PJ Chronicles VI - "Femme Fatale

(Author's Note: This is the continuation of the storyline first begun in "Dressing for Success" and subsequently developed in later installments - all of which may be found archived on the Nifty site or on my web page a http://www.geocities.com/westhollywood/5025)

The PJ Wright Chronicles VI

"Femme Fatale" By P.J. Wright

I was on my way back to the sofa and the Sci-Fi Network's Japanese Anime festival after a quick trip to the fridge for a refill on my glass of diet Coke. That meant I was passing right by the extension phone sitting on the end table when it started ringing. Jean was up to her elbows in the sink, pre-washing the baking dish that I'd used to make tonight's casserole. (We traded off each night; one of us cooked, the other one did the dishes.) So I knew that she'd have to dry her hands to answer the phone.

"I'll get it, hon.", I said as I lifted the receiver. "Wright residence."

There was a short pause, then a male voice sounded in my ear. "Um . . . good evening. May I please speak to P.J.?"

It had been so long (almost six months now) that I didn't even think to answer any other way than "This is he."

There was another pause. "Uh . . . no. I'm looking for Pamela. Pamela Wright. Do I have a wrong number?"

I gave the excuse that my brother Josh, with his usually inventive sneakiness, had devised to ease my transition from Pamela to Peter down at W.N&A. "No. This is the right number. I'm Pamela's twin brother, Peter. And I'm sorry, but Pamela's out right now. May I take a message for her?"

The male's voice was more assured now. Apparently he was buying the cover story. "If you would, please. Ask her to call Alan Armour. My number is . . ." And he rattled off a phone number with a Century City prefix. I jotted it down. "Okay. May I tell her what this is in reference to?"

"If you would, just say that I have a business matter to discuss with her. One that I think she might find interesting. Do you know when she might be returning my call?"

I tapped the pencil I'd used to take down the number on the pad of paper. "No. I'm sorry. I really don't."

"Oh. Hmm . . . Well, this is rather important. If she could return my call as soon as possible . . .?"

"I'll see that she gets the message the moment I see her."

"Thank you."

And he hung up.

Jean was standing in the archway separating the kitchen from the dining nook, drying her hands on a towel. "What was that all about?"

Holding the now silent phone in my hand, I turned to her and replied, "I have no idea."

***** Josh was pacing.

Add to that the fact that he'd just returned from where ever that extended business trip had taken him and we all knew. Something was up.

And it wasn't good.

The rest of us senior staff just sat at the conference table and waited for "El Presidente'" to get to the matter at hand. Finally he sighed and rested his fists on the head of the long, polished table.

"We've got trouble, folks."

Joe Norway, head of Advertising (Now, that was a hoot; the head of advertising for an advertising agency.) was the first to respond. "What's the problem, boss?"

Josh glanced up from his study of the grain of the table. "We lost the Addagio Motors Contract. They won't be renewing this Fall."

That bombshell produced a worried frown on the rest of our faces to mirror Josh's. Though the loss of that account hardly spelled the doom of our firm, Addagio had been a major client. We'd feel their loss.

I piped up with, "Who'd we lose out to?"

Josh's face now showed a touch of anger to go with his concern. "AdCon . . . again."

Now there were worried mutters to go with the worried expressions. This was the second major client we'd lost to the up-start agency that had only opened two months ago.

Josh brought the meeting to a close with, "I want to hear from all of you about possible cut-backs in each of the departments." He quickly waved a hand to cut-off the protests the sudden intake of breath from all the assembled throats indicated was about to burst out. "I'm not saying we're there yet. Nor am I saying that we'll ever get there. I just think we need to start considering options if worse comes to worse. I think that's all for today."

And on that cheerful note, the meeting broke up.

I think, of all the things that might have given me away - I mean, might have tipped off anyone at W.N.& A. that I was, in fact, the same person who used to go by the moniker "Pamela" - it would be my constant inability to abide by office protocol and make appointments to speak with my (still-unacknowledged before anyone else) brother; Josh.

I just strode past Josh's blonde receptionist, heading for his inner office door.

"Mr. Wright, you can't . . . Wait a . . . HEY!"

But the closing of Josh's office door cut off the remainder of her objection.

I perched on the corner of my brother's desk and watched him stare out the window with a troubled frown on his face. After a while he sighed. I guessed that that was all the recognition I was going to get so I spoke first.

"How bad is it, really?"

"It's not good." He finally swung around in his high-backed chair and faced me. "Oh, it's not like losing those accounts is gonna sink us. But . . ."

I nodded, "But how many more clients are we gonna lose?"

A glum nod was my reply.

It just wasn't like my brother to behave this way. He had always been such a 'never say die' go-getter. But perhaps, after a while, carrying around the weight of responsibility for all the people depending on W.N.& A. for their livelihood was starting to wear him down.

I tried to perk him up. "Well . . . come on, bro. We've been in worse scrapes than this. So, what's the plan? How do we turn this around."

But halfway through my little pep talk, he'd slowly spun his chair back to the window. His reply was a distracted, "I don't know, P.J. I really don't know."

I thought things couldn't have gotten any worse as I walked out of Josh's office. (As his receptionist's glare burned a hole between my shoulder blades.) Little did I know . . .

It's times like this that a man needs someone to turn to. Someone to listen to his problems with a sympathetic ear and to reassure him that everything's going to be all right.

Someone like a wife.

Fortunately for me, I'd picked up one of those oh-so-useful items (a wife, that is) six months ago, so I knew just who to call once I got back to my office. I didn't even need to dial an outside line. I thought all I needed to do to speak to my darling Jean was to punch in 7128 on my intercom line and my call would float down two floors to the Computer Center where my mate kept her offices.

The phone on her desk rang . . . and rang . . . and rang . . .

On the seventh ring, a rather out of breath male voice answered, "Computer Center, Barry here."

My wife's junior assistant; Barry Snyder. "Hey Barry. It's P.J. Is my lovely wife around or is she out on a trouble call?"

"Oh . . . umm . . . Mr. Wright. Uh . . . Mrs. Wright isn't here right now."

"I kinda gathered that, Barry. Where is she? I need to talk to her."

"Uh . . . she's . . . she's not here right now, Mr. Wright."

"I understand that. I'm asking . . ." Suddenly, a little thrill of fear went skating down my back. "Barry, what's going on. Where's Jean?"

"She . . . umm . . ."

"Where's my wife?"

"I . . . I'm not supposed to tell you. She left a couple of hours ago."

"Where'd she go?"

"She . . ."

"Barry!"

"The doctor's office. I wasn't supposed to tell you that . . ."

I didn't hear the rest. I'd already punched down on the "hang up" buttons and was dialing my family doctor's number.

Though there'd been benefits to being Pamela, I have to admit that getting around had always been a pain. I mean, a modern Los Angelino without a car (because "she" couldn't ever figure out a way to get a driver's license) was a real square peg in society's round hole. Now that Pamela had become Peter, it was a problem I no longer had to deal with. Today I was very thankful for the speed and maneuverability of my red Italian sports car as I weaved my way through traffic, heading back home from the office.

Our family physician had refused to say anything to me, had deflected all my increasingly anxious requests for information with the repeated assertion that it was a matter I'd simply have to take up with Jean. I admit, by the end of the call (before he hung up on me) I was getting . . . Well, I had good reason! Jean was my wife! I had a right to know!

But he hadn't seen it that way. He'd just said that Jean had left the office an hour ago, mentioning that she was heading home.

So without so much as a note to Carl, my secretary, I'd jumped into my car to challenge the mid-morning rush of L.A.'s freeway system. All the way home part of my mind had been conjuring up more and more horrifying possibilities as the other part, the rational part, kept arguing that I was surely over-reacting.

Until I remembered the day before yesterday, when Jean had been so pale when she got up. Had been so listless and lifeless the rest of the day. How she'd just dismissed it as a bad night with too little sleep. And I'd believed her, because Jean and I never kept secrets from each other.

Until now?

But thinking about it, I realized that she'd been quiet and withdrawn since then. And yesterday morning . . . had her eyes been puffy and red? Had she been crying in the night? Was I just imagining things? Was I reading too much into common, meaningless stuff?

You can bet, by the time that I got to the front door of our apartment it took a second of trying before my shaking hands managed to get the key into the lock.

She wasn't downstairs. A quick tour convinced me of that.

I found her sitting on the edge of our bed, staring out the window of our upstairs bedroom with an expression a little too like Josh's distant, distracted frown of this morning. Hearing me arrive at the door, she turned to me, a little smile finally tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Jean?"

"Hey, babe."

"What's going on?! I just called the doctor, but he wouldn't . . ." By now, I was sitting on the bed beside her, the hand that had been resting on her lap clasped in mine. "Jean . . . please . . . tell me. Are you all right?"

Deep brown eyes searched mine. With her free hand, she stroked my cheek. It was like those old movies where they shoot the actresses' close-up through cheesecloth to give her features a soft, glowing appearance.

"I'm all right, P.J. Actually, I'm very all right . . ."

Then her smile bloomed, and I knew even before she said . . .

" . . . I'm also very pregnant."

I did all the "husband things" that first-time expectant fathers are supposed to do.

Of course we kissed and I held her, and she held me. She asked me if I was happy and then immediately abandoned the question because my grin was so big and goofy that I don't think I could have spoken to save my life. Got another kiss for that.

I finally found enough of my voice to ask if she needed me to bring her anything. If she needed to lie down or . . . That got me my first gentle lecture about how she really and truly was just fine. That she didn't need to be pampered or treated like spun glass . . . yet . . . (But the time was coming when she expected to be cranky and helpless and waited on hand and foot so don't waste it now. All delivered with her devilish grin.) But for now, knowing that I was as happy as she was, what she really wanted to do was celebrate. The time was coming when a night on the town would probably be more trouble than it was worth, so we might as well make the most of the present opportunity.

We went out dining and dancing. Most of the night is kind of a blur. I just couldn't concentrate on any one thing for very long. I remember Jean's face, that glow still making it so feminine and radiant, smiling at me over the rim of her glass of non-alcoholic champagne. (It's not a cliché; pregnant women really do have a "glow" about them. Well . . . maybe one that only their husbands can see.) I remember a slow dance. (I absolutely refused to let her "boogie". That got me another mini-lecture but this time I held firm.) Jean's soft curves pressed against me as I held her and realized; 'I'm holding the two most important people in the world in my arms.' Corny . . . but what are you gonna do?

