Tonight, Laura mused, Mr. Steele would have his musical horizons expanded like never before.

Warming in anticipation of her carefully orchestrated evening, Laura slid closer, her thigh pressed against his. They turned toward each other, arms reaching and grasping, their hands caressing arms and backs, while searching kisses caressed lips and faces.

Steele's hand gently cupped her breast, his thumb grazing her hardening nipple through her blouse. Laura moaned softly and leaned him against the keyboard, her hands grasping for his collar button.

Laura reveled in the delicious sensation of her body against his, of her hands freely exploring wherever impulse took her. Once again the sense of liberation she felt since they had finally opened the book and found that they'd been on the same page all along set her mind free to enjoy everything that her senses took in.

She ran her hand down his shirt front, the lightly starched cotton slightly rumpled after a day's work, then moved down his side to his leg. Her fingers sneaked under the apron covering his lap, sliding up his thigh toward his waistband.

Steel applied both hands to her breasts, alternately kneading them while unfastening selected buttons. The tempo of their kisses increased as the numbers of fasteners decreased.

The passion filling the air was cut by a persistent buzz from the kitchen. Steele played a chord of frustration as his elbow came down on the piano keys. "Bloody timer," he muttered, pushing himself upright. "What I have to put up with sometimes to make a successful repast."

Laura took a deep breath to recover her senses and smoothed back his hair at one temple. "I'm sure it will be worth all of your sacrifices."

Reluctantly, Steele got up and went back to the kitchen, snapping off the timer a little too forcefully. Laura watched him from the bench.

Steele removed the foie gras from the fridge and sliced it thinly then set out the beef stock. He heated more truffle oil and started to simmer the ingredients over a low flame. He began to prepare the simple cream sauce for the pasta course.

"You did promise me, Miss Holt, that this resort in Martinique has no alarm clocks, correct?"

"Only if you ask for one."

"And no telephones?"

"Just one at the reception desk. Plus a lovely dining room where timers will not be your responsibility."

"Yes, yes. And what about overzealous assistants who selectively remember what 'Do Not Disturb' means?"

Laura chuckled. "THEY will be on the other side of the continent, Mr. Steele."

"Excellent work, Miss Holt. Mildred can expend her energies keeping Mr. Mulch at bay while we expend ours in more pleasurable pursuits." Steele conjured up a vision of island bliss. "Two travelers in search of paradise, on a sandy beach, shaded by palms once painted by Gauguin, a five-star chef within hailing distance -"

"What more could we ask for?"

"A fully crewed yacht and a couple of bottles of sunscreen?"

"Mr. Steele, I don't think there's a line item for yachts in the discretionary fund."

"Or sailboats either, as I recall. And Grainville, Iowa is a far cry from Zurich."

"Well, you can blame that one on our overzealous assistant."

"You mean that if Mildred hadn't cast our pearls before swine we could be sailing the ocean blue?"

"Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Steele. It's a long way to Martinique. I hope you have lots of stamina."

"Hmm. Topside or, ah, below decks?" Steele wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"Um, I think you need to turn down the heat."

"I'd hoped the feeling was mutual," Steele sniffed.

"Your pasta sauce is boiling over."

"Oh, no! It can't be -" Steele stared at the bubbling liquid in dismay and frantically began stirring. He turned off the flame and hesitantly tasted a spoonful. "The phrase 'the nick of time' comes to mind, Miss Holt."

"How is it?"

Steele breathed a sigh of relief. "No harm done. We're still on schedule."

His words prompted Laura to set her own timetable in motion. She put the music in the piano bench and went to the stereo. She made certain her tapes were in order, inserted the first one in the cassette player and pushed "play." On her way to the kitchen she closed the loft windows against the intensifying evening breeze and checked the table settings.

Steele poured the mushroom sauce over two dishes of pasta and turned the filets and beef stock down to a simmer.

Handel - Water Music

A stately Baroque march filled the air, thundering through the loft. Laura raced back to the stereo and turned the volume down with a sheepish grin.

"Oops," she smiled.

"I'm all for dinner music, Laura, but not at a volume akin to sitting next to an LAX runway. Monroe went to great pains to provide you with a state of the art system with a wide dynamic range, not just your usual 'off' and 'full blast.'"

"I guess those crescendos have been getting a workout," Laura admitted. "Should I pour the wine?"

"Yes, everything's ready." He gestured toward the table with the two plates in his hands. "Shall we?"

Steele set the plates on the table while Laura filled the glasses, then helped her with her chair. As Laura sniffed her first course appreciatively, Steele raised his glass in a toast.

"What shall we drink to this evening?"

