“When?”

“As soon as you get rid of him.” John rose to his feet, then looked searchingly at me. “Can you handle the fellow?”

“No problem. He’s very drunk.”

“Smells like a brewery,” John agreed, wrinkling his nose fastidiously. “Very well, then—à bientôt.”

He faded into the night like a shadow, leaving a blast of cold air to remind me my torso was bared to the breezes. After examining the damage, I was tempted to kick Dieter myself. Annoyance made me less tolerant of his moans of pain and protestations of regret than I might otherwise have been; I bundled him ruthlessly out into the hall and watched with mean satisfaction as he set off on a slow retreat, ricocheting from wall to wall.

“You forgot these,” I called, heaving his coat and hat after him.

I suppose I needn’t have spoken quite so loudly. As luck would have it, Schmidt chose that moment to open the door of his room. His exclamation of surprise and interest brought Tony to the door as well; the two of them stood there like Mutt and Jeff, staring from Dieter in his lavender pajamas to me, in what was left of my expensive nightgown.

I retreated and slammed the door. As I turned the key, icy air brushed my back and I whirled around, crossing my arms over my chest. “Close that window,” I ordered.

He had already done so. “Cold?” he inquired. “Personally I find it a bit close in here.” He peeled off his sweater and hung it neatly over a chair. “Stop right there,” I said, as his fingers went to the buttons of his shirt. “This is going to be a business conference.”

“You aren’t dressed for it,” said John.

“Where the hell is my robe?”

It was lying on the bed. I reached for it, and jumped spasmodically as a thunderous knock echoed at my door. “Vicky?” Tony bellowed.

“What do you want?”

“I want to come in.”

“Well, you can’t. Go away.” I got one arm in a sleeve. It was the wrong sleeve. John, lips twitching, moved to help me—or so I thought; instead of the robe, it was his arms that went around me. After an exploratory traverse, his lips settled into the hollow between my neck and shoulder.

“What happened?” Tony demanded loudly. “Are you all right? What did you do to him? What did he do to you?”

“Noth—ooop!—nothing.” John was laughing soundlessly; the movements of his lips were horribly ticklish. “Stop that,” I gurgled.

“What?” Tony shouted.

“Get lost, Tony. I mean it.”

“That goes for you, too,” I added, as the sound of heavy, offended footsteps thumped away.

John released me and sat down on the bed. “How do you do it?” he asked curiously. “Where do you find these farcical characters?”

“We are not amused,” I said, finally managing to get both arms into the sleeves of the robe. “Do you suppose we can possibly have a sensible conversation now?”