I put her to bed at about ten. I doubt it had anything to do with the pregnancy. It had just been a very busy day for my very lovely wife and she was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. I curled up beside her, 'spooned' against her - my chest to her back. She gave me a contented little murmur, snuggled a bit closer against me . . . and was soon softly, gently snoring.

I lay there in the darkness for a long time, just feeling her beside me . . . listening to her sleep.

I couldn't sleep. My mind still wouldn't focus on anything. Too many thoughts circulating too fast.

After a while, I very carefully slid back out of bed. Jean gave a sleepy little snort, a little moan . . . and then hugged tighter into the curled up huddle she usually slept in. In a moment she was again peacefully dreaming.

I went downstairs and got myself a cup of tea. Then I padded back upstairs to my studio. Every man has someplace in his home that's uniquely his. His sanctum sanctorum. My studio is mine. I gazed out the window for a while. I sipped my tea. I tried to marshal my thoughts because now I was not only a husband, I was going to be a father and that was more responsibility than I've ever had in my life.

After a while, I started to sketch with charcoal on a big tablet I had set out on my easel. I wasn't really even concentrating on what I was doing. It was kind of the artist's equivalent of doodling on a scratch pad. I lost track of time. I don't know, maybe it was a 'waking dream', the kind of thing where the body's awake, but the mind's gone . . . somewhere else. Anyway, the next thing I knew, the first pastel glow of morning was brightening the edge of the sky and there, gazing back at me from my easel was Jean. Turned in three-quarter profile. Her dark eyes shining at me over her shoulder. Her smile just starting to bloom . . . the words just starting to form on her lips.

I knew, for the second time in my life, what it is to be truly, completely happy.

Word spread like wildfire down at W.N.&A.

I couldn't stick my nose out of my office without being swarmed by well-wishers. Jean was getting the same thing.

That's all right. Maybe our troubled world would be a better place if we could all be so filled with the wonder of life all the time.

Even Josh's funk dissipated. For a while. I guess finding out that you're an "expectant uncle" is something of a thrill too. (But I knew one of these days I'd have to find a mate for my brother. This feeling of . . . hell, 'immortality' and fulfillment was something that Josh just had to have for himself.)

Things settled down after a couple of days and the office returned to its usual bustle.

And the dark cloud of our troubles with our new competitor started to roll in again.

Josh had left for another week of meetings somewhere. He was starting to spend more time out on the road than he was in the office. He called another staff meeting upon his return and informed us that AdCon was wooing several more of our biggest accounts. Most worrisome - there was a rumor that AdCon had approached our flagship client - The Sprague Group. Fortunately, they'd all decided to stay with W.N.&A.

For now . . .

We were tasked with redoubling our efforts to make sure that our customers stayed happy with our work. We'd begun a brainstorming session about the best way to mount a counter-attack against AdCon when somebody, I can't remember who, asked, "What do we know about these guys? Who the hell are they, anyway?"

Josh leaned back in his swivel throne at the head of the table and steepled his index fingers. "From what I've been able to learn; it's a bunch of mavericks from several different East Coast agencies. I guess there was some kind of pogrom back there and the most dangerous young Turks got handed their golden parachutes."

"Dangerous?"

Josh nodded. "You know, the most aggressive, hardest chargers. The kind that make 'The Establishment' nervous. Apparently a bunch of them got together, pooled their severance pay and used it to start up AdCon."

Beth DiAngelo sighed, "Just our luck they choose to start up in LA."

Josh shrugged. "Well, they're here and it doesn't look like they're leaving. So, the question becomes, what do we do about it?"

I stuck my oar in. "What kind of talent do they have? Artistic, I mean. Let's not be unduly modest here. We've got some pretty impressive artists, both writers and graphics. Can we out-perform them there? Beat them by the relative quality of product?"

Again Josh shrugged and glanced away. "I don't know. Not much on the grapevine about that. But that's one to look into. I know that, at the moment, it's business savvy that's their strong suit. There's no question that they have some genuine talent there."

Joe Norway, "Who's their head man? Who's driving the business end?"

"Some guy named Armour . . . Alan Armour if I've got the intel correct."

"Good afternoon, Advanced Concept Associates. How may I direct your call?"

"Good afternoon. Pamela Wright returning Alan Armour's call."

"One moment, Ms. Wright and I'll connect you."

I stood there, loosening my tie and listening to on-hold Muzak. I probably could have taken the tie off while I was waiting for the voice spray to kick in. I'd forgotten that the chemical didn't immediately change my voice from baritone to contralto and that . . .

"Alan Armour."

"Mr. Armour, good afternoon. Pamela Wright returning your call."

"Ah! Ms. Wright. Good. I've been hoping to hear from you."

"I'm sorry I've been so long getting back to you. I was out of town for several days and I only just got the note to call."

"No matter. So, did your brother tell you what I was calling about?"

"He mentioned that you had some kind of business offer. I should probably say, I'm really not looking for any investment opportunities or . . ."

A warm, masculine chuckle. "Oh, no. Nothing like that. I'll come right to the point. I represent an advertising agency that's just recently moved into the area. Your impressive reputation as a graphic artist is known to us and . . . well, we'd be interested in offering you a position with our firm."

I let that thought hang for a moment, pretending to recover from such a "surprising, out of the blue" offer. "Uh . . . goodness . . . I . . . uh . . ."

More masculine charm. "I realize that this is quite unexpected. I'm sure you'd have a hundred questions that we'd need to answer before you could even begin to reply. Would it be possible for us to sit down some time, for lunch perhaps, and discuss this?"

"I . . . well, of course. Surely. That would be most interesting."

"Excellent! Let me see . . . How about day after tomorrow, two o'clock at The Cedars?"

"That's fine. Yes. I'll be there."

"Wonderful! I look forward to meeting you then."

Again I stared at the now silent phone in my hand. In a little bit of deja' vu from the last time I'd been in this pose, at that moment the key turned in the lock and Jean strolled in. I hung up the phone as she set her purse on the counter. We met in the middle of the room and she wrapped her arms around my neck.

"Hello, my darling husband."

I gave her a little peck on the cheek. "Hello, my beautiful wife."

I don't know which of us was the more surprised at how incongruous that greeting sounded when spoken in a light contralto.

Jean pushed me away at arm's length and regarded me with a puzzled, intrigued grin. "Hmm . . . I remember that voice from somewhere, but I can't seem to place the face." Then she chuckled, "What the hell are you up to?"

"Oh . . . uh . . ."

There was a playful little threat in her tone. "P.J. . . .?"

"It's . . . umm . . . Here, let's sit down for a second." I led her over to the couch and she sat down next to me, her legs curled under her with that lithe, feline grace that I find so arousing.

I tried to figure out a way to broach the subject of what it was that Josh and I had determined to do. But I admit the embarrassment that I suspected would make this explanation difficult was indeed rearing its ugly head.

I guess Jean misread my frown for embarrassment of a different kind because before I could begin to explain she was running a long, slender finger down my arm. "Oh! It has been a while since we played, hasn't it? Yeah . . . And in a while, we won't have the chance for a while so . . ." Then she was cuddling up closer and nuzzling my neck and in a sultry purr whispering, "But how about if we talk dirty a little before we slip into someone more exciting? You know it gets my motor running when Pamela . . ."

"Whoa girl!" I gently pressed myself away from her with hands on her shoulders as she looked at me with renewed puzzlement. "This isn't play. Believe it or not, this is serious."

"Serious, how?"

"Um . . . hmm. Okay, you remember, last week? I got that phone call. The one for Pamela that we couldn't figure out?" Jean nodded and I continued. "Well . . . guess what? It turns out it was from Alan Armour!"

Jean just regarded me with an attentive, expectant expression. I plowed ahead. "Oh, that's right. You don't know who he is. Okay, he's the head of AdCon! That new agency that . . ."

But Jean's now thoughtful expression indicated she had realized the significance of the phone call. "What the heck does he want with Pamela . . .?" Before I could reply, 'thoughtful' turned to 'oh-ho!' "AdCon wants to hire Pamela! So that's why . . ."

I nodded. "Yeah. See, once I figured it out, I took what I knew to Josh. He thinks . . . well . . . see . . ."

Jean had folded her hands atop her thighs as she leaned back into the sofa's cushions. "He wants you to take the job. He wants somebody inside AdCon."

I braced myself for the flood of protest. "Uh huh."

But the flood didn't come. Instead, Jean just nodded. "Okay. When do you start? I mean, when do you have your first meet with this Armour guy?"

Needless to say; I was stunned. I decided Jean couldn't have understood this correctly because she was taking it all so casually. "I . . . Lunch, Friday afternoon."

Again, Jean only nodded. "So, for how long is this going to go on? Any ideas?"

"No. I'm not even sure what it is I'm going to . . . Hon, you understand what we're talking about here, right? I mean, pretending to be Pamela so I can get in to AdCon and . . . well . . ." I shrugged, peering closely into my mate's eyes.

"I get the picture. What can I do to help?"

"'Help'?! Jean . . . I mean, I'm going to be spying on somebody! Using Pamela to steal secrets and . . .hell, I don't know what all."

Jean lifted her chin. "Oh. And you were expecting some kind of outrage or something from me. I'm supposed to tell you this is all terrible and amoral and try to talk you out of it, hmm?"

Again I could only shrug in my confusion.

She took my hands in hers and her voice became very quiet and serious. "Okay. Let's talk about this. I got the 'Black Monday Memo' day before yesterday." (The 'Black Monday Memo' was what we were calling the printed result of our study of just where and how W.N.& A. could cut back if worse came to worse in our financial situation.) "Data Systems has a fifty percent roll back goal. You know what that means? There's only Barry and me down there. He saw the memo too, P.J. He took it like a real trooper. Didn't whine or complain or anything. Oh hon, he just smiled and shrugged and went back to work. I saw him a few hours later in the lunchroom. He'd fished the help wanted section of that day's paper out of the garbage can and was looking through it. He tried to hide it when he saw me. I'm not going to fire him, P.J. Not if I can help it. Understand?"

"But hon, I mean . . ."

