"You misunderstand me," she says, her hand braced against your desk like she might slam it down again, hard enough to make your teeth rattle. In the photographs she's all home-grown American blonde, dimples and ample curves, all white teeth and wavy bobbed hair, looking like she's dressed up for some kind of sword and sandal skin flick. In person, the little lady is butch, with a little stab of an accent like somebody's feral Swedish au pair. You can't quite place it. "I'm not a model, Mr. Jones. I'm capable of managing my image without resorting to publicity stunts."