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But the night before this lovely woman had been whispering lies into the ear of a television newscaster whose name you would recognize, while she brought him to a violent orgasm in the back of a stretch limousine, with only a thin layer of glass separating them and their hot breaths from the driver. And before she met him, she'd charged his credit card two thousand dollars for the privilege of spending three hours with her.

The contrast of who she was and how she presented herself was just one of the many things I was intrigued by.

"Dr. Snow, no matter what kind of gentle words I wrap it up in...I sell sex. That's what I do for a living. How could I be a good girl?" She kicked off one of her very high-heeled shoes and noticed my glance. Even though I'd looked at her shoes before, she'd never paid attention until today. I made a mental note of that.

"In my line of work, you always wear stilettos."

"Because they are so sexy?"

"Because they are weapons."

That was the last thing I had expected her to say. I certainly knew how dangerous prostitution was for street hookers, but the way Cleo had described her extremely exclusive business, the need for weapons hadn't occurred to me. I covered my surprise. "Other than your shoes, you make a real effort to look like a good girl, don't you?"

"It's how I look. Why is that so hard to reconcile? I look like this. And I sell sex. And since I do, I can't possibly be a good girl, now can I?" By repeating the question, she made it impossible for me to ignore it or how important an issue it was to her. We'd talked about this before in the last six months, but there was obviously something about it that we still hadn't uncovered.

"Well, we aren't necessarily what we do, are we?" I asked, then leaned back in my chair, crossing my ankles, noticing my own modestly heeled pumps. Classic and not inexpensive, but not sexy like Cleo's shoes.

She cocked her head and thought about my question. Not everyone did that. Some patients just blurted out whatever came into their minds. But because we'd been meeting for a long time, I already knew Cleo was more calculated with her words, sometimes saying what she wanted me to hear instead of what she really thought. That was what we'd spent most of her sessions talking about: not that she was a prostitute, or her conflicts with her lifestyle, but her inclination to please people too much--both sexually and in other ways. And not just her clients. That would have been natural. But the other people in her life.

With her forefinger she drew circles on the pillow. Her eyelashes were long and dusted her skin, and for the first time since she had been coming to see me, twice a week, at 10:00 a.m. each Monday and Wednesday, a single tear escaped from her eye and rolled down her cheek.

She kept her head bowed.

I waited.

Still, Cleo didn't move. I took the opportunity to tuck my hair behind my ears. Straight, dark hair--almost black--that hung down to the top of my shoulders. Cut to curve and frame my face. My twelve-year-old daughter liked to experiment with it: setting it, braiding it, putting it up with clips. She also liked to do my makeup. Other kids dress up in their mother's clothes; Dulcie preferred to dress me up and prepare me for the makeshift stage that doubled as the far side of our living room. And then, once I was in costume, she'd make me act out plays with her.

"Morgan Snow appearing as the lead in--" she'd say, and fill in the part I was playing at her direction. She'd act opposite me. Happier with this game than any other.

My daughter wanted to be an actress. Which wasn't surprising since her father was a film director, and I, being an overindulgent mother despite my better instincts, accommodated her. I didn't mind that it was her hobby and her ambition, but she wanted to try to act professionally while she was still in grade school, and I didn't want her to.

Acting is a tough business and I wanted my daughter's life to be filled with acceptance and success--not rejection and frustration. Cleo finally looked up. Her gray eyes were soft and wet. "What is it?" I asked.

"I am really confused. I wish I'd found you sooner. I wish I had known you a year ago. Two years ago. I needed someone like you who I could trust not to judge me, but who would push me to judge myself."

"That is not what I want to do. This isn't about judgment at all."

"Is it about redemption?"

"Do you need to be redeemed? Do you think of yourself as a sinner?"

More laughter. Even though Cleo, at twenty-eight, was only seven years younger than me, she reminded me of my daughter. For all that she had seen and done in her life, she remained untouched in some fundamental way.

"Not necessarily a sinner. No. But I'm not a good girl, either."

"You say it as if you are proud of it. What would be so bad about being a good girl?"

She grinned at my unintentional word play. "There are some very good things that I do. If I talk about them it will sound like propaganda from some dogmatic pamphlet."

"Let me worry about that. I think you are much harder on yourself than you need to be. And we need to talk about that. It plays in to you doing too much for other people. You deserve to feel good even if you don't want to be good."

She reached out and touched my hand, to thank me. Her skin, even on her fingertips, was like finely spun satin. It was unusual for my patients to touch me, but I didn't pull back, didn't flinch or show any reaction. Touch is telling. Lack of touch is even more telling. There is nothing as sacred as one person reaching out to another with their body to offer connection, and I would never treat such a thing lightly. There was nothing sexual about the way she put her fingers on the back of my hand and exerted a small but real pressure, but it woke me up in a momentarily sexual way. It made me think about sex, not with her, not with a man, but just inside of myself. Two fingers on my skin and she made me crave something I couldn't quite name.

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