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  Beverly spilled the beans. “Doughman himself. He wrote us a very mean letter.”

  “A registered letter,” Rachel added. “He called our advice to his fiancée careless and damaging. Irritated has broken off their engagement and he blames us.”

  “He’s threatened to sue,” Beverly admitted bluntly.

  Krista was aghast. This was the first time in the aunts’ seven-year run as Simona Says that there’d been any real threat of a lawsuit. There were minor complaints, of course, but avid readers across the nation seemed to realize that Simona was a free-spirited character who tried to entertain and perhaps comfort, rather than stand up as a serious psychology guru.

  To the best of her knowledge, the aunts were the only ones who took their own advice even remotely seriously. Until now.

  “I would declare Doughman a dud even under oath,” Beverly declared heartily, her double chins trembling. “We cannot be held liable for his inadequacies.”

  “What exactly does he hope to base his lawsuit on?”

  “Alienation of affection,” Rachel replied, looking truly afraid. “He claims we put crazy ideas into Irritated’s head. That she was fine until she read our column.”

  “But her plea for help certainly suggests otherwise,” Beverly bellowed.

  “What, exactly, does this have to do with me?” Krista dared ask.

  Two fingernails, one pointy, red and artificial, the other flat and plain as nature intended, stabbed Simona’s photo on the column’s masthead.

  The photo was of Krista. A vamp glamour shot of wild black hair, flashing eyes and sly gypsylike smile; an image so unlike Krista that no one outside a small circle of confidants had ever connected her to the photo.

  The arrangement was simple: the aunts doled out advice with Krista as their sexy front woman.

  It had all started out as a lark, really. Aunt Rachel’s longtime beau, Bob Freeman, was the managing editor of the Minneapolis Monitor’s Variety department. Seven years ago the seasoned newspaperman had an opening for a columnist. Sister Seamstress was retiring, and he needed someone to fill the space. The daily sewing column had grown mundane; he wanted something with a bit more zip to attract a younger audience. They already had one syndicated advice guru who prided herself on the practical, who tackled serious issues. What Bob wanted was a second advisor, with an exotic, more tantalizing attitude.

  So it was in Rachel’s four-poster bed, over two bottles of champagne, that Rachel and Bob created “Simona Says.” She would be a sexy fantasy figure who catered to the lovelorn with glib entertaining advice. Rachel originally intended to run solo on the project, craft the daily column herself, reveal her true identity to the public. As much as Bob adored his spunky retired-waitress lady friend, he doubted Rachel had the skills to put her good ideas to paper with the necessary clarity. So it was his idea to include former schoolteacher Beverly in the scheme. Together they could provide a good balance of talent and temperament to round off Simona. It was also Bob’s idea to keep Rachel—as well as Beverly—in the background, their identities secret. No offense, but hip young readers would relate better to a contemporary. Recalling a photograph of a nineteen-year-old Krista dressed up for a Halloween party, he suggested she pose as Simona Says.

  Krista had been a little hesitant at first. She was, after all, a serious student at St. Paul’s prestigious Hamline University, majoring in business administration. But even she had to admit that after submitting to a full makeover, she didn’t look like herself at all. To her own nervous delight, she even appeared a bit dangerous…. So she agreed to all of their terms. She would pose for the column’s photo, make the occasional fleeting guest appearance, do the odd radio interview. And their secret would be shared only by the Mattson women, Bob and a few of his closest associates at the newspaper.

  For Krista’s trouble she was to be paid nineteen thousand dollars the first year, with a thousand-dollar raise each subsequent year. It had been a godsend as she finished college and started up her business with Judy Phillips.

  At age twenty-six she was up to twenty-six thousand dollars now. So, she supposed, it was no mystery as to why they felt justified in involving her in this crisis.

  Bravely, she raised a hand in surrender. “Tell you what, I’ll call this guy if you like. One of you would pose a better defense, but I do have a youthful voice.”

  Beverly’s full bosom rose and fell. “That would’ve been our choice of amends, as well. Unfortunately, the situation has escalated beyond that option. Instead of allowing us to handle the call, Bob Freeman did so with a man-to-man approach.”

