“So what can I get you?” Berman asked, playing the considerate host. “After-dinner cordial, some dessert wine? I do have some homemade ice cream in the freezer. I’m assuming you’re not interested in a cigar. But I don’t want to be sexist. If I were here by myself, which I’m infinitely grateful I’m not, I would indulge in a cigar.”

“Are you by yourself very often?” Pia asked.

“Sometimes. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. You have these attractive women working for you. Whitney, Mariel . . .”

Berman sat down next to Pia.

“Maybe they are attractive . . .” He reached out and ran his forefinger along Pia’s jawline as she turned to face him. Her initial response was to knock his hand away, but she controlled herself. She knew she had to maintain the pretense or the evening would be a flop. At the same time, she hated to be in the position she was. It reminded her of being attacked in the residence mansion of the superintendent of the Hudson Valley Academy. She struggled to keep as much eye contact as she could.

“Whitney and Mariel are definitely attractive,” Berman continued, totally unaware of Pia’s thoughts. “But they are not you.” He now reached around Pia’s shoulder and put pressure on her to draw her toward him. Pia acquiesced to a degree, then pulled back gently. She fought with herself to stay in control and not lash out at this man, who at the moment represented everything she found repulsive about the opposite sex.

“Let’s slow down,” she said softly. “Let me get you another drink.” Her goal was to get him to drink as much as possible as soon as possible.

Berman sat back and looked at Pia. “You’re making me work very hard, Pia.”

“I think we need to get to know each other better.”

“I thought when you came to see me in my office at the crack of dawn today that you were ready to take things to the next step.”

Pia stood and leaned over Berman, one hand on either side of his legs. Her face came close to his. She fought against the urge to give his neck a sharp karate chop that probably would have made him as limp as wet spaghetti.

“Maybe I am ready, but my Italian mother told me that the man had to show he respected me before I should let him do anything.” Pia was amazed at herself coming up with a line like that. In reality she could not remember one single thing her mother had said, as she’d had died a violent death when Pia was just a toddler.