It might have tempted him under other circumstances. Hugh took frequent trips to the States on business, and he had, from long stays in hotels, begun to watch baseball; it seemed preferable to the news, which was depressing, and mostly, to him, irrelevant. He was rather surprised to find he loved the game. It was far faster than cricket, and very strategic.

But he knew perfectly well he would not be watching a floodlit baseball diamond tonight.

Tonight he was going to have a woman.

Hugh inventoried his feelings, as he always did. Excitement, need, disgust. His conscience putting up its usual feeble struggle. You shouldn’t do it . . . you’re no better than Pete. This is beneath you . . . you’ll hate yourself tomorrow. . . .

His body replying in kind, to every such objection. Yes—so what?

Hugh grit his teeth and headed into the bathroom. He would shower and change; sometimes that diminished the urge.

Not tonight, though. He enjoyed the sensations, but the temptation was too urgent. He was ashamed of himself, but made excuses: you fought it for so long . . . for weeks . . . you can’t help yourself . . . nobody’s perfect.

He swathed himself in the voluminous white bathrobe they provided and removed his address book. The number for Boston was listed, like the rest of them, under a single name—Karen.

He summoned her from memory. Karen, she was the brunette, the former Miss Wisconsin. Five foot eight, about a hundred thirty-five; her breasts were real, although he thought she might have had them lifted. She was thirty-four—he never saw a girl under thirty—and lived in a luxurious condo in Back Bay, a full-service, doorman building, the kind that comes with its own pool and health spa. Karen told him she owned the condo herself, which meant she was relatively affluent; that she’d be getting out of the life shortly.

All these things reduced his guilt. The women he picked were never too young, nor too poor; Montfort hated to think of the girls as vulnerable.

But of course it was all a joke. They did it because they needed to. Possibly this girl had debts—gambled, most likely, did cocaine. He picked the ones who at least didn’t seem to be hurt, but it was the same as adding diet gin to your tonic. Well and good, but in the end, just window dressing.

His pulse quickened as her telephone started to ring. Maybe she wouldn’t be there, and the need would be ignored, this time, because he had no choice.

“Hello?”

She was there. Hugh sighed inwardly.

“Karen? This is Hugh Montfort.”

“Baby.” He could hear the smile in her voice, and no wonder. He never asked what the girls charged; he left an envelope with a thousand dollars on the bed once he was finished.

“Are you free this evening?”