Jean's tone got a little more heated. "Okay. If Barry's situation isn't enough for your conscience, how about this one? W.N.& A. got along for quite a while without an intranet. I'm sure that if the first job cuts aren't enough to feed the bulldog, Data Systems is going to get a one hundred percent axe. Remember what it took for me to get that job in the first place? Think it's going to be easier or harder for me to land the next one? And let's not forget; the next time 'Gene' is out pounding the pavement, he might be a lot more 'portly' than he was the first time he started answering help wanted ads."

The baby! I hadn't even thought of that! I hadn't even thought of what an additional burden that would be on both our paychecks . . . IF there were two paychecks when the baby finally arrived! And what about all the hospital bills? Oh sure, Jean's health plan would cover the bulk of the costs . . .

As long as she still worked for W.N. & A.

She could read me well enough to tell I was considering all the implications her fears had raised so she just let me think about it without further prompting.

I considered . . . and pondered . . . and though I was still very uncomfortable with my own nagging fears and doubts, after a moment the conclusion was inescapable.

I gave her hands a squeeze and gazed into her eyes. "Returning to your original question; I don't know. How can you help?"

Tuesday afternoon. The Cedars restaurant.

It had been a while since I'd worn high heels. Only six months, really, but still . . .

Oh, I remembered how to do it - how to balance in them so I didn't turn an ankle with every other step. I remembered how to walk like a woman. Kind of like riding a bicycle I guess. Shoulders erect. Take smaller steps. Put each foot on an imaginary line that ran straight out in front of you. Swing your hips a bit. Not exaggerated. Not slinky. Just a little more rolling than came naturally for the male I really was. Just different enough that I had to remember to do it rather than not thinking about it at all.

The shifting weight of an unrestrained pair of breasts beneath silk blouse beneath linen jacket was sufficient reminder to keep me within my role. Jean had picked this outfit for me. She thought Pamela should be a bit more confident, a bit more assertive if she was going to play power games with "the boys." So - no bra today. Only a lacy little camisole beneath which Pam's luscious bosoms bounced with each step. But Jean had kept it classy. The stylish blazer I wore concealed most of the jiggle leaving only an enticing hint of brazen femininity with each subtle shift of my jacket.

I'd walked through the door a little after two, enough time to let Armour arrive before me so I could make a grand entrance. The maitre d', once he'd discovered my name, informed that "my party was waiting" and he led me through the afternoon chatter of a popular restaurant to an intimate little table near one of the windows.

An expensively, tastefully dressed, vaguely Latino looking fellow rose when he realized that the maitre d' was bringing me to him. So, this was the boogey man that had Josh (and all of the rest of us, for that matter) running scared?

He was neither handsome nor unattractive. "Ordinary" would be a good word. He had curly, jet-black hair worn stylishly short. His dark (almost black) eyes were just slightly magnified by steel-rimmed glasses. Other than that, a well-tanned, unremarkably featured face and trim figure completed the individual.

"Ms. Wright?"

I nodded and offered a polite smile and a softly feminine handshake. "Mr. Armour?"

I got a polite smile, a gentle clasp of my hand and a nod in return. "Thank you for coming. Please, join me."

I almost blew it. I almost reached for my chair before Armour could step behind me and pull it out. Manners, Pamela . . . manners. Allow a gentleman to seat you. I perched, very lightly, on the front edge of the chair, bearing as much of my weight on my feet as possible. More squatting than sitting. That was the rule. You had to let the man show how much of a gentleman he was by seating you. You, in turn, had to demonstrate that you were a small, delicate creature by making the chair weightless - very easy for him to then slide forward a bit. Lord, the Women's Libbers had it right. It was all so much easier sometimes if you just did for yourself.

With an unconsciously resurfacing habit, I tucked a lock of hair behind my ear and smiled at Armour once he had reclaimed his own seat. "I wouldn't have missed this meeting for the world. If for no other reason than to satisfy my curiosity."

Lunch was polite and pointless and full of inconsequential chat about nothing in particular.

We'd finished a pretty good meal and a nice cup of coffee when Armour glanced at his watch and said what I'd wondered if I was going to hear.

"I have some material you might be interested in upstairs in my room. Do you have a few more minutes you could lend me?"

I folded my napkin on the table and favored him with Pamela's patented sultry smile. "Why of course."

In an almost perfect echo of the word and tone I'd heard once before after accepting an invitation up to a high-powered executive's motel room, Armour fixed me with a meaningful smile and purred, "Excellent."

It's odd sometimes how life seems to move in great, curving circles. How we seem to always be returning to someplace, some situation we've visited before. Maybe it's in how we deal with these constant "returns" that gives us clues as to the measure of our growth. I mean; perhaps we arrive at some predicament and we say to ourselves, 'Oh yeah. I remember this. Maybe this time I can do a little better than when I was in this scrape last time.'

Or maybe we just keep plodding in circles for no particular purpose.

Armour had a suite (sitting room, kitchenette, bedroom) up on the ninth floor. Though I knew Armour had some ulterior motive for this invitation - I mean; he lived here in LA. Why get a motel room unless he wanted some place "private" to take Pamela once he had her in his clutches? - It wasn't until he opened the door for me and then stood aside that the memories of another very similar situation really came flooding back.

Kevin Sprague and my first real initiation into The Game.

But this time I was older and wiser in the contest and knew something of how to give as good as I got.

Perhaps.

Armour followed me in and motioned me to a large couch set against one wall. "Please, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something? I know it's a little early in the day but . . ."

I faced him with a smile as I lowered myself to the waiting cushions of the couch. I made no attempt to tuck my skirt beneath me. With just a bit of luck . . . Yeah. I'd be willing to bet that from where he was standing, Armour was getting a wonderfully provocative flash of the lacy hem of my slip just visible beneath the "accidentally" immodest disarray of my dress. For good measure, I crossed my legs without bothering to hike the hem down. Now he probably could see all the way up Pamela's sleek thigh to what I call "the warning track"; that narrow, slightly more opaque band of material that circles a woman's leg just below where the thicker, darker hem of her stocking begins. (Again, it was Jean's idea for me to be wearing garter belt and stockings today instead of pantyhose. As with the bra-less camisole, these were items that would have made her feel more powerfully feminine, sensual and bold if she'd been wearing them, so she'd included them in my ensemble. Luckily for me, the teasing allure of those stockings now gave me another weapon for my seductresses' arsenal.)

"Oh, I think the sun is probably above the yard arm somewhere in the world. Some sherry would be lovely if you have it."

It was not much more then the flick of his eyes, but I caught it.

There is something about the opportunity to peek up a woman's skirt that men just can't resist. (Lord knows, I sure can't anyway.) With just the hint of a smile that could very easily be read as blithe ignorance of Armour's sudden interest - or as a sly acknowledgement that we both knew just exactly what I was doing - I primly slid the hem of my skirt down over my knees, tucking the material tightly beneath my thighs in the process.

That was the "freebie" Armour. If you want another peek, you're gonna have to work for it.

Let the seduction begin. May the best man win.

With no loss of urbane poise, Armour gazed into my eyes and nodded. "I believe I have a pretty good dry white wine I can offer. A Riesling, if I'm not mistaken. Would that do?"

Again I tucked a stray lock of Pamela's blonde mane behind my left ear and continued to smile. "That would do nicely. Yes."

In a moment he was offering me a wineglass, which I accepted. Then, to my surprise, he took his own glass of . . . well, maybe it was rum and Coke . . . Coke anyway, dark and fizzy and lots of ice . . . and sat down across from me in one of the room's chairs.

Hmm . . .

Was it possible I'd misread the situation? Were we only going to discuss business?

Boy, was this the story of my life or what? The last time I'd been in this situation I'd have given anything if Kevin Sprague had just sat in a chair across from me and talked shop. Of course, that hadn't happened. This time, when it would have been so helpful if Armour made a grab for me so I could start spinning my own little webs, he just plopped down in his seat and started sipping his drink.

When it became apparent that Armour was perfectly content to just sit there, I decided that I'd better take the reins in my hands and get this show on the road.

"Well. Perhaps we should get down to business?"

He nodded, setting his glass aside. "Indeed. I suppose I could bore you with the details of all the benefits we're prepared to offer to entice you into working for us, but let's simplify this and just assume for the moment that AdCon is willing to make your decision an easy one. I will promise, without hesitation, that you'll do better with us than you're doing now with W.N.& A."

Had he misspoken?

"Um, Mr. Armour . . . There seems to be some confusion. I left W.N.& A. just a little over six months ago. I don't . . ."

He waved a hand and smiled. "Please, enough formality. All of the senior staff at AdCon is on a first name basis. So, call me Alan. And I'll call you PJ . . ."

" . . . Unless, of course, you prefer Peter."

I don't think my jaw dropped. I think . . . I hoped . . . my expression remained neutral. "Peter?" I tried an airy little chuckle. It came off as a nervous giggle. "Peter is my brother."

Armour stared deeply into my eyes for a moment longer, that urbane smile still playing around his lips. "Going to try to whip that dead horse all the way to the finish line, eh? Very well. As you wish." Before I could reply Armour had turned to a slender briefcase sitting on the floor beside his chair. From it he withdrew a fairly thick file folder, which he opened in his lap. He then started reading. "Peter James Wright. Born April 3, 1975. Mother: Julia. Father: Michael. Parents separated in August of 1981. Julia remarried to Aaron Arger in June of 1983. Peter apparently decided to retain his father's surname because that's the name that appears on his diploma from Juilliard." He glanced at me over the top of his glasses. "There is no mention anywhere of a twin sister named Pamela. No birth records. No academic records. Nothing. It seems that she just sprang into existence a little over two years ago when she showed up on W.N.& A 's doorstep and immediately landed a very prestigious position in her stepbrother's firm. A firm that handles the account of a company named Nu-Gen - manufacturers of a very intriguing little item called a . . . I believe it's 'transgender appliance'?"

Funny. I'd become so adept at being Pamela - it had become so much second nature to me that long ago I'd stopped worrying about being 'read' or having to pass any kind of suspicious scrutiny. I used to have so many contingency plans for how I'd handle the situation if it ever arose. But Pamela had been such a foolproof disguise, and I'd become so comfortable playing her, I'd also become complacent. I'd forgotten all of my planned schemes and defenses.

Not that any of them would have worked in this situation.