  “Bob was only trying to help,” Rachel said hotly.

  “But your boyfriend blew it! Doughman was insulted that Simona didn’t make the courtesy call herself.” Beverly’s puffy face pinched in anger. “Bottom line, Krista, Doughman’s due here for a face-to-face meeting with Simona.”

  “He’ll be at the Minneapolis Monitor building around eleven a.m. tomorrow,” Beverly verified. “So you can see why this is a full-blown Code Red. We need you, Krista ‘Simona’ Mattson, in place, at a Monitor desk, acting like a columnist.”

  “Acting like our image of Simona,” Rachel added. “Sexy, sassy, jiggly.”

  Jiggly? Krista glanced down at her modest-size breasts. She could push them up, but they weren’t going to put on a show even if she jumped up and down on a trampoline. All in all, she was as modest as her breasts. Her pulse jumped wildly at the idea of confronting a furious jilted lover. “I’m not sure I can pull it off.”

  Beverly was taken aback. “Uncertainty is never once mentioned in the Mattson family credo. We go the extra mile to get results. In this case, we need Simona to make a personal appearance. If we cannot nip this man’s temper in the bud, we might very well lose our jobs. Any inkling of a scandal and someone is going to dig a bit deeper into Simona’s identity. Bust open our game!”

  “If this man decides to go on full attack in court, you’re liable to lose your nest eggs, as well,” Krista pointed out. Noting they were perplexed, she explained. “He can sue for a lot of money, any amount he chooses. If he can convince a judge that you’ve destroyed his life, who knows…”

  The sisters paled.

  “You’ll just have to save us,” Beverly declared.

  They bolstered her with proud and dewy eyes, as they had so often over the years. Krista was their brother Joshua’s only child, the only child of her generation to carry on the Mattson name. When Krista’s mother died in childbirth, the aunts offered their maternal influence without hesitation. Joshua started early in delivering Krista cross-country from California to Minnesota a few times each year to give the females of the family time to bond.

  The pair had always been in Krista’s corner, albeit in their grating, know-it-all, bossy fashion. She adored them, always wanted to please. But the timing of this crisis was terribly ironic. She’d grown tired of the charade and wanted out. She’d been working up the courage to tell them. The personal appearances were especially a load of nonsense, shimmying around, dodging questions with glib one-liners and a throaty laugh. They had promised at the onset that her participation was only temporary. And she was so busy now, with a promotions business to run. A business, she was proud to say, that was doing extremely well.

  But this was no time to broach the subject of a dissolution. They were far too distressed to endure another upset. “I’ll do my best by you,” she promised, to their open relief. “So, have you considered our strategy?”

  They blinked in confusion.

  “You know,” she clarified, “concessions you are willing to make to encourage him to go away.”

  “We are right. He is wrong. Simple as that.”

  “This jilted lover is taking time out of his schedule to descend upon us and you want me to simply tell him he’s wrong?”

  Rachel puckered her lips. “There are ways of seducing a person into submission.”

  “It’ll take a little more than a fake jiggle to put this for
ceful man off.”

  “You have my good looks and Beverly’s brains, yet you refuse to use this powerful combination with the opposite sex. It’s nothing short of tragic.”

  Beverly agreed wholeheartedly with her sister. “We’d each kill for your combo. If we could merge into one woman we could topple an empire.”

  Krista resisted pointing out that together they couldn’t even efficiently run an advice column. “I’ll do what I can for you. But don’t expect a miracle.”

  Chapter Two

  Hours later Krista found the time to seek out her business partner and friend Judy Phillips. Night was closing in as she drove down the freeway in her silver Saturn, exiting at a Bloomington exit near the Mall of America, following the searchlights to Hawkson Motors.

  Three salesmen jogged in her direction as she came to a stop in the large lot crammed with automobiles. With elbows up and feet flying she managed to dodge them for a dash to the brightly lit showroom.

  Krista smiled her first big smile of the day. There among a circle of children stood Judy. The fragile fair-haired, fair-skinned woman was barely recognizable in a bright-purple wig, full face makeup, billowy dotted pantsuit and huge floppy black shoes.

