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high-necked knit tops, and sensible black heels.
    In their place was a floaty dress covered with flowers that mimicked the display outside, a pair of sandals that displayed bare, oddly appealing toes, and a length of shapely leg.
    The only recognizable thing was her wary expression. She’d let her dark-brown hair curl around her face, but pushed it back when she saw him as if uncertain what to do with the hand that wasn’t holding the door.
    “Hello. Please come in.”
    In sharp contrast to her sleekly efficient office, Ms. Walker’s living room was like something out of a country living magazine. A closer look revealed that the floral curtains and sofa covers had probably been home-made, and not recently. Worn patches marred the soft-brown carpet and the armchair she steered him away from had at least one bad spring.
    “Genteel poverty” was the best description of the decor, although owning a house like this free and clear in L.A. ruled literal poverty out of the question. He would have to rethink the sugar-daddy hypothesis, though. For some reason, his mood brightened.
    “I’m afraid I don’t have all the paintings ready,” she told him once he was settled on the sofa. “Can I get you something to drink while you wait? I’ll only be a few minutes.”
    He could imagine what kind of ultra-feminine beverage she might consider appropriate to the occasion. “No, thank you.”
    She disappeared down the hall that led toward the back of the house, but he wasn’t left alone. The two cats he’d seen in the window before, one white with black splotches, the other black on top and white underneath, crept from behind the broken armchair.
    The mostly black one jumped on the sofa and sat down next to him, eyes alert, tail twitching. The inner guard, he decided, now he was past the pink sentinels outside.
    The mostly white cat jumped up beside him in a more leisurely fashion. It sat very close and put one front paw, then the other, on Morgan’s thigh. Daintily it lowered its coal-black nose and sniffed his crotch.
    Strangely uncomfortable at the cat’s inspection, Morgan managed not to push it away, intrigued with what it might do next. He’d never been allowed to have pets as a kid.
    The initial part of the procedure complete, the animal walked its front paws up his polo shirt, claws out enough to gain some purchase, but not enough to scratch. Reaching Morgan’s face, it sniffed again, then butted its head against his cheek.
    He refused to flinch, or to follow the instinct that made him want to run his hand down the animal’s sleek body.
    Was the creature purring?
    “Smudge!”
    The cat turned to give its owner the look of someone doing his duty, then dropped its paws to the sofa cushion and assumed the same position as its comrade.
    The pink on Ms. Walker’s cheeks when she rushed over made his mind wander to other ways he might make the prim lady lawyer blush.
    “I hope you’re not allergic. He’s never done that before. All I can think of to explain it is that Aaron has a beard, so he’s not used to clean-shaven men.”
    Aaron? And the cat was only familiar with one man? Morgan’s mood went sour again.
    “Guys.” Both cats looked at her. “Off the sofa.”
    They both jumped down and sauntered away, tails high.
    “Smudge and Sylvester. Rescue cats. Brothers. Neutered.”
    “Where did you set up the paintings?” he interrupted gruffly. “In your mother’s studio?”
    A shadow flickered in her eyes. “You can only display one or two at a time in there. I picked out a dozen and put them in the dining room.”
    She led him across the tiled entry to where she’d leaned the larger paintings on the chairs that went with the undistinguished dining table and split the smaller ones between the buffet and sideboard. He could see at once that the prospect of selling dozens of these paintings would make the art dealer’s heart pound with avaricious delight.
    Rosalie stood in the archway between the entry and