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Chapter 3

The culture was overrated.

            After several hours in the National Gallery, my feet were sore in my kitten-heeled sandals, and my head felt as if it was stuffed with oil paintings. I sank down onto a leather couch facing Botticelli's Venus and Mars and groaned with the relief of being off my feet.

            Mars was lying back in the painting, covered only by a scrap of a sheet, snoring in post-coital bliss. Venus was fully dressed, fully awake, and looked as if she'd had significantly less fun than Mars.

             I smiled because I recognized the feeling. Though I had to say that if I were the goddess of love, I'd be out of there as soon as Mars dropped off to sleep.