“Mr. Stanhope?”

“Yes, George?” Peter asked. He looked past the attendant and sized up Tish.

“I believe you have a meeting with this woman.”

Peter straightened up and propped his cue against the table. He folded his arms and rubbed his sunburned chin with his left hand. His blue eyes twinkled with curiosity behind penny-colored glasses. “Do I?”

George’s smile evaporated. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Peter replied pleasantly. He eyed Tish. “Is there?”

“My name is Tish Verdure,” she said quickly.

Tish heard a rumble of displeasure among the other men in the room. They knew who she was. Peter didn’t react, other than to flick his tongue quickly across his upper teeth. “Ah.”

“I was hoping we could talk.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Stanhope,” George said, stepping in front of Tish. “This woman told me she had a meeting scheduled with you. I’ll see her out immediately.”

Peter waved his hand. “No, no, it’s fine, George. I’ve been anxious to speak to Ms. Verdure, as it happens. Boys, carry on without me, all right?” He approached Tish and extended his hand. His grip was strong, and his fingers were smooth, except for the dust of pool chalk.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked her.

“Some red wine, I guess.”

“George, a bottle of the Alphonse Mellot pinot that I had last night, all right? Is anyone in 306 tonight?”

“No, sir.”

“Take it up there, will you?”

“Of course.”

Peter refilled his own tumbler from a half-empty bottle of Lagavulin and then took Tish’s arm by the elbow. “Shall we?”

He guided her to a turn-of-the-century elevator that was uncomfortably small. They were shoulder to shoulder. Peter didn’t say anything as they rode upward. He just smiled, showing beautifully white teeth, and smoothed down his hair. She noticed his eyes straying over her body. When the doors opened, he led her to a room painted in cream, with an off-white sofa, an armchair, and a square glass coffee table. Through a doorway, Tish saw a queen-sized bed with an elaborately flowered comforter. She backed up.

“This is a bedroom,” she said.

“A guest room,” Peter said. “Members outside the city stay here sometimes. Or men whose wives have kicked them out for the night. That’s why I prefer the single life.” He added, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to assault you, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I just thought we would both like some privacy.”

“Leave the door open.”

“Whatever you want.”

Peter took the armchair and worked on his drink. Tish sat uneasily on the sofa, her knees squeezed together. A few minutes later, George entered the room with a balloon-shaped wineglass and an open bottle. He set them on the table in front of her and poured, then gave her an imperious look and retreated from the room, closing the door behind him.

“Do you want me to open it again?” Peter asked, nodding at the door.

Tish shrugged.

“Well, here we are,” he continued. “It’s been a long time. You’re looking good, Tish. Do you mind if I call you that?”