Armour had me. Cold. I could only sit there, feeling like a dozen different kinds of fool.

A guy in a plastic suit and lady's underwear.

Surprisingly, Armour's voice held neither condemnation nor triumph. He just continued in that same urbane tone. "Did you think that once we'd become interested in hiring a former member of the W.N.& A. staff we wouldn't check, very deeply, into her background?"

I couldn't look him in the eye anymore. "I . . ." No words suggested themselves. Now, there was no artifice at all in the way I hugged my skirt against my knees, trying desperately to conceal as much of what was beneath that material as possible. "How did you get those records?"

Armour ignored my question. "I'm curious. Why the deception? If it's too personal, you don't need to . . ."

"No! It's nothing like that! It . . . Josh wasn't the managing partner then. He wasn't a partner at all. That happened several days after I was hired. I . . ."

Armour was nodding his comprehension. "Ah! So it was an attempt to take advantage of some hiring quota, wasn't it?"

I could only nod, my eyes once again fixed on those beautiful, feminine and horribly fake fingernails nervously plucking at the hem of my skirt.

Armour shrugged and gave me more of that knowing little smile. "It's not important, really. I like to think I'm cosmopolitan enough that it wouldn't have bothered me if it was a matter of . . . 'personal preference' . . . and not just some kind of exigency."

I was so embarrassed at this point that it came out as a snarl. "Okay. Fine. You've had your little laugh. Have I made enough of a fool of myself that we can call it 'good' and I can go now?"

He cocked his head on his shoulder. "Do you think that was my only purpose? That my sole intent was to call you up here just for the chance to embarrass you? Peter, I assure you; that is not at all the case. My offer of employment is quite genuine. We are very eager to have you working for us. Of course, it would be Peter we'd be interested in hiring, not Pamela."

I started to stand. "Look, let's just . . . I'm not leaving W.N.& A. I mean, it's my brother's company and . . ."

Armour waved me back to my seat. "Please. Don't be too hasty, Peter. Is it Peter? I admit, under the circumstances I'd be more comfortable calling you P.J. It's just too incongruous to address such a beautiful woman by a male name. The technology of that . . . well . . . it's really quite remarkable. I confess; it's been a constant distraction since you walked into the restaurant. I have to keep reminding myself that I'm dealing with another man. Especially since you play the role so well. That little trick you just did with your skirt . . ." He chuckled and playfully wagged his finger at me and I wanted to just curl up into a ball and die. Returning to that quiet, business-like tone he continued. "In any event, I urge you to take some time and carefully consider my offer before you make any decision. Your loyalty to your brother is both understandable and admirable. But loyalty can be carried to misguided extremes. Be sure that you don't throw any chance at a career away solely for blind filial devotion."

I managed to muster enough audacity to make my reply sound . . . well, at least it didn't come out as a whimper. "How can loyalty to one's brother be misplaced? Is business really that much more important than family with you?"

Armour leaned back and crossed his legs. "No. Perhaps I should rephrase. I don't urge you to abandon Josh. But the time is soon coming when your brother won't have a company for you to be loyal to. At that point it would be sad indeed if you'd burned all your bridges. Besides, if I have my way, your brother will eventually see the handwriting on the wall and he'll become a valuable addition to AdCon's executive staff as well. And then your decision would truly . . ."

This bragging was getting on my nerves. A feminine voice is superior to a male's for some things, particularly scorn. "Don't you think you're counting chickens a bit early? I grant; you're giving us a run for our money, but you're a long, long way from burying us. Or hadn't you heard that five of our largest accounts decided to stay with us rather than falling for you?"

Armour cocked his head and stared at me in such a challenging manner that I couldn't maintain eye contact. "Yes. They've decided to stay with you. For now. I wonder though . . . what will happen when word of some of W.N.& A's business practices comes to light?"

That jerked my head up. "What? What business practices?"

Armour shrugged. "Oh . . . let's see. How about an agency that stoops to disguising males as females just so they can boast about the 'uniquely feminine perspective' they bring to their ad campaigns? And what, I wonder, would the Department of Labor and Industry say about a company that flagrantly violated an equal hiring quota by . . ."

I was on my feet before I realized I was standing. "You wouldn't dare! That's . . . that's blackmail!"

His eyes went as cold and hard as onyx. "'Blackmail' is a very ugly word that I'd be very careful using. You don't want to increase to your difficulties by adding a lawsuit for slander to your troubles. It may be 'sharp business practice', that I grant you. But bringing to light the dishonorable, to say nothing of illegal, activities of one of our competitors could also be seen as nothing more than admirable service to the marketplace. Besides, to be blackmail doesn't there have to be some kind of extortion involved? Where's the extortion here?"

"You . . . You're threatening to expose . . . Unless I come to work for you . . ."

"P.J. . . . really. I never said that the exposure of your past misconduct had anything whatsoever to do with your coming to work for us."

"But then what . . . ?"

He waved me to silence. "Of course, we might have to consider our decision carefully if it would be against our best interest to make our discoveries about W.N.& A. public. I mean, we don't have a duty to make these facts known, now do we?"

"And what might make it in your best interest not to . . . to rat us out?"

Armour chuckled. "'Rat us out', that's an unusual business term. To answer your question; it certainly wouldn't be in our best interest to make our findings public if we'd hired several of the principal players from the firm we were considering exposing, now would it? And it certainly wouldn't be in our best interest if we eventually acquired that particular firm as a wholly-owned subsidiary . . . As we intend to do."

I just stood there, stunned by the magnitude of what was going on. I'd always thought Josh was a wheeler-dealer of the first order. But my poor brother only knew how to play for money and prestige. He had no experience in the vicious game of "conquer and devour." Josh simply wasn't a predator like this jackal, Armour.

With a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach I realized; AdCon was going to eat W.N.& A. for breakfast. It looked like the only question remaining was; how many bones would they be spitting out?

Armour could apparently read that realization on my face because he leaned back in his chair and smiled . . . and suddenly all I could see was a jackal, grinning as it circled its exhausted prey. "Well. I think I've stated my case. I'll have a prospectus sent to you so you can review the concrete benefits of working for AdCon. I'm sure you'll see I'm not exaggerating the advantages. Why don't you take some time, look through the materials and think about it? I'll give you a call later this week." With that he stood and showed me to the door. His parting shot was another horribly embarrassing examination of my sham femininity and a chuckled, "Astonishing. I almost hate to bring this meeting to a close. I admit, my curiosity . . . Well . . . maybe some other time."

Jean was once again curled up beside me on the couch, but this time I was just too distracted to appreciate her lithe grace. Femininity was not particularly attractive all of a sudden. I'd shrugged out of my blazer, kicked off my heels, grabbed a beer and then plopped down on the sofa to tell her all about the horrifying afternoon I'd just spent.

She reached over, brushed Pamela's hair off my forehead and then gave me a gently encouraging caress on the cheek. "So . . . okay. What do we do now?"

A feminine voice might be better than a masculine voice for some things, but it has the oddest habit of turning snarls into whimpers. "I have no fucking idea! I mean, talk about a deer in the headlights!"

"We've got to call Josh."

I struggled not to take my anger out on Jean. "I tried. Don't you think that would be the first thing I'd think of? Turns out he's off on another of those damn extended business trips. Can't be reached until next Tuesday."

"P.J. . . . what are we going to do? I mean; do you think Armour would really . . .?"

"In a heartbeat! He has nothing to lose and everything to gain. He's got us and he knows it. Frankly, I don't know why he's even bothering to be so polite."

Jean's smooth brow furrowed into an angry scowl. "Maybe the slimy little asshole just likes watching his prey squirm before he bites off its head."

The jarring reminder that this radiant, pregnant angel curled up beside me was also a former (and still occasionally rather salty) combat sailor cooled my incipient anger a bit. "I wonder how Armour got all that info on me?"

Jean folded her hands in her lap. "Well . . . it's all open record, isn't it? I mean; your diploma from Julliard, your folks' divorce . . . it's just a matter of looking, isn't it?"

I realized I was thoughtfully biting Pamela's generous lower lip and I stopped before I damaged the plastic. Instead I gazed into Jean's eyes and asked, "But how would you know to look for Peter Wright's records if you started out investigating Pamela? Where's the connection? How would you get from her to Peter?"

Jean shrugged. "Well. I suppose any examination into the Wright family . . ."

Suddenly, a nagging little doubt was tickling the back of my mind - still ill formed, but growing more noticeable. "Wright's a very common name. There are a couple of hundred Wrights in metro LA alone. Must be close to a thousand in LA County. And there's no connection in Pamela's files to Peter. That would have given the joke away. Josh and I just made up a life history for her when we filled out the employment application. Enough of a past that it looks okay on the surface. You wouldn't notice anything fishy unless you really started to dig, unless you started comparing Pamela's life story with Peter's."

You could see Jean was trying to burst the bubble gently. "Well, hon . . . don't forget you've been telling that 'twins' story for quite some time now. Surely, once Armour dead-ended in Pamela's files, he'd start looking at the rest of her . . ." Then her voice trailed off as she finally spotted the flaw as well.

I nodded at Jean's sudden insight. "How would Armour have heard 'the twins story' unless he had an ear inside W.N.&A? I mean - it's not like Armour was just wandering the halls down at the office, picking up useful little tidbits of gossip. No. He knew when he called here the first time. He had to! Otherwise why call Peter to talk to Pamela?"

But Jean was shaking her head. "No. That doesn't work."

"What?"

"Okay, let's assume that Armour does have an insider feeding him useful bits of info. Who at W. N. & A. could have spilled the secret? Who besides Josh and me know the truth about Pamela?"

I wracked my brain for a second. "Emma Huddleston knew. But she retired last year, right after Mr. North. And she was about as loyal to old Wilson North and his firm as a person could get. I doubt she's the leak."

Again Jean shrugged. "Well hon, I think it's safe to assume it's not Josh who's torpedoing his own company. And, cross my heart, I promise it isn't me."

I raised Jean's hands clasped in mine to my lips and gave her a sly little grin. "Well, I suppose I'll just have to trust you." She returned my evil expression while kissing the air between us. I sighed and lowered her hands, still held in mine, to the cushion between us. That suspicion had fallen back down to a nagging doubt.

