From the moment the beautiful blonde entered his detective agency and announced she had no idea who she was, Mitchell Brody felt as if he'd been hurled in the middle of a Mickey Spillane mystery... The dame, a looker, if ever he's seen one, was classy - real classy, with gams that ran the gamut of a man's erotic imagination. But this was not a novel. It was Friday morning and the woman, dressed in a long black evening gown, split from ankle to thigh, was clearly in trouble. And more trouble was the last thing Mitchell Brody needed.