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and stood there looking at the array of possibilities for cleaning flowers. Furniture polish? Soft soap? Disinfectant spray? Nope. And she’d already ruled out the vacuum. Could she swish the flower heads around in the toilet? I don’t think so.
    Finally her gaze settled on a mini fan, which she pulled out and set on the floor near the offending arrangement. She plugged it in, turned it on and aimed it satisfactorily. The flowers began to rattle in the breeze, and a gazillion dust motes swirled into the air in a mini tornado. There!
    The door opened to admit Lilia, who took one look and assumed an expression of kindly tolerance for the insane.
    â€œDid you bring doughnuts?” Jane asked hopefully.
    â€œOf course. I have a dozen in my four-by-six inch pocketbook.”
    The article in question was a little quilted number that hung from Lilia’s shoulder by a thin gold chain. Definitely no edibles in there, darn her sarcasm.
    â€œIf we ate doughnuts more than once a week, we’d all be barn-size, Jane.”
    Yeah, well. Barns were peaceful. They lounged about on golden prairies under blue skies and didn’t have to tangle with dangerous, sexy, six-foot-two attitude problems. Barns didn’t worry about depressed relatives, cash flow, client referrals or hairy flower arrangements.
    â€œBut I didn’t get any of the crèmes,” she heard herself whine.
    Lilia shook her head at her. “Would you like some coffee? I’ll bring you some.”
    â€œThanks. Travel mug, please. I have to head to Zantyne today and evaluate that client in the workplace.”
    â€œWell, I hope you have better luck there than with that vase of dried flowers. What exactly are you trying to achieve?”
    â€œI’m dusting them,” Jane said proudly.
    â€œMmm.”
    The tone of Lilia’s voice suggested that she check on her project. Jane squinted in disbelief. The fan hadtaken care of the dust, all right. But it had also blown off all the petals and leaves on the left side of the flowers, leaving the ones on the right intact. They looked partially shaved, and she had a huge mess to clean up off the floor and coffee table.
    Jane switched off the fan, turned the bald side of the flowers to the wall and threw the appliance back in the closet. She determined to write a letter to HGTV right away, begging for their advice. There just had to be a way to dust dried flowers.
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    T HE C ONNECTICUT HEADQUARTERS of Zantyne Pharmaceuticals was a rectangular brown monstrosity that reminded Jane of a monumental loaf of bread. Clearly extra funds were channeled into R & D and not atmosphere.
    The inside walls of the place were painted the shade of provolone cheese, and the reception desk was a mossy green. Jane decided she’d stepped into a rather unappetizing corporate sandwich. She asked politely for Dominic.
    â€œMr. Sayers?” said Zantyne’s receptionist into her headset. “Ms. Jane O’Toole to see you.” She paused, then nodded. “I’ll do that.”
    Jane wondered if her unwilling client had issued orders to kick her butt right out the door. She unconsciously braced herself for two burly men in security uniforms to appear, but it didn’t happen. The sleek blonde got to her feet and said, “Right this way.”
    Jane followed the pink-clad, entirely too pertglobes of the receptionist’s rear end as they twitched through a set of wide double doors and down a taupe-carpeted hallway, until she stopped at an office on the right. Miss Pink flipped her hair over her shoulder and gushed, “Here she is, Dom. Can I get you two anything?”
    Oh, maybe a couple of pistols, thought Jane. Or better yet, lances—so we can run each other through with more gore.
    â€œThanks, Jeannie, but I think we’re all set.” Dom flashed her a surprisingly tusk-free smile as he stood up from his desk, his powerful sex appeal sending much of Jane’s blood