How had Armour done it? How had he learned my secret in what must have been just a few short days, when in the span of two plus years, nobody else had?

There was a FedEx overnight letter waiting on my desk when I got into work the next morning (Wednesday). Sure enough, it was the prospectus from AdCon.

I glanced through it. I had to admit the perks for working for our rivals were impressive indeed. They had all the standard benefits. A very generous 401K retirement plan. Stock options. Profit sharing. The Works. There was even a Comprehensive Medical Plan including coverage of spouse and family members. At least I'd be able to provide first-rate medical care for Jean and the baby when the time finally came.

All I had to do was abandoned Josh and W. N. & A to get it.

It wasn't until I was glancing over the whole package for the second time that I noticed that most of the really "big ticket items" were rather . . . well . . . "projected." That is to say, though the pay and benefits were quite nice right now, if you read between the lines you could see; AdCon was betting rather heavily on a rosy future to fund a lot of the more expensive promises.

Of course, that wasn't all that remarkable. They were a very young firm, after all. It wasn't surprising that they were engaging in a little "I'll gladly pay you Tuesday, for the work you do today."

Besides, given the remarkable inroads they'd already made on our business, it seemed at least an even bet that they'd be able to make good on the promises they were making. This was especially so when you considered the weapon they had to use against W.N. & A. if we didn't play along and fold our tents in the very near future.

I was still browsing through the literature when Carl buzzed me. "Call for you on line six, Mr. Wright. A gentleman named Armour from AdCon."

I frowned and set my reading aside. "Thanks Carl. Hold my other calls, okay?"

I punched the button on my phone, lifted the handset and paused for just a second before growling, "P.J. Wright."

"Peter! Good morning! I hope I haven't caught you in the middle of something important."

The bastard. He sounded so smug. Of course, why not? He was holding all the aces and he knew it. Why bother hiding your satisfaction over your latest conquest?

"Not at all. I was just glancing through your prospectus."

"That arrived, did it? Good, good. So . . . what do you think? You can see I wasn't exaggerating when I said that the benefits of working for AdCon . . ."

"Look. Armour. Let's save ourselves the tap-dancing, all right? We both know what my decision is really going to depend upon and it isn't my weekly paycheck."

"Peter, please. I wish there were some way that whole business could just be set aside. It would be so much better for all concerned if our relationship was based on mutual benefit and respect rather than on some kind of implied coercion."

It was becoming a real struggle to keep my anger in check. I snarled, "Kind of late for regrets now, don't you think? I mean, it's a bit unrealistic to expect somebody to accept your offer of a friendly handshake after you've kicked them in the groin."

Armour gave a rather theatrical sigh. "I admit our first meeting was, of necessity, a bit . . . unpleasant. That's why I'm calling today. Several members of our staff are taking the weekend off and going up to our condo on the Oregon coast. It would be wonderful if you'd come along. I think you'll . . ."

That did it. My anger finally boiled over. "You're out of you mind if you think I'm going to spend a whole weekend cooped up with you! Wasn't our little luncheon date enough fun? You want a whole weekend to snicker at me? You may think you have me by the short hair, but I'll be damned if . . ."

The kid gloves had come off and Armour's voice was now cold steel. "Peter, I really wish you'd reconsider that hasty decision. I've already said that my intention is not and never was to embarrass or belittle you. I sincerely hope that you'll find this weekend most interesting and informative. Are you sure you won't reconsider?"

God! This was so frustrating! There was just no room to maneuver with this guy as long as he had Pamela to hold over my head. I gritted my teeth and took a deep breath. With a voice still angry, but at least now controlled I replied, "I'll be there."

Armour was again all smiles and urbane politeness. "Excellent! Wonderful! I truly do think you'll be interested in some of the other folks who'll be attending our little getaway."

I just shook my head and massaged the beginnings of a tension headache. "What kind of clothing should I tell Jean to pack?"

"Jean? Oh, your wife, yes. Umm . . . oh dear . . . You see, we really were hoping that you'd be coming alone. Not that your wife wouldn't normally be most welcome. After all, she too is going to be a member of our corporate family one of these days. But . . . this weekend . . ."

I didn't feel like resisting anymore. It was pointless anyway. "Fine, whatever. Just me."

You could hear that his smile was more smug than ever, now that it was clear to him how deep my surrender was becoming. "Excellent. I'll send over directions and a set of airline tickets for you. I assure you; I really am looking forward to this weekend. I really do want to try and finally get off on the right foot . . ."

It was petty and rude and I probably shouldn't have done it.

Hanging up on him in mid-sentence, I mean.

At first, Jean took it all with stoic calm. I don't think either of us liked being separated all of a sudden. But she didn't start out with any kind of fuss. She knew who was calling the tune that we were all going to dance to . . . at least for as long into the future as any of us could see.

So she just helped me pack with as much quiet support as she could muster.

But her calm failed her when she saw me opening Pamela's underwear drawer and start removing items. She stood silently for a moment and I could feel her eyes on me.

"Honey . . . Why . . .?"

I stared into the depths of my suitcase looking for a place to stow a trio of bras. "It was in the set of directions that Armour sent. 'Bring some play clothes and something that would work for a casual but 'client' dinner. For both of you.' The 'both' was underlined."

Jean hugged her arms to herself, stared at the floor and thought about that for a moment. "What do you think it means?"

I willed my suddenly clenched fingers to loosen. "It means that Armour has some use for Pamela this weekend and that's the real reason I've been invited along."

"What reason?"

I could only shake my head.

Jean's stoic calm finally crumbled. "PJ . . . I don't like this. Maybe you'd better reconsider . . ."

I glared at her over my shoulder, a pair of panty hose wadded up in my hands. "'Reconsider'? Reconsider what?"

Jean shrugged her shoulders, her arms hugging even tighter. "This whole thing. I mean, Armour's up to something. The fact that he's insisting that Pamela . . ."

I turned back to my packing. "Of course he's up to something! He's been up to something since this all started. The fact that he wants Pamela along just confirms that."

Maybe it was the rising note of panic in Jean's voice when she said, "But honey, what if he wants you to do something wrong? Something illegal? You could get into trouble . . ."

It's the first time I'd ever raised my voice to my wife. "'Into trouble'? I seem to recall that it was just fine for me to do something wrong when you thought we were calling the shots. When you thought that Pamela was going to go spy on AdCon. But now when it's not something you want to do, now it's worrying you?" Jean started to reply but I cut her off. "You know, I'm getting awfully tired of this. Everybody is so quick to have me jump into Pamela when it suits their purposes. But when it doesn't, all I ever seem to get is a lot of sanctimonious head-shaking and 'I told you so' moralizing." I slammed my suitcase shut and growled, "I sure wish you people could make up your minds!"

What a wonderful way to take my leave of my distraught, pregnant wife.

I'd been booked on United from LAX to Portland International. (First class, of course. Armour's way of rubbing it in some more, I supposed.) From there I made a connection on a little puddle-jumper commuter airline that was going to take me back down the coast to Coos Bay. Armour himself was going to meet me at the airport and drive me out to the AdCon company condo on Cape Arago.

In a portent of things to come, the whole trip was a disaster from the get-go.

The flight's arrival at Portland was delayed by thunderstorms so we wound up circling for an hour. They were seriously considering diverting to SeaTac when the weather finally lifted sufficiently for us to sneak in between cloud bursts.

Of course, once I'd reclaimed my luggage and had made arrangements for a seat on a later flight of "Puddle-Jumper Air", the weather had closed in again and I got to cool my heels in the airport lounge for another two hours waiting for it to lift so I could finally be on my way.

To meet with Armour.

I don't know if I was rooting more for the storms to lift so I could get it over with. Or if I wanted the clouds to descend with such finality that I could justify spending the rest of my life eating Beer Nuts, watching ESPN on the over-bar TV set and listening to the female voice on the PA system announcing flight delays.

When I finally arrived in Coos Bay I was almost four hours behind schedule. Needless to say, Armour was nowhere in sight. As I understood it (from the taxi driver who was supposed to carry me on the final leg of my journey) Mr. Armour apparently had another guest (a guest of greater significance than me, evidently) whom he had met earlier. Instead of waiting around for me, Armour had departed in his hired limo with his other guest and I got to ride in one of the local taxis to my final destination.

Just as well.

It turned out to be a little over an hour from the airport to the ocean-side condo. If I'd been forced to take that ride cooped up in a car with Armour . . . well, it would have been less amiable than hanging up on him in mid-sentence. Of that I'm quite sure.

So . . . finally . . . just as the sun was setting into a cloud-obscured west in a particularly gray and unattractive ending to a particularly gray and unattractive day, I arrived on AdCon's condo's doorstep.

Armour met me at the door, all urbane smile and good-host-bonhomie. "Peter! Welcome! Goodness, what a dreadful flight you must have had! Here, don't worry about your bags. The boy will get those. Come in, come in."

I found I was just too tired at that point to joust with this smiling bastard and I trudged past him without comment. Armour was content to let my feeble snub slide un-noticed. Why not? He had so many barbs waiting for me he could "graciously" allow me the little, ineffectual jabs.

He called after my retreating back. "You just go up and get some sleep." The tone of his voice made me stop and look at him over my shoulder. That jackal's grin was back.

"Pamela's got a very busy day tomorrow. There are some people here who are just dying to meet her. "

I don't think I ever put Pamela on with the same feeling of shame when I "became" her the following morning. I've done things that made me uncomfortable as Pamela (made me desperately uncomfortable) but I'd never had such a sense of dread and embarrassment as what was tying my stomach in knots as I slid "the flesh" of her legs up over my own . . . Slid my hands into her arms . . . Felt the sudden pressure against my groin that signified Peter had vanished inside the lie.

I guess that was the fundamental difference - "The Lie". Before, I'd always had a mask to hide behind. It wasn't Peter doing all those sinful, shameful things. It wasn't Peter who seduced boys, bedded men to further his dirty little schemes and took horrible advantage of his gender to get his way. It was beautiful, wicked Pamela. Peter was out of sight - unsuspected and undetectable beneath the disguise.

But this time the people I was going to face knew just exactly who they were dealing with. The 'disguise' only served to heighten my shame this time, not to conceal it. Worse yet, this time it was all out of my control. It wasn't for my agenda that I was doing this.

Armour continued to call the shots.