"I get the feeling we're celebrating something."

"As a matter of fact, we are. One less impediment to connubial bliss."

Laura raised her glass cautiously. "Unless mother's decided to move to Alaska and take up dog sledding, I'm stumped. Care to elaborate, Mr. Steele?"

"The closing went through on the loft this afternoon. I would have told you earlier but you'd already left the office."

"The closing went through on the loft?" she echoed in stunned surprise.

"As I said - one less impediment. In a few weeks you'll hand over the keys, the saxophonist, the stairs, and the neighbors to Mr. and Mrs. Fillmore from Fresno."

Laura winced. "I hope Nestor won't be too much of a shock to their system."

"Good heavens, Laura! What do you expect? After all that gop you gave them about your caring, sharing neighbors. Always looking out for each other. Never turning their backs on each other is more like it."

"So I stretched the truth a little. It was for a good cause. The Fillmores were crazy about the loft and they did say they wanted to escape their dull, boring lifestyle. Meet new and interesting people."

"I suppose one could describe Nestor as interesting - if one were truly desperate for company. Or perhaps a scientist studying alien life forms."

"He isn't that bad, Mr. Steele. You bring out the worst in him."

"Do I? How gratifying. Speaking of gratification, let's not postpone it any longer, eh? Dinner awaits."

Laura took a small sip of her wine, trying to discern whatever features there were that made this vintage worth the extra expense. Not identifying any, but knowing that she liked it, she picked up her fork.

"This looks fabulous."

"Well then, buon appetito, Signorina Holt, mangia bene, as they say in the vernacular."

"Not a minute too soon. I'm famished." Laura ate with enthusiasm, savoring the pungent flavor of the mushrooms in their elegant cream sauce.

Steele watched her digging in with amusement. "Laura, remind me never to get between you and a plate when you're hungry. I could lose a finger." He tasted his appetizer, making a mental note to add a touch of white pepper the next time. "Is there anything you won't eat?"

Laura set down her fork and looked at him, trying to decide if he was baiting her. "Are you implying that I'll inhale whatever's put in front of me?"

Steele backed off a notch." No, no, not at all. I just want to be sure that I don't prepare a special surprise at some time, only to find you won't go near it."

"Raw oysters," she said immediately. "I don't care what anyone says about their aphrodisiac qualities - I think they're revolting."

"Duly noted, Laura. I'm sure we can find an avenue to passion that doesn't involve bivalves." He sensed that a change of subject was in order. "This music makes me feel like we should get up and dance the gavotte between courses."

Laura grinned. "It might be better to row."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's the 'Water Music' by George Frideric Handel. It was written for the entertainment of another George, King George the Ist, as he went floating up and down the Thames."

"More on the line of a barge, then."

"Yes, but one for the King, and another for the musicians."

"You don't say." Steele flashed her a wicked grin. "I hope the musicians put their backs into it then. At least they'd be able to dip the oars in perfect time."

"They weren't rowing!"

"How silly of me. Probably against union regulations."

Laura rolled her eyes. "Really, Mr. Steele. The musicians had to play for almost three hours. They had plenty of things to keep them busy."

"Busy, eh? Sneaking over to the royal barge at the intermission. Stealing the silverware, raiding the galley, pinching a stray chambermaid or two."

"Just how many ancestral ghosts do you have, Mr. Steele?"

"You're marrying into a noble line, Miss Holt."

"In high school I was voted the girl most likely to marry an Olympic gold medalist."

"How prophetic. I always did have a certain fondness for bright, shiny objects. And such a tribute to my Greek god-like good looks, too. Not to mention my prowess, my staying power, my -"

"Modesty? Next you'll have me believing that Handel wrote the 'Water Music' for your ancestral ghost instead of King George."

"I wouldn't rule it out entirely, Miss Holt. My ancestor was an excellent player of whist. Perhaps one night at the gaming tables he caught Mr. Handel rather short of cash and decided to take it out of the composer in trade." He glanced at Laura out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge her reaction to his rather baroque improvisation.

Laura rolled her eyes in mock dismay. "So you're saying that Handel wrote the 'Water Music' to pay off a gambling debt. Sorry, Mr. Steele. That idea doesn't have a ghost of a chance. The dedication to King George is right on page one of the manuscript."

"That hardly disproves my theory." Steele fortified himself with a healthy swallow of wine. "You know, with all the king's ladies and all the king's men and all the king's musicians barging down the Thames, one wonders how they stayed afloat."

"That's an easy one, Mr. Steele. No sopranos."

Steele raised an amused eyebrow. "Some of them can be rather strapping, I'll admit." He listened intently for a moment to a rhythmic passage with horns. "I like this one. Very dashing."

