"Sure."
Lennox and Gabby sat down. As Lennox held Gabby's chair for her, Aimee darted her a look of hostility. "Taking it from the top," Lennox said. "My name isn't Clarence Fox. It's Lennox. Jordan Lennox."
"Naughty, naughty!" Aimee said coyly. "Say, are you really the guy which writes that TV show like you said?"
"Yes."
"How about me? Popular with the big-shots. I should've asked for your autograph." Aimee glanced at Gabby.
"This is Miss Gabrielle Valentine ... Aimee Driscoll."
"Miss Aimee Driscoll," Aimee snapped.
"Of course. I'm sorry." Lennox hesitated and finally forced himself to meet Aimee's eyes. He saw in them an anger that startled him. He'd been too drunk to notice that photograph of Aimee's father in her apartment, and even if he had noticed it, he wouldn't have seen the connection.
No one knows what happened between Aimee Driscoll and her father. Anyone can guess, but it doesn't matter. The important result was that the particular chasm over which she walked her tight rope was an inescapable physical attraction for any man who resembled her father plus an uncontrollable hatred for him. Lennox hadn't gone to bed with Aimee that Saturday night. She was relieved, professionally, and infuriated, emotionally. She looked at him now with hatred and at Gabby with venom, completely unaware of what she was feeling or how she was showing it.
"Sweet guy you are," she said archly. "Sweet guy ... making a sucker out of a poor working girl from the lower classes. You owe me ten bucks."