I could have railed and fought, I suppose. For all the good it would have done me.

But why waste energy fighting the inevitable? So when I got up that morning, I just bit my lip and filled the tub with water and tried not to think about it too much.

It finally became unbearable when I started dressing. I couldn't bring myself to put on any underwear. It was just too humiliating all of a sudden to go to the effort of strapping those fake tits into satin and lace or to pretend modesty for that make-believe pussy by concealing it beneath feminine little bits of silk.

I pulled on a baggy, shapeless sweatshirt and a faded pair of jeans.

Squaring my shoulders, I turned and strode for the door . . .

. . . and felt those huge, plastic lumps jiggle beneath my shirt.

Bra-less. When she was selecting my outfit for my first meeting with Armour, Jean had said that was supposed to make you feel wonderfully assertive and self-confident.

I clawed the sweatshirt off and donned the plainest bra I'd brought. Then I surrendered and slid off the jeans and tugged on a pair of unadorned cotton briefs as well.

Once again dressed, I headed off down the hall to Armour's suite. My arms tightly hugged to my chest. My head bowed. My eyes staring fixedly at my toes. Unintentionally presenting the very image of cowed femininity to anyone who saw me.

I unfolded my right arm long enough to knock, once, on Armour's door. I'd just managed to hug that arm back inside the other when the door opened and Armour was smiling . . . leering . . . at me.

"Ah! Pamela! My, my. Don't you look chic? Come in, come in." He stood aside and with my eyes once more firmly fixed on the carpet, I crept through the door.

An oddly familiar female voice greeted me with, "Oh my God! You've got to be kidding!"

I glanced up . . . turned my head to peer into the aristocratic face of the red headed siren reclining with casual, regal ease on Armour's sofa. She looked me up and down with a smug little smile playing around her lips. "I'm supposed to believe that this is PJ? This is a man?! Oh Alan . . . come now. Who's kidding whom?"

It was a nightmare. That was the only explanation. All of this was simply a nightmare and soon I'd wake up. I'd be lying beside Jean in my bed at home and none of this would be happening because suddenly it had just become all too surreal . . .

Armour chuckled. "The joke's on you, my dear if you choose to believe your eyes. Go ahead Peter . . . tell Karen." Before I could summon the clarity to speak, Armour continued. "But, where are my manners? Peter James Wright, please allow me to introduce Karen Sprague. No doubt you know that name?"

I dumbly nodded. I knew the name. Karen Sprague . . . wife of Kevin Sprague - CEO of The Sprague Group and the man who had viciously raped me that night . . . so long ago.

Armour prodded me with a "Well? Come now Peter, where are your manners? Do say 'hello' to the wife of one of your largest clients."

With a voice surprising for its lack of emotion - or even inflection . . . and clearly masculine because I hadn't bothered with the voice altering spray . . . I nodded and murmured, "Mrs. Sprague."

Her hand flew to her mouth to cover her bark of surprised laughter. "God! It is a man! Oh Alan! When you said the technology was . . . still - I had no idea!" She uncoiled from the couch and with casual grace circled me once - all the while muttering "Astonishing! Unbelievable!" Standing once again in front of me, and in a tone that suggested she was used to having her commands obeyed, she ordered, "Take that baggy top off and let's see . . ."

It didn't matter any more. It was all just too dream-like (nightmarish!) by this point. With small, precise movements I slid the sweatshirt over my head then held it loosely at my side. Again Karen's hand covered her laughter. "Oh, my goodness! No wonder Kevin was so interested in you. He does have a weakness for big-bosomed women." She turned to Armour. "Does he know how to play the role?"

I didn't need to look at Armour to know his expression matched that of the woman standing in front of me, staring with unashamed amusement at my counterfeit breasts. "Oh my yes. You can be sure of that."

Karen cocked her head on her shoulder and gave me a wicked little grin. "Show me. Show me how you seduced Kevin."

I just closed my eyes.

The smile was gone from Armour's voice. "Peter . . ."

Karen interceded on my behalf in a voice that dripped with patently sham concern. "Now, Alan. Perhaps the poor thing's embarrassed. Why don't you be a dear and run along for a few minutes and leave . . . 'Pamela' . . . alone with me for some girl-talk? Maybe that would make her feel a bit more at ease while I explain the little job we have for her."

Armour's urbane chuckle floated over my shoulder. "Very well. I'll be down in the game room when you two hens are through cackling. Don't say anything bad about me just because I'm leaving."

I heard the door close behind me. I stood there, arms at my sides, staring at the floor.

Karen turned away, moved to the window and stood, arms folded, watching the waves roll up onto the beach below.

After a moment, and for no particular reason, I shrugged back into the sweatshirt then again just stood there. I honestly couldn't think of anything to say.

The figure at the window sighed. Then, still gazing out at the surf, she quietly said, "You don't know how scared I was when you walked through the door just now. I was afraid you were going to blow it when you recognized me. I had planned to catch you at the airport last night to set this up, before Armour showed. But when your flight was delayed and he showed up instead . . . You handled it very well, though."

I stared at the carpet. "So this is where you've been going?"

The "woman" I'd once known as Jessica finally turned and faced me. "P.J. . . .There's so much to say . . . So much I need to say . . . But if we take more than just a little while, Armour might start to get suspicious and that's something we can't afford right now. So, you and I will just have to find some other time to sit down and talk. But for now, you need to know what the plan here is and . . ."

I snorted and shook my head. I could feel the sardonic little smile on my lips. " 'Plan' . . . I should have known you'd have a plan. You always do, don't you?" Then a little light clicked on and I could hear my own voice go absolutely emotionless as I said, "You. It was you who clued Armour into my secret. You gave me up . . . put me through all this just for . . . for . . . one of your god-damned schemes!"

"Jessica's" regal features suited Josh quite nicely, actually. He has kind of a narrow, "hungry" face. I sometimes kid him that when he's working one of his scams he looks a little too like a wheeler-dealer . . . a used car salesman . . . for his own good. But facing me now, with Jessica's high, smooth cheeks, aquiline nose and full lips, the effect was more aristocratic. Commanding.

"No." Then, for just an instant, Josh slipped back into his Karen persona to simper "It was Karen Sprague who tattled your dirty little secret to dear Alan. That was part of my entrée into his good graces - the wonderful little tidbit I figured out, all on my own, while I was looking into my darling, cheating husband's 'affairs'." Then my brother folded his arms and gazed back out at the sea. In quiet tones he continued. "An entrée I needed if this plan was going to have any chance of success. So, here it is, and it's fairly complicated. Pay attention, because you play a crucial role in it."

It was almost two hours later when we finally met with Armour down in the game room. "Karen" still wore the causal (but oh-so-expensive) blouse and slacks I'd first met her in.

But I was now wearing one of my Giancarlo originals (thoughtfully provided by Josh, though I'd say I brought it if anyone asked.) It was a slinky little number. Wine red and skin-tight with spaghetti straps, a fairly daring neckline and a mini skirt that ended barely mid-thigh but still forced me to take mincing little steps. Top it off with four-inch heels and the outfit was just barely on the "sunny" side of appropriate for casual afternoon wear.

My arms were still hugged beneath my imitation (and very openly displayed) breasts and my eyes were still downcast. Only very little of my apparent shame was acting. "Karen's" presence no longer daunted me. She was as much a lie as I was. But there the similarity ended. Josh's mask was still intact. Armour didn't know that Karen was as phony as Pamela and so Josh had the luxury of being as brazen as he wanted with no genuine shame attaching.

At least, not for his alter ego's wickedness.

As to whether or not Josh was feeling any shame for other reasons . . .

In that dangerous, sultry purr, "Karen" folded her arms and smiled at her co-conspirator. "So. Alan. What do you think? Isn't this just the perfect little bit of bedroom bait?"

When Karen and I entered, Armour had glanced up from the US News and World Report that had apparently been occupying his time since our separation. Now he stood and circled me once, just as Karen had done upon first meeting me upstairs. When he spoke, his tone was coldly analytical. The calculation. The evil . . . impersonality of it all sent a shiver skating down my spine.

"Hmm . . . Goodness, Karen. Are you quite sure? Isn't this a bit . . . umm . . ."

" 'Too obvious'?" My brother used his borrowed voice to counterfeit a wicked feminine chuckle. "Poor, dear Alan. You boys like to think you're always so in control. And usually, you are. But we women have our resources as well. Trust a wife to know what will enflame her husband. Rest assured, my darling Kevin will be blissfully unsuspicious of and predictably lustful after our little decoy's charms. 'She' will be a flawless lure."

Of course I would. Failure was not a possibility in this case. That was one of the beauties of Josh's plan.

What a luxury - to be so assured of victory.

Armour stood before me, arms akimbo. His expression was still nothing more than analytical. I felt like some kind of . . . machine. Tool. A thing, not a person. Of course, since what was being considered here was Pamela, not Peter (at least, not directly considered) then that's what I suppose I was.

An artificial "thing."

Finally he shrugged and smiled. "Well. I suppose I'd be rather foolish not to trust your judgment in this matter." Then he glanced at his watch. "Oh my! Look at the time. Almost noon! Your husband will be arriving any minute now. Do you have any last-minute instructions as to how our dear Pamela should behave this afternoon? I doubt you and she will get many other chances to talk once things get rolling."

Karen laid a pair of possessive hands on my shoulders. God! How could Josh do this so well? So effortlessly? Where did the ability to so flawlessly portray this cold, evil bitch come from? I thought I knew my brother. But this . . .

Karen gave another wicked little chuckle. "I don't think any instructions are necessary. After all, she's accomplished what we want her to accomplish once already, simply by being herself. I think we can just 'let nature take its course'." Then Karen purred in my ear. "Don't you think so too, dear?"

It was all there. The condescension. The loathing. The unavoidable but inadmissible hatred of a woman betrayed for what she perceived to be one of her betrayers. All there, in that one little word.

And all so perfectly, believably portrayed.

No. I didn't know Josh. I didn't know him at all.

Kevin arrived in Armour's limo a little after noon. (No taxi rides for this weekend's star guest!)

I'd forgotten how poised Kevin Sprague was. How regal.

You'd never know, to look at him, what kind of ugliness lurked just beneath the surface.