"I thought you might." Laura was pleased. "Handel also wrote music for the royal fireworks."

"A man with a sense of occasion, eh?"

"That one didn't turn out as happily. The fireworks ignited by accident, the pavilion burnt down and then it started raining buckets. Throngs of people slogging through the mud -"

Steele speared his pasta with a fork. "All you need is love and peace and you'd have a Baroque version of Woodstock."

Laura laughed. "That comparison won't make the history books, but it's not bad."

They finished their first course in companionable silence. Like a true gourmand, Steele dispassionately dissected his effort, determining to add slightly more seasoning and slightly less cream next time around; Laura resisted the urge to run her finger through the remaining sauce on her plate, to get every last drop.

Steele brought in the side course of roasted asparagus. "Not much longer, Miss Holt. The piece de resistance is almost ready." At his words the trumpets and timpani ended in a magnificent roar and the music shifted to the gaily rippling chords of a piano and string quartet.

Schubert - Trout Quintet

"This one is lovely, Laura. Sounds almost like a babbling brook."

"Very good, Mr. Steele. This is the 'Trout Quintet' by Franz Schubert."

"Trout? I know composers have been inspired by nature in many forms, but fish?"

Laura rolled her eyes in mock dismay. "The melody Schubert used is from an art song he wrote called 'The Trout'".

Steele couldn't keep his smile from creeping into his eyes. "Now if only I had known this music was on your agenda this evening, I would have prepared sole meuniere, or a bouillabaisse, perhaps."

"Speaking of the catch of the day, Mr. Steele, I could tell you a story -"

"A fish tale? How exciting. I'm hooked already. Go ahead, Miss Holt. Reel me in."

Laura folded her arms. "A musical fish story. It's about Fritz Kreisler. The violinist."

"I never knew there were so many connections between fishing and fiddling. You musicians certainly are a strange lot." Steele gave her a sidelong glance. "Sorry to interrupt, Miss Holt. Pray continue."

"As I was saying, Mr. Steele, one day Kreisler was out strolling with a friend when he passed a fish market. He looked down at the fish and saw row upon row of staring eyes and gaping mouths. Like a shot, he slapped his hand to his forehead and shouted 'Get me a cab! I'm late for a concert!'"

Suddenly Steele was reminded of something. "You know I had the same experience recently at that crime seminar at the mayor's conference. I looked out over the audience and saw their mouths hanging open like codfish."

"Maybe your discourse on Alfred Hitchcock movies went above their heads."

"Was it my fault that Mildred misfiled my lecture notes? One minute I'm regaling them with my sterling work in capturing a counterfeiting ring and then I turn the page and Robert Donat and Madeleine Carroll are escaping over the Scottish highlands."

"I don't think a lecture on handcuffing techniques was quite what they expected."

"Just trying to stay on topic, Laura. A shame my brilliant thesis for the LA chapter of the Hitchcock Society received such an inauspicious debut. 'Manhunts and Mistaken Identity: from 'The 39 Steps' to 'North by Northwest.'"

"I'm sure the Hitchcock Society will forgive your sneak preview."

"Undoubtedly. My lecture on 'The Birds' at last year's banquet was the highlight of the calendar. That reminds me, did you have Mildred type up my after dinner speech to the Committee to Save the Bald Eagle?"

"It's on your desk. Wouldn't want you to disappoint any bird lovers."

"How lucky you are, Miss Holt, to be spared the endless grind of gladhanding and speech making. If only one could pick and choose one's audience."

"I'll settle for a private audience of one, Mr. Steele."

"As you wish, Miss Holt. I'll do my best not to resemble a herring halfway through the Chopin."

"It's a deal."

Steele rose from his chair and went to put the finishing touches on the main course. She refilled their wine glasses and waited patiently for him to return to the table.

"And now for a taste of la dolce vita, nineteenth century style," announced Steele, setting her plate before her with a flourish. 'Tournedos Rossini.'"

Almost as if on cue, a drum roll began, signaling the start of Rossini's sprightly opera overture. Laura smiled to herself at the serendipitous timing of her tape. Perhaps the rest of her timing would go as well, later in the evening.

Rossini - Overture - La Gazza Ladra

"You and Giacchino Rossini have a lot in common, you know."

"Rossini? As in the composer of this penultimate dish before us?" Steele asked.

"Among other things. He certainly knew his way around the kitchen, not to mention the opera house. One of his arias from 'Tancredi' was known as the 'rice aria' because he composed it one day while leisurely cooking a risotto."

