a boiled lobster. Her face spoke eloquently of a desire to vanish into the woodwork.
She said in choked tones, âReally?â
âYouâre a psychologist, too,â Denise reminded her. âYou know as much as Fritzi Field does. What do you say, Georgie?â
Chapter 5
Georgeanne felt Zaneâs hand tighten on her shoulder. Where were lightning bolts and quicksand floors when you needed them?
âWhy are you asking Georgie when there is a roomful of doctors standing here just dying to give you a technical opinion on the matter?â Zane asked.
Denise looked scornful. âAnyone who works for doctors knows they donât know anything about sex. I want somebodyâs opinion whoâs qualified. Georgie, what do you say?â
There was a moment of stunned silence, then everyone burst into laughter.
Georgeanne laughed with them in spite of her strong urge to bolt from the room. âI may be qualified as a psychologist, but I think that particular question ought to be answered by someone with a lot of training in anatomy and physiology.â
âYouâre just trying to get out of answering,â Denise accused. âYouâve been taking evasive action ever since I started talking about Fritzi Fieldâs book. Well, you arenât getting out of it this time. Speak, oracle. Tell us the truth about menâs much-vaunted perspicacity when it comes to reading women.â
All too conscious of the many pairs of male eyes upon her, Georgeanne produced a great, universal truth. âI think it depends on the particular man involved.â
Denise, joined by Angela, groaned in loud disgust.
âTalk about a cop-out,â Angela said, snickering.
âI donât want another one of your evasions,â Denise said. âI want an answer. What do you say about most men? Do they, or donât they, know when a woman is faking it?â
Georgeanne wished in vain for an earthquake. Or better yet, a meteor. Anything spectacular that would make everyone forget about Fritzi Fieldâs sexual advice to women and Georgeanne Hartfieldâs psychology degree.
When nothing spectacular happened to save her, Georgeanne cleared her throat. âI ⦠Well, since I havenât personally â er â tested a viable sample of men, I canât speak with any authority.â
âNo oneâs asking you to,â Denise pointed out. âAll I want is a psychologistâs learned opinion on the subject. Now speak up, Georgie. Do they or donât they know?â
âThey donât,â Georgeanne said and wished sheâd answered the opposite. She broke free of Zaneâs grasp and snatched up her purse. âExcuse me, please. The pizza delivery is here.â
âThatâs a lot of bull.â Bobby Whitney looked through the doors toward the waiting room, where his wife, Sandra, painted a wall. âIâd sure know if my wife faked it. Thereâs no way I could help knowing.â
âNow you just hold it right there, Georgie Hartfield.â Denise grabbed for her. âYouâve got to explain that answer.â
âNot me.â Georgeanne made a break for the door. âThe mark of a truly learned psychologist is that she knows when to flee the scene.â
âMaking love is an obsessive American topic,â Dr. Baghri observed. âEveryone has an opinion. Everyone wants to go on television and talk about his opinion. When do they have time to actually make love?â
Georgeanne heard this with relief as she fled toward the waiting room and the front entrance. Dr. Baghri was sure to favor the group with an Indian maleâs position on Americaâs idea of sex as public recreation. If that didnât put everyone back to work, nothing would.
âHere, Georgie, let me get that,â Zane said from just behind her. âSince Iâve usurped your position as official slave driver, I may as well pay for the