Page 8 of Bedroom Therapy

“I guess it’s a case of being in the right place at the right time. Beth Cantro, the editor of Vanessa, is a friend of mine. She knew I was on leave from Harmons College, and she asked me to take the column after Esther died.”

“And you feel you’re qualified to give out sexual advice?”

He knew he’d made the question sound confrontational when he saw her place her fisted hands on her hips. “Of course I’m qualified! I know the anatomy and physiology backwards and forwards. I have a PhD in psychology. My specialty area is human sexuality. And my reading in the field is wide-ranging.”

Her complexion had taken on a rosy hue, and he liked the effect. He wanted to ask her how much personal experience she had with the subject—or if she’d gone in for any interesting clinical research of the Masters and Johnson variety. Like every other kid he knew, he’d thumbed through their books in the library stacks. He’d been very interested to find out that they’d had people come into their laboratories, stuck electrodes all over their bodies and then watched them perform sex.

Ever done anything like that, Dr. O’Neal, he wondered. He decided it was prudent to keep that question to himself. And prudent to stop focusing on his own reactions to the woman and the situation.

One thing he knew from her answer; she wasn’t entirely sure of herself in the role of Esther Scott, sexual advice columnist. Was that why she was nervous? Was she afraid that he’d challenge her authority?

“Are you expecting to keep this job permanently?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Were you personally acquainted with Esther Knight?”

“Yes. I was her graduate assistant when I was working on my PhD. But do you really need to know that kind of stuff to write a magazine article?”

A magazine article. That’s what she thought he was doing here? Hadn’t Beth Cantro explained it?

Probably he should set Dr. O’Neal straight. But not yet. The editor had given him too good an opportunity to get information he might not acquire if the good doctor realized why he was here.

“I try to get as much material as I can,” he said. “I never know what I’m going to use.”

She answered with a tight nod.

“Why don’t we sit down,” he said, hoping that both of them could relax a little bit.

“How long are you going to be here?” she asked.

“It depends.”

Making sure there was no chance he could sit beside her, she crossed to the wingback chair and sat down stiffly.

With a mental shrug, he took the sofa.

“Did you get this throw in Latin America?” he asked, fingering the bright fabric.

“Ecuador. I spent one summer doing research with Indians in the Andes.”

“Related to uh . . . your area of expertise?”

“No. That was when I was researching my master’s thesis. I was writing about the culture of work in that country—how quickly children were expected to assume adult responsibilities in the family.”

“And?”

“On market day, there were eight-year-old girls who walked around with babies strapped to their backs while their mothers sold fried bananas from street carts.”

He nodded, thinking he didn’t much like the answer to that question. He was also thinking he should ask her if she knew anyone who had a grudge against Esther Knight. But that wasn’t a question a reporter was likely to focus on.

Instead he leaned back against the cushions, crossed one leg over the other in an attempt to look comfortable, and fished in his pocket for his notebook. Flipping it open to a blank page that he knew she couldn’t see, he pretended to study the blue lines.

“So, how did you go from the Andes to sexual research?” he asked.

“I don’t do sexual research.”

The word research had just slipped out. “Um, right,” he answered. “I meant—what did you call your field—human sexuality?”

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