“You’ll never find it.” He then pointed out the camera. It was a tiny reflective glass bubble in the middle of the granite lintel. It was all but invisible.

Pia made an expression that suggested she was duly impressed. “Cool! Where’s the monitoring room?”

“Please,” Berman said as he motioned for Pia to precede him back into the house. Just beyond the foyer he opened what looked like a closet door. It was a small room with a bank of electronic gear and two large TV screens showing a succession of pictures of the exterior of the house, the gate, the swimming pool, the tennis court, and the rest of the property.

“What about the interior?” Pia asked. “Is that included in this system or is this just for the grounds?”

Without even answering, Berman reached up to one of the pieces of equipment and touched a screen. Immediately one of the TV monitors switched to a succession of interior shots, going from room to room.

“Does this record?” Pia asked.

“It does,” Berman said proudly. “It records for forty-eight hours, then erases itself and starts again. It’s a continuous feed.”

“Let’s turn it off,” Pia said.

“Excuse me?”

“I want it off. I don’t want to feel inhibited, knowing that a recorder is operating.”

A slight smile appeared on Berman’s face. He loved it. She had miraculously transformed herself into a woman of his dreams. He reached up to the same piece of equipment he’d touched to bring up the interior images and turned it off. The appropriate monitor went blank until he switched it back to the exterior images.

“Sometimes,” Berman said with a wry smile, “it’s fun reliving an evening’s events, if you know what I mean.” He raised his dark, bushy eyebrows provocatively, or so he thought.

Pia felt a flash of anger at the realization that her previous visit had probably been taped. She had enough experience of her uncle taking pornographic pictures of her when she was a kid to be disgusted by Berman’s remark, but she had to keep her cool.

“There’s no Miss Jones tonight?”

“There’s no Miss Jones. And I let the cook and the housekeeper leave a short time ago. Our dinner is on low heat in the oven; the Champagne is on ice. We have the place to ourselves. Would you like to sit outside? It’s a lovely night again. You could put a fur throw around your shoulders if you’d like.”

“Sounds good,” said Pia. So the coast was clear, she thought. But that worked both ways—there was nothing to stop Berman from trying to get what he wanted, either. At least initially it was to be a kind of Mexican standoff.

Pia took her seat outside while Berman went to the bar to fix their drinks. He returned with two Champagne flutes and proposed a toast.