"Sounds like a clever fellow. A good risotto takes infinite patience. Once, while stirring a risotto primavera, I mentally worked out a plan to liberate an exquisite Bellini panel from a museum. The waiting collector was very anxious, but as I reminded him, the artist cannot be rushed. These things take time. Would have worked, too, except for one thing."

"What was that?" Laura asked, curious about the plan in spite of herself.

"Added the spring vegetables too soon."

She threw up her hands. "Why do I ask?"

Steele grinned. "As for the Bellini, all is not lost. Perhaps I'll dust off those plans again. We may need some supplemental income to pay off that mammoth mortgage of ours."

"I don't think the bank would approve."

"Then perhaps I'd better revise that early retirement plan." Steele winked at her across the table.

"You have even more in common with Rossini than I thought."

"How so?"

"He virtually retired before he was forty."

"Ah. A man after my own heart."

"His aversion to hard work was legendary. He preferred to compose in bed whenever he could. In fact, if he was writing a piece and one of the pages fell on the floor, he just started again, rather then having to get out of bed to retrieve it."

"It seems to me the man knew exactly what he was doing, Miss Holt. If one can replicate the same perfect result, time after time in bed, what better expenditure of one's energies, eh? Reminds me of a certain evening two nights ago."

Laura blushed at the memory of their bedroom gymnastics. "Rossini would have been proud of us. Every crescendo was perfectly timed." As if in reply the overture reached a momentous climax then returned to the theme once more.

"It was rather legendary, wasn't it? Speaking of legends, I think it's time we tested the main course."

Laura's knife slid through the tender meat and she savored her first bite.

"You don't have to say a word, Laura, your expression says it all." He congratulated himself on the success of his efforts.

The savory combination of the rich sauce, the thinly sliced foie gras, and the tender filets commanded the attention of the palate, so little was said between them in the next few minutes. They both surrendered happily to the pleasures of a dish that caressed the senses like the finest Como silk.

Laura leaned back in her chair, wishing now that she'd put on those elastic waist pants she had contemplated earlier. She sighed contentedly and finished her wine.

The overture came to an end, and the music became operatic, a soprano soaring over the orchestra with a beautiful melody. Laura closed her eyes, a slight smile on her lips as she soaked in the glorious sounds.

Puccini - Mio babbino caro from Gianni Schicchi

Steele studied her. "I would judge that from that near orgasmic expression on your face, you enjoyed your dinner."

Laura opened one eye. "Oh, I did, very much. But this music - it's so rapturous. I love this aria."

"Yes, Puccini was always my preference over, say, Mozart or Wagner."

Now both of Laura's eyes were open as she stared at him. "You're an opera buff? Somehow I would never have imagined that among your, uh, interests."

"Oh, Daniel loves the opera. I remember one spring in Milan, we saw 'The Barber of Seville'. I'll never forget that night because it was the first time I wore a dinner jacket."

"Somehow Daniel and the opera don't go together in my mind."

"Laura, think about it. What better place to inventory the assorted baubles of the well to do, then at intermission at the opera house? La Fenice in Venice, La Scala in Milan, the Paris Opera. We had our pick of the finest jewels in Europe. Two charming gentlemen would have very little trouble ascertaining the names of the wearers of choice items. A little research, an evening reconnoiter or two, and..."

"I don't want to hear anymore!"

"Very well. Daniel made sure we didn't draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves by my falling asleep out of boredom, so we read through the synopses prior to the evening of the opera so that I would at least know what was going on."

"And you prefer Italian opera?"

"Most definitely. German opera defies understanding, with those convoluted plots, and strange men falling in love with their breast-plated mothers. No thank you."

Laura laughed at his critique. "I prefer Italian myself."

"To sweeten the experience in my more wayward youth, Daniel used to reward me with dinner afterwards. Whatever we ate depended on the libretto. If the language was French we ate French cuisine, much more often, of course, we ate Italian. I had an unreasoning prejudice against German food for years. I blame it all on 'Tannhauser.'"

"I'm surprised after an extended evening of Wagner, you could still find a restaurant open. Of course 'Tannhauser' is only four hours long," Laura joked.

"One night we went to see 'William Tell' at La Scala and dined out later at the Savini. It was the first time I tasted Rossini's dish and I thought I'd gone straight to heaven. And here I am now twenty years later, giving the same gift to a beautiful woman. I must say, it's lovelier the second time around."

Steele took her hand in his and kissed it lightly. Laura regarded him warmly. "You certainly did his creation justice. I don't think I've ever tasted anything so delicious."

"Thank you, Laura. It was worth the wait."

"You and Giacchino certainly like to do things on a grand scale. Speaking of scales I'll have to hide the one in my bathroom if you keep cooking for me like this. How did Rossini's sopranos manage to lace up their corsets?"

