Pia knew she was driving Berman crazy. He was shifting in his seat as if he were going to explode. Pia stayed where she was, and shimmied her hips a little and smiled. She couldn’t believe herself. “So what can I fix you?” she questioned. “I remember from Sunday night that you like scotch, right? I’ve always admired men who drank scotch. It’s such a masculine drink.”

“Yes, I do like my whiskey.”

Berman could hardly speak. He actually licked his lips.

Pia smiled again. The method acting she had done during her undergraduate days at NYU was coming in handy.

“So which way’s the bar?” She stood and took a step for the door.

“There’s one right over there,” said Berman. “I keep whiskey in here, so it’s close at hand.”

Pia swore under her breath. She had left what she needed in her clutch purse on the dining-room table. She assumed she’d be able to fix a drink in the wet bar in the living room, from which Berman was getting the wine and Champagne. She looked over and saw a built-in cabinet she hadn’t noticed. She walked over and pulled on what she thought was a large drawer. Instead the whole front of the piece swung aside to reveal cut-glass decanters and whiskey glasses.

“Which one?” asked Pia.

“The lighter of the two. A Laphroaig single malt.”

“Ice!” Pia said, triumphantly. “I need ice.”

“Pia, I really can’t allow you to sully a lovely single-malt whiskey with ice. It’s really not the way you drink it.”

“I’m sorry, but if I am going to try it, I need ice. Where do I go?”

Berman stood. “You should let me get it, please.” He’d regained a modicum of composure. He took a glass and poured himself a dollop. Pia reached under his elbow to encourage him to add a bit more. She smiled. He smiled back.

“I need to use your bathroom,” said Pia. “So I can get the ice on the way back.”

“You know where the bathroom is, you used it the other night. It’s off the foyer. The wet bar is in the living room, and I should—”

“Now, you sit down and don’t move!” said Pia with trumped-up authority. “I’ll be right back.”

Pia hurried out of the den, picked up her clutch purse, and headed for the foyer. Her pulse was racing. In the bathroom for a couple of seconds, she located the two thirty-milligram capsules of Temazepam. Then she flushed the toilet and washed her hands. Back at the wet bar in the living room, she filled a wineglass with ice from the icemaker, tucked her purse under her arm, and headed back to the den.