  She and Judy had been sorority sisters at Hamline University. They’d clicked their freshman year, discovering they shared many of the same interests. Both were ambitious and determined to earn a business degree. Working on campus on various volunteer committees they discovered they had a knack for promotion. With the aid of Krista’s Simona Says salary, they were able to start a business of their own right out of college.

  Krista stood by patiently, while Judy shook hands with the last of the adults and gave hugs to the children with zeal, directing them over to a senior citizen named Mr. Duff, whom they’d hired from a temp agency to distribute helium balloons.

  “It’s seven already? I need a cup of coffee!” Judy led Krista through the showroom to a private lounge in back, next to the parts department.

  The room was stark and smelled faintly of motor oil. They sat on molded plastic chairs, balancing paper cups full of bitter coffee from a huge urn. Judy placed a small paper napkin on Krista’s blue skirt, then passed a clear plastic platter of small hard cookies with the aplomb of a duchess. “A sweeting, milady?” she said primly.

  Krista laughed, taking a ginger cookie. “This reminds me of the sorority teas we gave to loosen up stodgy professors.”

  “Remember the time the house mother asked you to make some Russian tea cakes?” Judy said, setting the platter back on the wooden table beside the urn. “They were worse than these little bombs.”

  “They weren’t!”

  Judy’s huge painted green eyebrows jumped on her creamed white face. “They were.”

  Krista winced. “Maybe they were a little hard.”

  “You just hate ever being less than perfect, ever losing control of a situation.”

  “Speaking of losing control…” Krista pushed her glasses up her nose and glanced round the break room to make sure they were still alone. Satisfied, she went on to relate the aunts’ dilemma. Judy had been in on the charade from the start, encouraging Krista to be daring enough to take the role. She’d offered steady encouragement at every rough spot over the years.

  “Surely you’ve got this Simona gig perfected by now,” Judy said, bending forward to pat the cold hands in Krista’s lap. “You’ll be fine.”

  She smiled faintly. “I hope. The aunts have decided they don’t trust me an inch. I just got a fax at the office outlining any number of scenarios I may encounter with Doughman, and how I am to respond.”

  “How is that?”

  “It all boils down to outwitting him and appeasing him without admitting any wrongdoing or compromising Simona’s principles. They feel the man is a dud and expect me to fight their position to the death.”

  “With what weapon?”

  She blushed. “My sex appeal.”

  Judy laughed. “Well, you are a knockout as Simona.”

  Krista waved fingers in a fluster. “Thanks, but I intend to lead with brain power. On that I know I can rely.”

  “At least be prepared for erotic combat. Have Romano himself do your hair and makeup.”

  “Already set up a morning appointment. He’s charging me double, but he’s the soul of discretion and willing to make a house call.”

  “Which Simona ensemble have you decided on?”

  “I have only four. The black lace evening gown with slit up the thigh. The white satin blouse with long flowing skirt. The royal-blue sequined mini tunic. And the red knit shift with the metallic threads running through it. Plus the silver shawl that coordinates with everything.”

  Judy gave the matter sixty seconds of consideration. “I suggest you wear the red shift. The color is so striking with your hair and the cap sleeves on the shoulder can be pulled down, in case of emergency.”

  “I suppose I could. But I will be bringing along the shawl.”

  “Chicken!”

  “It’s the best I can do, feeling so out of place in that sort of slinky clothing.”

  Judy stood up and put a reassuring hand on Krista’s head. “C’mon, it can’t get stranger than spending the day in a clown suit.”

  Krista shifted in her chair to stare up at her partner. “Wish we could’ve traded places. I’d gladly have taken the clown role.”

  “I love you, Kris, but you just don’t have the jolly carefree spirit for it.”

  Krista grinned, but the observation hurt her, just a little bit. Did no one on earth appreciate her fun streak?

  IT WAS DRIZZLING LIGHTLY the following morning as Krista, a.k.a. Simona, alighted from a cab along Marquette Avenue at the entrance of the Minneapolis Monitor Building. Under an awning stood her anxious aunts Beverly and Rachel, dressed in raincoats and plastic hats to protect their stiff sprayed hairdos, as well as Rachel’s managing editor boyfriend, Bob Freeman, in sports jacket and slacks.

