As George neared the top of the stairs a few steps behind Pia, he saw that Berman had already opened the enormous, oversize wooden entrance door and was standing on the threshold. He was dressed in a snugfitting Italian gray herringbone silk jacket over a silk mock turtleneck. From the bulges in the right spots, George guessed he was a weight lifter. George’s confidence sagged. The man was not only rich but good-looking to boot.

“Dr. Wilson, I presume,” said Berman when George and Pia arrived at the level of the entrance. Berman examined George as if he were inspecting livestock. Or at least that was how George felt, dressed as he was in jeans and a comparatively dorky flannel shirt. Berman had a fixed smile on his face that looked to George more cruel than sincere.

“That’s me. Nice to meet you. Er, I bought this . . .” George thrust the bottle of wine in its silver gift paper toward Berman, who nodded. The men shook hands, and Berman guided him into his house, redirecting his attention toward Pia.

“You haven’t been here, Pia?”

“I have not,” she answered, recognizing his comment as a mere figure of speech. He knew full well she’d never been there. If she was hoping for sincerity, it wasn’t a good way to begin the evening. She was already surprised he’d directed his first comments to George. “It’s quite a home.”

Berman chastely touched both his cheeks against Pia’s, European style, before directing her inside the house after George.

Pia was not often impressed by material trappings, but even she could tell this was an extraordinary place. The front door opened into an atrium, whose ceiling extended up two stories to the underside of a pitched gable. Between the exposed beams was adobe-colored plaster. The living room, which was more expansive, with even higher ceilings, was spanned and crisscrossed by giant, hand-hewn beams, which Berman said came all the way from Montana.

By the time they walked into the center of the living room, Pia counted three substantial fireplaces, all ablaze with six-foot logs. The furniture was likewise oversize and upholstered in burgundy-colored leather. Ample fur throws and pillows were haphazardly but invitingly distributed. The wall without a fireplace was all glass, rising three stories to the massive central gable of the roof. Off to the side was a state-of-the-art entertainment system. Classical music hovered in the room more as a hint than as an intrusion. It was impossible to tell exactly where the sound was coming from.

Berman led them outside to the deck, which extended the entire rear of the house, commanding a view to the west of the Flathead Mountains, swathed in moonlight. Berman offered his guests seats in large wooden rockers, and a server appeared at once to take a drinks order. George saw that Berman had set down the bottle of wine he had brought in an inconspicuous place.

“You know Miss Jones already, Pia,” Berman said when Whitney appeared, as if on cue. Like Berman, she was dressed in elegant simplicity, her hair drawn back from her face and gathered in a bun without a single strand misbehaving. Her shapely and toned physique was in ample display.