Armour, Karen and I met the latest arrival out on the condo's little patch of lawn. Armour, all smiles and calm elegance of his own, grasped Kevin's hand and spouted some kind of welcome. I didn't really hear it. I was having a sudden panic attack. What would happen when Kevin met 'Karen'? Would the whole thing fall apart? Would Armour suddenly realize he'd been duped when Kevin stared at the sham woman standing before him, a look of confusion on his face as he said, "Wife? That's not my wife! Who is this imposter?"

Of course, that didn't happen. Josh wasn't that careless.

As soon as Armour released Kevin's hand, Kevin side-stepped and then wrapped his hands around Karen's waist and purred, "Hello, darling. Did you miss me?"

It was just so perfectly played. Karen snuggled into her husband's embrace, an adoring smile on her lips and just the right degree of coldness in her eyes.

I wonder; where was that coldness coming from? It certainly 'played' perfectly - it was just what you'd expect from the genuine Karen. But when it appeared in Josh's eyes, was it the product of distaste at being groped by another male? (Kevin's hands had slid down from Karen's waist and were now fondling 'his wife's' ass.) Or was it disdain for the person who had so abused his brother?

I would have liked to believe it was the latter.

Karen cooed, "Hello sweetheart." Then at just the right moment, she turned her head sideways so the big, wet kiss Armour had been aiming at her lips landed on her cheek instead. Again, Josh was playing the role perfectly. There was no love in Kevin's and Karen's marriage. Anybody who knew anything about them probably knew that. Of course, since Kevin knew this woman wasn't his wife, her teasing wasn't disconcerting him a bit.

Quite the contrary.

When it came to be my turn for his genteel handshake, the cold, predatory light in Kevin's eyes made his growing excitement obvious. There were two females available for his attentions this weekend. Two females over whom he had no legitimate claim, no legitimate right . . . but who were very definitely 'in his power'.

For Kevin, nothing was more arousing.

Armour didn't even get to finish the unnecessary formality of introductions.

Suddenly, everyone was wearing smug, disdainful little grins - even Karen - as Kevin purred, "No need to introduce Pamela. We already know each other. Don't we, my dear?"

It was really so obvious when you stopped and thought about it.

The midnight cruise on the hired yacht. Kevin's ever-so-coincidental and sudden headache as his excuse for not joining the others. My own . . . or rather Pamela's protestation of proneness to sea-sickness and a very deep unease about being out on that "big, frightening" ocean at night.

All according to plan.

Oh, not so obvious I guess. Not when you looked at it from Armour's point of view. And after all, that was the only viewpoint that really mattered. He was the only one who had to be fooled by any of this.

Given Kevin's lustful nature, his desire to wind up alone with Pamela for a few hours shouldn't be too hard for Armour to believe. Especially when Kevin's very own wife was assuring Armour that, if given the chance, this was indeed how her husband would behave.

Karen's blithe lack of suspicion might have seemed strange. If you didn't know (as Armour thought he did) that she was in on the whole scheme and was secretly hoping for things to proceed just as they were.

Pamela . . . well, Armour was pulling her strings, wasn't he? Of course she would arrange it so Kevin had a window of opportunity. She'd been coached through her excuse for not going sailing for that very reason.

No, from Armour's point of view, everything was going exactly as planned. And so it was. Just not according to his plan.

Kevin stopped me outside his bedroom door by grabbing my arm.

All the images that came with the memory of his fingers clenching my wrist came flooding back and I could suddenly feel my pulse pounding beneath my skin, beneath his hand.

"You're clear about this, right? You fuck this up you little . . . I'll make you regret it. You've already caused me far more trouble than you're worth. Understand?"

I bit my lip to hide the trembling and nodded. He peered into my face with a dark, animal frown. "Christ! You look . . . well . . . maybe it'll look like passion to the camera. You remember what you're supposed to say?"

"I remember." I finally managed to gaze into his eyes.

I couldn't believe it when I saw it.

Fear.

Kevin was afraid. Oh, not of me, of course. In his mind I was just the little toy he'd once used, perhaps ill-advisedly. The tangible reminder of what had now become the real worry . . . the real threat. I was nothing. He'd conquered me once already. Completely. Indisputably. Now I was just the means through which he'd clean up the mess his carelessness had caused.

That's where I found the strength, I suppose. The sudden realization of how small and ignorant and . . .

Worthless

. . . this little man really was.

He didn't see the tension go out of my neck. He didn't notice that my lip finally stopped quivering.

Once, he'd had all the power, all the control.

Now, though I didn't have power of my own, at least I was the instrument of power. So be it.

Time to be free of Kevin Sprague and the memory . . . by my own hand.

It was I who opened the door and led him into his bedroom.

Funny. When I look at that tape now, even though it's been months, you'd think there'd be . . .

. . . something.

Some kind of emotion.

She practically drags him into the room. No sooner are they inside and the door hastily closed than she's all over him. His face between her hands. Her lips crushed to his. Her body pressed against his with urgent need. One leg wrapped behind both of his as she wriggles against him.

Her voice is a deep, hungry growl. "I was beginning to think we'd never be alone!"

"Pamela . . . I . . ."

"Shh . . . don't talk." More hungry kiss. Her right hand is under his pull-over shirt, teasing, fondling. Her leg wrapped around his continues to draw him tight, to press his manhood against her as her left hand curls behind his neck forcing his face to hers. "Oh Kevin . . . oh God! You don't know . . . ever since that night so long ago, I've wanted you. Needed you. It's never been that good again."

It would be almost comical. His sudden confusion. His sudden reluctance. These were the "right" words, but her aggression. Her apparent eagerness . . . "Pamela . . . wait, I . . ."

Poor Kevin. He'd never been raped before.

But his shirt is off and now both her hands are out of sight of the camera. Furiously working at something between them . . . at waist level.

For a moment, her back is still mostly to the camera and you can see her hike up her skirt, see her slide her panties down . . .

Then she spins him around, forces him to lean against her, press her to the wall and now it's his back and her face we see..

"Let nature take its course", the other one had said. And so it does. The rhythm is irresistible . . . borne of blood and instinct, not rational thought . . .

. . . at least for him.

It sounds real for her as well when first she whimpers . . . then pants . . . then finally snarls "Harder . . . HARDER! . . . Oh! . . . OHH! . . ."

He only hears her cries. His attention is elsewhere. He isn't looking at her face. He doesn't see those cold, empty eyes that never leave the mirror behind which she knows the video camera is patiently grinding away.

So simple, really. That was all there was to it. Now it was just a question of again letting nature take its course - in this case, the "nature" of one venal, conniving man.

Alan Armour.

According to our little vacation's schedule, we were all going to depart together for the airport after a leisurely breakfast.

It was over that leisurely breakfast that Armour was going to bushwhack Kevin Sprague. At least, that was Armour's plan as Karen/Josh had briefly explained it to me.

Breakfast was excellent. Omelets made to order, perfectly prepared by the caterers. Nothing but the best for prospective clients of Advanced Concepts Inc. It was while we were lingering over coffee - Well, the others were lingering, even "Karen." I was just staring out the window at the sea, no longer really interested in any of this - that Armour sprang his trap.

He took a casual sip of his coffee and then smiled at Kevin. "So. I hope this little get away has helped you relax a bit, Mr. Sprague." A charmingly boyish smile. "Forgive me . . . Kevin."

I'd forgotten how urbane and handsome Sprague could be. When he wasn't pawing at you . . . forcing your legs apart so he could . . .

But that was gone now . . . banished. Exorcised.

"Delightful, Alan. You have a wonderful place here. I must see about acquiring some condo space here myself. Really . . . quite nice."

Armour waived an airy hand. "Oh, please. Allow us to take care of that. We have very good relations with the agents of this property. It's the least we can do for a client."

Sprague chuckled. "I give you high marks for enthusiasm, Alan. But I'm sorry . . ." He gave a sad little smile and a shake of his head. "As I've said, I really don't think we'll be changing over from W.N.&A. anytime in the foreseeable future."

Armour pursed his lips and pretended disappointment. "Oh dear. Are you sure you won't reconsider? That's going to make things so inconvenient, you know."

Sprague continued to smile though now he managed to look a bit perplexed as well. "'Inconvenient'? For whom?"

With a little "tsk" and a snap of his fingers, Armour signaled to the flunky waiting in the wings with the combo TV/VCR on the wheeled cart. The flunky rolled the cart in, pushed "Play" then quickly retired, closing the dining room door behind him.

I watched my taped performance for the first time.

In a wonderfully subtle bit of business, just as the image of my hands began to slide down toward Kevin's and my waists, "Karen" took a casual sip of her coffee.

The tape ended. After a moment, Armour, with a very theatrical sigh, rose and stopped the VCR. He reclaimed his seat and folded his hands on the table. He sounded so concerned when he murmured, "It just brings me such . . . sadness to think of the horrible pain and . . . How terribly wrenching it all will be. Particularly when the jury in your divorce has to view something like this. Should you choose to contest your poor, heart-broken wife's suit, that is." Karen's wry smile confirmed her understanding of her role in the proposed scam. No doubt Armour believed she'd make a very convincing 'woman betrayed'. Armour delivered the coup d' grace. "Not to mention, and I know this can only be a very secondary concern, but how terribly disruptive it will be to your business interests when control of The Sprague Group moves to your wife as part of her property settlement."

Sprague made a little moue' of his mouth and studied the tablecloth for a moment. "Why, Alan. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to blackmail me." Then he raised those dark, dangerous eyes to Armour's

Give Armour credit. He didn't flinch a whit. He only returned Kevin's cold smile. "'Blackmail' . . . what an ugly word! And . . . forgive me, I'm no lawyer, but don't you need corroboration or some kind of proof before you can safely make accusations of that nature?" Here he turned a smug little smile to Karen. A smile she returned in kind. Armour turned back to Kevin and spread his hands. "I'd be willing to wager you won't find too many friends amongst the people assembled here." He nodded to me. "Dearest . . . 'Pamela' has very good reason to be . . . umm . . . shall we say 'reticent' in any matters that impinge on AdCon's interests." Then Armor smiled again at Karen and cooed, "And as for your lovely wife . . . well, as the party who stands the most to gain by maintaining that the tape was anonymously delivered . . ."

Considering the magnitude of the bomb he was dropping, Kevin delivered the next line with enviable aplomb. "My wife? My wife is currently vacationing in Aruba. She's been there for the past month. And as far as this little tape goes . . ."