  Bob didn’t look like a ladies’ man with his balding head, thick waistline and ill-fitting clothing. But he had a remarkable personality and gentlemanly manner. He wasted no time moving across the sidewalk to pay the driver.

  He guided Krista to the aunts as if she were some kind of precious commodity. “Here she is, safe and sound. Looking adorable.”

  Adorably trapped perhaps, one white-knuckled hand gripping a tote bag, the other at the collar of her buttoned-up raincoat. A part of Krista still could not believe she’d agreed to this.

  “There’s little time to lose,” Bob said brusquely, handing the ladies their visitor ID badges. “Rach, get our captivating Simona up to room 1411. I’ve made arrangements to meet Michael Collins in the lobby.”

  “That is Doughman’s name,” Rachel explained to Krista as they whirled through the revolving doors on a human wave.

  Krista thought she saw a couple of women with Minneapolis Monitor ID badges in hand come to attention at Bob’s mention of Simona, but she couldn’t be sure. She understood that Bob was nervous about the whole affair, but he shouldn’t have made the slip. Krista was an enigma at the newspaper. No employees had ever seen her up close.

  The three Mattson women crowded into an elevator car, which emptied by the time it reached the exclusive executive floor. Rachel knew exactly where they were going and steered them down a maze of corridors.

  Room 1411 was upscale with decorated leathers, polished oak and rich blue carpeting. Both aunts gratefully tore off their damp rain gear, but Krista resisted. Her small outfit was…chilly.

  “This space belongs to a vice-president on vacation,” Rachel explained with a tinge of self-importance. Then she scampered over to the desk on her high heels. “Quick, Krista, let me show you how the phone system works.”

  Krista glared at the console full of buttons. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, oh, yes.” Rachel used a long red nail to depress a large button at the top of the console. “This is the intercom. You want to keep it on.”

&nb
sp; “Why?”

  Rachel was exasperated. “So we can listen in the room next door.”

  Beverly, standing by with a hand on her ample hip, agreed. “And give you a jingle if you get off track.”

  Krista balked. That wasn’t part of the deal!

  Before she could protest, the phone gave a single sharp ring. “That’s Bob’s signal,” Rachel trilled, pushing her sister toward a connecting door on the opposite wall. Together they called out parting instructions.

  “Ooze with charm, dear.”

  “Try and be sexy. Best you can, anyway.”

  MEANWHILE, IRRITATED CHICAGOAN Michael Collins was getting the VIP treatment from Bob Freeman, who was escorting him through the lobby to a private elevator. As they whizzed smoothly upward in the paneled car he felt a little sorry for the Variety department managing editor he’d tussled with by telephone. Freeman was being so gracious, just as he’d been on the wire when Michael had been spouting off at the top of his lungs. But it had rankled Michael that Simona hadn’t called him personally. For the second time, Freeman was apologizing for that, taking the entire blame, claiming Simona gladly would have contacted Mr. Collins if asked to. But Freeman was in the habit of protecting Simona from the public. Most cranks—er, ah, complaints—held not a fraction of significance.

  Michael once again assured him that his complaint was serious, indeed. As was his threat to sue anyone in sight. His future was in the balance.

  The car stopped on floor fourteen, with Bob leading the way. Offices located in the core of the building had long windows on the corridor walls to give them a less claustrophobic feel. Room 1411 was one of these rooms.

  As the men glanced through a pane with mini-blinds at half-mast, Krista was facing the opposite way, slipping a damp black raincoat off her shoulders to reveal a svelte figure in a little red dress. The dress hemline rode high to reveal long legs sheathed in dark hose, the backline plunged low to reveal a length of ivory spine.

  Completely unaware of her audience, she flung her coat on a nearby chair and shook the raindrops from her loose black hair. Then she sauntered over to the desk holding her tote bag and did a supple deep bend, pulling out a long silver shawl, which she draped ever so gently over her shoulders.