”

      Marcy nodded, but something in the other room had captured her attention. Jamie knew what it was as soon as she glanced over. Ted Kagan, the DJ who came on after Jamie, was talking to Cujo. Ted was a sweetheart, and it didn’t hurt that he was also deliciously gorgeous. Marcy hadn’t ever said anything, but Jamie knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her producer had the hots for him. And Jamie also knew that Marcy wouldn’t do anything about it because Ted was thirty. As if that mattered. Love was love and, unless one of the participants was under eighteen, age didn’t mean squat. “Marcy?”

      She didn’t respond. Not for a few seconds at least. Then she turned to look at Jamie. “What?”

      “He’s a doll, isn’t he?”

      Marcy’s cheeks got pink. “Who?”

      “Okay. Have it your way. But you do realize I’m an expert on relationships.”

      Marcy stood up. “Right. And let’s see…your last relationship was when, exactly?”

      “A person doesn’t have to die to be a pathologist.”

      “Nice analogy, except that it has nothing to do with the subject at hand. I’ve known you over a year, missy, and I haven’t seen you go on a date even once.”

      “I’ve been busy.”

      “Busy, my ass. You’re a workaholic, and you know it.”

      Jamie relaxed. She could live with that diagnosis. “I know. And I’m trying to ease up. It’s difficult.”

      “That’s another load of garbage. Have you made any plans for your vacation?”

      She shook her head.

      “Well, if you don’t, I will. I’m thinking Tahiti.”

      Jamie glanced at her panel. She donned her headphones and pressed her on-air button. “Welcome back to WXNT. I’m Dr. Jamie, and I’m being interviewed by Darlene Whittaker of Vanity Fair magazine. But first, are you tired of waking up with a sore back?”

      Marcy sighed as she pulled open the booth door. It seemed to get heavier every day. Just as she got it open wide enough to walk through, Whittaker turned the hall corner and rushed past her without so much as a thanks. Rude, rude, rude. But then, so many people were these days.

      She glanced in the production booth. Ted was still there. God, he was so yummy. Tall, slender, blond—he had the words “golden boy” written all over him. He was also one of the nicest men she’d ever met, and if she didn’t stop dreaming about him, she’d have to shoot herself.

      It didn’t help that his divorce had come through two months ago, and that he was actually starting to show some interest in dating. She’d never survive watching him parade sweet young things through the office.

      She really should ask him out. Just take the bull by the horns. Put it all out on the table. Jamie was always talking about how women let fear stop them from having fun. That they should have the same opportunities as men when it came to recreational sex. And that there was no point in beating around the bush. If she wanted to hop in the sack with Ted, she should simply walk up to him and ask. Go for it, as Jamie was so fond of saying.

      Oh, please. She could barely look at the man without blushing like a twelve-year-old.

      She sighed as she headed toward the production booth door. The phones would start lighting up any second, and she wanted to get a real good mix on the line.

      Ted was looking at a newspaper when she walked in, and he didn’t even glance at her as she took her seat by the phone. The computer to her right was her link to Jamie. Once she got a caller, she’d type the name, age, location, and the gist of what he or she wanted to say. Most nights, the phones never stopped. Tonight was no exception, which was good. She needed to be too busy to think. She slid on her cordless phone receiver and pressed line one.

      DARLENE KNEW she was losing ground. Dr. Jamie was a lot more poised than she should have been, especially at her age. Twenty-six, and already the top-rated DJ in New York. Shit. At twenty-six, Darlene had been in college, an English major with no boyfriends, no girlfriends, and an eating disorder.

      Of course, Jamie was prettier in person than in her publicity photos. Pouty lips, perky tits and, come on, couldn’t she at least have one pimple to even the score? No. Pimples were for women like Darlene. In the article, she’d probably describe Jamie’s skin as alabaster. Flawless. The bitch.

      “If you don’t mind, Darlene, I’m going to take a call.”

      Darlene nodded, wishing she’d had a chance to smoke during that last commercial.

      “This is Lorraine from Queens.” Jamie hit a button, and Darlene could hear a little static on the headphones.

      “Dr. Jamie?”

      “That’s me. Do you have a question?”

      “Yeah, well. Yeah.”

      “Go on. I don’t bite.”

      “The other night, you were talking to Kelly from Pt. Washington about how she got seduced by this guy—”

      “She let herself be seduced.”

      “Yeah, well, that’s the part I wanted to talk about.”

      “The idea that no woman can be seduced unless she wants to be?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Okay.”

      “I don’t know. I mean, there’s this guy at work. Steve. He is so gorgeous, and he’s funny and sexy. You know what I’m talking about. He’s one of those men who can have any woman he wants.”

      “No man can have any woman he wants.”

      “But, like, I’ve got a boyfriend, and I don’t mean to say I did anything with Steve, but I sure thought about it. I don’t like to admit it, but if he’d asked, I’d have said yes.”

      “Why? What is it about Steve that makes him so irresistible?”

      “I don’t know. He’s really good-looking.”

      “So you’d have sex with all really good-looking men if they asked you?”

      Lorraine laughed. “No.”

      “Then it must be something else.”

      “Okay. The way he looks at a person. It’s like, uh, I don’t know. It’s like he sees right inside me.”

      “Great. He knows how to focus. Have you slept with every man who focused solely on you?”

      “No. But that’s mostly ‘cause no one ever has. Not like Steve.”

      “I admit, being paid attention to is flattering, but it’s no reason to drop your drawers. What else?”

      “I don’t know. I swear. It’s just a combination of things, I guess. The way he walks and smiles. When he comes into my office, I can hardly breathe. It’s like he’s magic or something.”

      “He’s not magic. He’s just self-assured. He knows he can make women swoon, so he does.”

      “I’ll say.”

      “Here’s the thing, Lorraine. If you wanted to sleep with him, far be it from me to tell you what to do. Go for it. If you don’t want to sleep with him, don’t. But don’t lie to yourself and say you were seduced. There’s no such thing. Seduction is an excuse for behavior you know is inappropriate.”

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