Free Sins of Innocence by Jean Stone Page B

way.
    But love? No, P.J. had loved none. And at those infrequent times when she’d slowed down, and the feeling that something was missing seeped into her, P.J. went back to work with a vengeance. Back to work and, most often, on to a new man. There was always a man waiting; there would always be more men to be found. They loved her, they loved being with her, and being seen with her. They loved her body.
    Her tears flowed silently as she touched her right breast. Would any of them love her if her body was deformed? Without her perfect body, what man would want her? Would she—for the rest of her life—sleep alone?
    For the past few years P.J. had worked hard to stay in shape. She wasn’t alone. The fitness clubs were jammedwith the over-forty crowd, desperately trying to hang on to their rapidly escaping youth. In fact, being over forty was “in,” and P.J. was among those who had capitalized on their experience. She, like others her age, was no longer just sexy; she had become sensual. She was no longer simply beautiful; she had become glamorous. But nothing could stop those little lines from creeping in around her eyes, the same kind of lines she’d always detested on her mother. And nothing could change the reality of that lump that, even as she sat here now, might be spreading its evil throughout her body, carving her fate.
    “Didn’t think I’d find you home.”
    P.J. jumped. She hadn’t heard the key in the lock. In the dusky light stood Bob.
    Her heart beat wildly. “You scared me,” she said.
    He walked toward the couch and tossed the keys on it. “That’s what you get for giving me a key.”
    P.J. stared down at the key. It was odd, but Bob was the first man she’d ever given one to. She had no idea why she’d done it.
    “At least I didn’t catch you with another man.”
    “What?” P.J. was confused. What was he doing here?
    He flopped on the couch beside her. “Just kidding. So how’d it go.”
    “What?”
    “The sync. At Sound Tech. You’re home earlier than I thought you’d be.”
    P.J. moved a little away from him. “Okay,” she said. “It went okay.”
    “It’s not too late to head out to the Island.”
    P.J. shook her head. “I don’t think so, Bob. I’ve got a headache.”
    “You? A headache?” He laughed. “Tell me something I’ll believe.” He reached over and snapped on the Stiffel lamp. Then he looked at P.J. “Hey,” he whispered. “You’ve been crying.”
    She wiped her cheeks. “No, I haven’t.”
    He touched her face. “Yes, you have. What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing,” she said. “PMS attack, I guess.”
    “I’ve never known you to get PMS.”
    She shrugged and stood up. “Just goes to show how little you know about me.” She walked to the other side of the room and straightened the Monet print. One of her dreams was to have a Monet original; she had planned to invest in one if—when—she was made a partner in the agency, but now …
    “What’s going on, Peej?”
    She hated it when Bob called her “Peej.” Her little brother had done that when they were kids.
    She shook her head again. “I told you. Nothing.” She pushed up the sleeves of her robe. The right sleeve caught on the cotton ball from the blood test that was still taped to her arm. She quickly bent her arm so Bob wouldn’t see. “You go ahead without me,” she said, and turned back to Bob. “It’s been a long week. I’m tired.”
    He stared at her.
    “Bob, please.”
    “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
    P.J. felt her anger now. “I have a life you know, outside of the office.”
    “Yes. And I thought it was with me.”
    Her head began to throb. She pressed a finger to her temple. She liked Bob. Probably more than she should. The last thing she wanted to do was alienate him. Especially now, she told herself. Especially with the promotion …
    She studied him. He was four years older than she was, and although not as handsome as most of the men she’d dated, he