Armour's façade cracked for the very first time. "But . . . ?" A quick glance at Karen who again, and for answer, calmly sipped her coffee.

With an increasingly vicious smile, Kevin completed his thought. "As far as my wife goes, we . . . well, let's just say that mutual knowledge of mutual indiscretions has led to a very 'amiable' marriage. I'm afraid that your video will only add to her collection. Though, unless I've lost count, my collection is still a bit larger."

By now Armour's brows had furrowed and he was glaring at Karen. "But then who . . ."

She set her coffee cup down and reached into the confines of the large straw tote she'd had with her since coming down stairs. From it she withdrew a cell phone . . .

. . . which she made a grand show of hanging up then returning to her tote. She went back to sipping her coffee, her expression Sphinx-inscrutable.

Armour stared at her for a moment longer, then, to my surprise, his lips curled into a grin and he gently struck his forehead with the heel of his fist. "Oh my. Well . . . 'note to self: If it looks too good to be true, it probably is'." He turned to me, that same, innocent, horrible smile on his lips. "I was clever enough to carefully investigate the subject of the message . . . " Another glance at Karen. "But in my eagerness, I quite forgot to examine the messenger." He shook his head then turned his attention back to me. "Would you do me a favor? The next time you see Josh, please tell him I said, 'Well played.' It's really quite a pity that you won't be joining us. Either of you. At least, not for a while."

All this was proceeding above Kevin's head, but he really didn't care at this point. He had his victory. Never again would the managing partner of his advertising agency be able to hold the threat of exposing the rape of one of W.N.&A.'s employees over Kevin's head. Kevin's copy of the tape would render any such accusation rather absurd.

Next time contract renewal rolled around, Josh would just have to find some other lever to use against AdCon.

Armour glanced at his watch. In a perfectly conversational tone, he proclaimed. "But we really must be on our way if we're going to catch our flight."

Urbane . . . sophisticated . . . not quite human to the last.

It was illegal, what I was about to do.

But given all that had just gone before; all the lies and schemes . . . all the blackmail and . . . the other things . . .

A violation of the county's no open fires ban seemed laughably trivial.

Besides. Of all the ways I could do it, this way felt the most . . .

. . . "right."

The trip back from Coos Bay had been . . .

I don't really know. Josh and I were simply exhausted, I guess. There were no strong emotions left. Once we'd taken our leave of Armour and Kevin, Josh had gone to the counter and exchanged a first-class ticket to Chicago ('Karen's' return trip home) for a first-class ticket to L.A. Even with the penalty for exchanging tickets, Josh still got a credit of several hundred "frequent flier miles" as a refund for the difference in fares.

So I guess you can't say the trip was a total loss.

First Class wasn't that crowded, but Josh and I still sat together. Two well-heeled businesswomen on some high-powered errand from Portland to L.A. You saw it all the time. No body paid us much attention except for the stewardesses, and their ministrations were fairly predictable. It's just as well. I didn't realize at the time how much concentration Josh was expending to maintain his 'Karen persona'. He didn't have the years of experience counterfeiting a woman that I possessed to make it all second nature, so for him it must have been a constant struggle not to make any obvious mistakes.

But once we were on the plane, and 'Karen' finally relaxed . . .

Fortunately, nobody noticed when I reached over and surreptitiously patted her on the thigh as a reminder that, while crossing her ankles was a perfectly acceptable posture for a decorous woman to adopt while seated, she still had to remember to keep her knees together.

We didn't talk.

Funny. There was so much to say and yet . . .

I had my car waiting at L.A.X. Instead of all the fuss of grabbing a taxi, by wordless mutual assent Josh just followed me out to the parking garage and threw his suitcases in the trunk along with mine.

I don't know if, subconsciously, I wanted Josh with me when I faced Jean or if I was just so drained and oblivious to things that I drove home by rote. Instead of taking Josh home first, that is.

Jean must have been waiting at the window because she opened the door for Josh and me before I could even get my key in the lock.

There was a brief moment while Jean peered curiously, neutrally at the strange woman I'd brought home with me. (Jean had never met 'Jessica'.) When I brushed past her with a muttered, "It's Josh" Jean's expression went through surprised puzzlement to . . .

Jean has a very intense, very 'quiet' kind of anger. You can tell she's mad when her brows knit together, her lips thin and she gets these two little . . . well, you can't call them 'laugh lines' but that's what they look like . . . at the corners of her mouth.

My wife is no fool. She'd put enough of the clues together to deduce that what ever had happened during my 'weekend on the coast', Josh had played some kind of role in the affair. Given his reputation as a wheeler-dealer, taken in concert with his current 'incarnation' as Jessica . . . Well, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that his involvement in the whole tawdry business couldn't have amounted to anything good.

I have to also say, though my wife and my brother get along well enough - particularly in the professional setting of the office - still there's no real 'love-lost' between them. In fairness to Jean, her first meeting with Josh - when he'd flatly refused to consider her for a position with the firm solely on the basis of her gender - probably entitled her to a measure of coolness.

But now, the atmosphere was positively glacial.

Things didn't warm up when Josh and I took turns relating the weekend's events in as brief and clinical a fashion as we could manage.

How do you make seduction, rape and blackmail come across as clinical?

Jean listened to our tale, her eyes fixed on her toes, those 'laugh-lines' becoming more and more pronounced. After Josh and I ran out of narrative, Jean sat quietly for a moment. Then, without meeting either of our eyes, she asked (presumably of Josh, since he was the only one who knew the answer), "That cell phone call. At breakfast. Where did that call go? The police?"

Josh shook his head. "What would that have accomplished? If I'd narc-ed Armour out, he'd have just used his own ammo against us and taken us down with him. No. I'd set up an answering machine with a tape recorder back home."

Jean nodded and sneered, "Sure. That way you now have a gun you can hold to Armour's head. Now everybody's got a gun pressed to everybody's head. Mexican standoff. Except for Sprague, that is. He gets to rape PJ again and this time it gets him off the hook! Brilliant plan, Josh."

Seeing that Josh was frayed and tired enough that there was going to be a real fight between my brother and my wife, I tried to intercede. "What else was there to do? And it's not like Sprague raped me this time. I mean, this time . . ."

Jean whirled on me and snarled, "This time you think you were so clever. This time you got to have your revenge by fucking Sprague for a change. Right? That's how you think it really went down?" I could feel my jaw drop open as Jean charged ahead. "He fucked you again, PJ. Just like Josh fucked you! And Armour fucked you! Everybody's fucking you over, PJ and you're just too . . . too . . . GOD! Can't you see anymore? Don't you understand?"

Now I was getting mad. "Understand what? What are you insinuating?"

I said Jean had a 'quiet' kind of anger, but there was nothing quiet about it now. Now she was shouting and stabbing a finger into my fake bosom. "I'm not insinuating anything. I'm telling you; it's got to stop! How many more times? Hmm? Is this how it's going to be from now on? Life throws PJ a curve so he just jumps into his little girl suit and lets Pamela deal with it?"

Josh piped up with, "What other choice was there? You have to admit - there was an obvious symmetry to this."

Jean turned on Josh. "And that's the justification? 'Symmetry'?! Is that how you're going to rationalize this? It's not wrong if it all fits together nicely?"

With a regal curl to Jessica's full lips Josh growled, "Being a bit high and mighty, aren't you? Playing roles is okay if it gets you what you want - like a job. But it's all tawdry and dishonest when it works to someone else's advantage?"

I snapped, "Now wait just a minute! Whose fault . . .?"

But the battle had passed me by and Josh just charged ahead. Now he was stabbing a well-manicured finger at Jean. "You might want to remember all this was in your best interest too. Or have you forgotten who it is who signs your paychecks? Who it is who's paying for your medical plan. PJ was trying to save the business, that's true. But he was also thinking about you when he did this. About his wife and his baby! Maybe you should be a little less quick . . ."

Jean bounded to her feet and brought the debate to an end with a shouted, "'Everybody else is doing it, so that makes it okay.' That's a three-year-old's excuse! It was wrong when I did it. It was wrong when PJ did it the first time. And this . . . this whole . . . it was WRONG! Pile as many wrongs up as you want. It still won't make one 'right'."

Then she stormed up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door leaving Josh and me to stare at our toes and wait for the taxi that would take Josh home.

'How many wrongs make a right?' With Pamela, it always seemed to come back to that.

That question circled in my head for the following days. Jean was quiet. Closed off. I don't know. Maybe Josh's jab at Jean's masquerade had touched a nerve. Maybe that was part of it.

But that wasn't the largest thorn in her side. Across the dinner table the next night, I tried to work it out with her. The discussion didn't get very far. Only far enough for her to give me another little morsel to chew.

"PJ, don't you see? Don't you understand how . . . You say you're doing it for the baby. Okay. I . . . I believe you think you're doing the right thing but . . . What are you going to tell him? Or her? 'Daddy's having a little trouble at work, or with the neighbors, or . . . or whatever. So he's going to put on this magical suit and he's going to be a girl for a while. And you'll get to play along. Won't that be fun?' Is that what you really want to do? Is it?"

That was the clincher, really. Oh, I agonized over it for a few more days. But I just couldn't get past that mental image - trying to explain to my son or daughter about Pamela.

So in the end, that's why I was standing out here behind our apartment complex's garage, watching the smoke rise from the old, rusted fifty-five gallon drum that the tenants sometimes used to break the county's clean-air ordinance when they didn't feel like taking the trouble or expense of toting some item of garbage out to the dump.

Funny, for all the impact she'd had on my life, you'd expect Pamela to go out with more fanfare. A big rush of flame like a Viking funeral pyre or something. Not just one anti-climactic puff of black, burning-rubber-smelling smoke.

With a shrug and a feeling of ill-defined loss, I turned and trudged back to my wife and the child that was to be.

Jean had seen the truth of it. No amount of 'wrongs' ever added together to produce one 'right'. Life didn't work that way.

But in our lives together, two 'Wrights' had combined to produce another.

And it was to make room for that other . . . that little 'Wright-To-Be' . . . that Pamela had passed out of my life.

The smoke rose into the air behind me. Maybe . . . sometimes . . . one wrong can make it right.

Copyright 1999 by PJ Wright