She’d discovered since that middle-aged “boys” still looked below the neck first. Living out her days as a sex symbol didn’t hold much appeal for Greer. Actually, it held none. So by the age of twenty-seven she had a degree in psychology behind her and had perfected the fine art of survival. Men and Greer coexisted just fine these days.

Slipping into an ancient cotton robe, she padded barefoot back through the living room. “Down,” she called automatically as she picked up a magazine.

Truce was perched on a curtain rod. The tiger-striped feline peered down at Greer with limpid yellow eyes.

“Down, and this time I mean it,” Greer warned. “You know what you did to the curtains last time.”

The cat ignored her. Greer sighed. Way back, when she had first adopted Truce, he had mounted an assault on all climbable things. Then Greer had had high hopes that they could reach an amicable agreement-hence the name Truce. Now, Greer understood that cats loved outright war because they always won.

Experienced in the fine art of guerrilla warfare, Greer wandered past the blue-and-white flowered couch and the mountainous pile of mail on the desk to the window, where she leafed absently through the pages of Psychology Today. Presently, the cat leaped down onto Greer’s shoulders and curled himself around her neck with a thunderous purr.

Reading as she walked, Greer aimed for the kitchen, automatically groping for a knife and fork in the silverware drawer, then pouring herself a glass of milk. Bending down, she filled Truce’s bowl with cat food. The cat continued to wave his long tiger tail in Greer’s face, unmoved by the sight of his dinner. “I’m out of gourmet brand and I’m not going to the store until tomorrow,” Greer said firmly. “You haven’t even tried this. It’s tuna fish.”