"'Fine, I'm a greedy capitalist pig. But you, my friend, are a sports agent. There is not a greedier, sleazier, slimier, more capitalist entity in existence.'
Myron nodded. 'Suck up to me,' he said. 'That'll work.'
'You're not letting me finish. Yes, you're a sports agent. But a damn fine one. The best, really. You and the Spanish shiksa do incredible work for your clients. Get the most for them. More than they should really. By the time you finish with me, I feel violated. Hand to God, you're that good. You come into my office, you rip off my clothes and have your way with me.'"
Chapter 1, pg. 7

"Myron swiveled toward a voice like warm honey on Sunday pancakes. With her long, purposeful stride-not the shy-girl walk of the too-tall or the nasty strut of a model-Brenda Slaughter swept into the room like...