Darvin had scarcely been able to believe it when he'd found himself leaning off his stool to ask her if she wanted to join him for a drink, first because he was a married man--it had been six months since he'd tied the knot, not at all coincidentally the same length of time he'd been employed as a salesman for Rinas International Hotel Supplies--and second because he hadn't had a pot to piss in before that, when he'd been hawking costume jewelry door-to-door at thirty bucks a ring and thirty-five a necklace for some Israeli gonif who had his office on 10th Avenue, getting a ten-percent commission on each piece of soon-to-discolor crap he unloaded, his assigned route running from 125th Street in Harlem to Washington Heights--try to earn a living wage that way, bro.

Back then, before he got hitched, before his wife's father consequently became his boss and handed him the company's plum Brazilian accounts, Darvin wouldn't have had the cash or confidence to so much as dream of picking up a woman in Christina's league, which was kind of funny if you thought about it, like something you'd expect to read in Penthouse Forum. Maybe he ought to send in an article, use one of those dumb pen names to protect his identity: Marrying to Score Babes, by Lucky Strike.

At this very moment, in fact, streaking through the inky South American night toward Rio and Darvin's room at the Ritz Carlton, snuggled close together in the dimly lit coach of the express train--the fifth of six cars coupled to the locomotive--they were engaged in an activity that would itself make for a great opening teaser. Ten minutes earlier they had asked the attendant for an afghan and thrown it over their laps, not because either of them was cold, but because Christina from Ipanema, who had herself been waiting for the train after an afternoon shopping spree in Sao Paulo with a girlfriend--or so she said--had put her mouth to his ear and whispered a suggestion or two about how they might while away the long hours of the ride, provided they could keep from being noticed by prying eyes.

This being a luxury line, they'd already had a nice amount of privacy. Their high-backed, buttery leather chairs blocked the view of them from behind. The wall-to-wall carpeting muted most of the sounds around them and, more importantly, most sounds they might make. The fluorescent lights over the central aisle had been switched off for the benefit of passengers wanting to catch some shuteye, and many of those who weren't asleep were in the buffet car having cocktails and canapes. Small incandescent lamps with rose-colored shades mounted between the windows gave off a subdued glow that was enough to read by, or whatever, and was also kind of romantic. The afghan, therefore, had niftily finalized yet another major deal for Darvin, giving them all the added cover they'd needed.