A couple of years ago I was invited to a book signing by a friend and colleague of mine with whom I have been on quite a few archaeological digs. This, her first book, is the story of a young, gorgeous, graduate archaeology student working her way through school by moonlighting as a masseuse specializing in happy-endings. I read the first chapter and had to set the book aside. The next time I met her I had to explain that it was rather difficult for me to read paragraph long scenes where the heroine covers her body in hot oil and then proceeds to massage her clients buttocks with her ample but firm breasts. "Who the hell do you think I have in mind when I'm reading that?" I asked with a grin. "But it's not me" she laughs, "it's just a story!" Yeah, right. She describes her self to a T, the character speaks the way she does ("sweetie"), and much of the personal background and habits are the same. Ok ok...I know...It's not you...ha! Reading this, I am reminded of James Joyce "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man"...do I touch it? Check out my review Joyce and you'll understand my dilemma. By the way, there is a picture of "Sierra" on the back cover of the book and on her website. Neither picture comes anywhere close to capturing her actual beauty.