Glen. Her best friend. Of course. God, why hadn’t she thought of this before? It was so obvious. The only person in the whole office who’d even heard of Glen was Marla, and Marla was the soul of discretion. She’d call him tomorrow. He’d love a week at the Willows. And Owen McCabe could take his advances and shove them right up his Armani.

“LOVE TO. Can’t.”

Jessica blinked, not wanting to believe the words. “Glen, no. Please. Maybe you don’t understand the seriousness of the situation. He’s relentless. He’s everywhere. I need you.”

“I know, Jess, but I just can’t, I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, I’ll be in California for four of the days.”

“You can’t cancel? Reschedule?”

His deep baritone filled her ear and made her clutch the phone with a desperate fist. “No, I can’t.”

“Dammit, dammit, dammit. This was the perfect solution.”

“So, find someone else. Surely I’m not the only guy you know.”

“No, but you’re the only guy I know well enough to ask. Come on, Glen. You’re perfect.”

“Ah, you say the sweetest things.”

“How about a friend? You have friends. Lots of friends. I’ll pay. Well. But he’s got to be discreet. If anyone finds out…”

“I think I might know someone.”

“Really?” She grabbed her Mont Blanc, the pen she’d gotten as a graduation present from her aunt Lydia of Belgium, and twirled it between her fingers.

“Yeah, but I’ll have to convince him.”

“Do it. Please. I’m begging.”

“Hey, I’ll do my best.”

She could picture him sitting in his gallery, underneath the Jean-Michel Basquiat collage, wearing something fabulous that flattered his blue eyes and dark, dark hair. “Thank you.”