She rose abruptly, her cheeks flushing as if I had slapped them. “What, you think I am a prostitute? No, I am a dancer, with Les Folies Bergère, there.” She nodded her head toward the austere United States Federal Building, where, inexplicably, the Folies had apparently received permission to purvey their classy display of skin. “When I ask if you wish to screw me, it is to say that if you marry me, you then could screw me. Le mariage,” she stressed, though it was more of a plea than a stipulation, “but it would have to be today, now.” She did a pirouette for me and urgently answered her own question: “I am attractive, yes?”

“D’accord,” I said. I’d taken a year of French at the Juilliard.

“And you like my outfit, my hair,” she continued, giving me a second glimpse of the intricate arrangement. She flashed a camera-ready smile. “I have very good teeth—the Folies has them maintained here.” The smile stopped. “And of course the beautiful figure that people pay money to see.”

I told her I was immensely flattered by her offer, but no, at least not today.

She smoothed out her frock, reassembling her pride. “Well, don’t be flattered of yourself. You are not the only man whom I have proposed this morning to.”

It was the second time in less than twelve hours that my male pride had been shot down, and I permitted myself some small but justifiable annoyance. “Look, Miss Prentice, you leave a message at my hotel asking me to meet with you, I borrow a car and drive all the way here—”

She looked at me as if I were mad. “My name is Prasquier and I have never been leaving any message for you! I don’t know you. You are just sitting here.”

And with that, she walked quickly up the street and out of my life forever, one would imagine. One imagines lots of things.

Chapter 6

6

Gail

“Well hello and everything,” came the peppy voice of a young woman behind me. “I’m guessing you’re Ray Sherwood.”

I turned and allowed myself a moment to take her in, which she must have misunderstood as bewilderment on my part.

She winced. “Oh, gosh, sorry, you’re not Ray Sherwood?”

I smiled at her, one of the easiest things I’ve ever done, and responded, “Well, if I weren’t, I’d sure try to keep that information from you as long as possible. Yes, I’m Ray.”

“Well, I’m Gail,” she said, as if we were now all tied at 1.