Steele gazed across at Laura with a speculative frown. "Now there's an interesting experiment for the boudoir. I wonder how I can get you into a corset, though it might be more fun to get you out of one."

"Sounds like you've spent one too many nights at the opera, Mr. Steele. I've heard of opera plots being based on less. That reminds of the music appreciation class my friend Lorna and I took together our junior year."

"Music appreciation?"

"Even math majors have fine arts electives, Mr. Steele. We were pretty bored by the opera lectures, until we got the bright idea of re-writing the plots with a little twist."

"What kind of twist?"

"Well, um, opera is a venerable art form, and as you can imagine, it has acquired a variety of genres and sub genres over the centuries."

"You mean like grand opera as opposed to operetta?"

"That's right. And opera buffa and opera seria."

"Opera seria?"

"True opera seria is pretty stuffy. The plots are either tragic or uplifting. Lots of mythological themes and such. Because the librettos in opera seria had to be so, um, serious, the opera buffa style developed to allow for a little comic relief between the acts. Then it got expanded on its own, with more entertaining results. 'The Barber of Seville' is an excellent example."

"Not at all serious, is it?"

"Not very. Of course my friend and I were convinced that opera buffa hadn't gone quite far enough. So we invented our own sub-sub genre. A plot twist here and there to an old favourite, and presto chango! Opera in the buffa."

"Did you say opera in the buffa?" asked Steele, wondering just where this semi-serious conversation was heading.

"For example, Mr. Steele. I'll take 'Barber of Seville.'"

"Please."

"If it were performed as opera in the buffa it would go something like this: let Figaro service your needs. Your special requests met right in your home. Cross dressers available."

"Laura!" Steele was mildly shocked. "There's something positively lascivious in your tone."

"Exactly. Get the idea?"

"I could hardly fail to do so. I must say you surprise me, Laura. I expected your sense of humour to be a bit more, ah, refined."

"You have your secrets, I have mine. Now it's your turn."

Steele raised an eyebrow warily. "For secrets?"

"For opera jokes, Mr. Steele."

"Opera jokes, of course. Yes." Steele ran his tongue nervously over his lips.

"Stumped already?" Laura asked smugly.

"Couldn't we just play charades?" He held up two fingers. "Two syllables, first syllable sounds like -" Steele brightened and stopped in mid sentence as his hand signals suggested a ploy.

"By George, I think I've got it. How about this? Fight fans. Step into the ring with Carmen. She'll take your bull by the horns." Steele waggled his fingers suggestively.

"Free cigarettes, too," Laura joked. "Not bad, for an amateur. Still, you have a lot to learn. Here's one from a pro. Her name was 'Madame' Butterfly. She had a girl for a guy in every port. For the right price. Hello, sailor! Call Cio-Cio San for a good time."

"My, my, Miss Holt. This is getting positively pornographic." Steele thought for a moment, furrowing his brow in concentration. "Every port, eh? You realize, don't you, that Gilbert and Sullivan beat Puccini to the punchline."

"They did?"

"'H.M.S. Pinafore.' Or the lass that loved a sailor, and another sailor, and another sailor."

"Touché, Mr. Steele," Laura laughed. "We could go on like this all night."

"So could the lass from 'Pinafore.'"

"And Cio-Cio San. Sounds like an excuse for a party. Remember Violetta, the consumptive courtesan from 'La Traviata?'"

"I have a feeling you're going to remind me."

"By invitation only to her Paris salon. Alfredo, mi amor. Mardi Gras party at eight. Clothing optional. Leave gypsies. Bring penicillin."

"This is turning into an orgy, not a party."

"Just trying to keep your interest up, Mr. Steele."

"You've succeeded admirably, Miss Holt."

Steele rose from his chair, gathering used plates and silverware on route to the kitchen. "Your plot summaries may be unorthodox but they certainly don't lack for inspiration."

He reappeared a minute later at Laura's elbow, regarding her with wry amusement.

"Perhaps a dress rehearsal would be instructive."

"I left my corset at the cleaners," Laura replied, straight faced.

Steele was undeterred. "You'll just have to come as you are, Miss Holt." He nuzzled her ear and lightly traced the curve of her left breast with his fingertips. "I'm always keen to explore a variety of forms. One's duty as an artist, I should think."

Laura warmed to his touch, smiling at another instance of felicitous timing as the quiet strains of an aria began to be heard; the handiwork of a poet practicing the tender art of persuasion on his lady love. "Artists are supposed to suffer, Mr. Steele. Like Rodolfo and Marcello in 'La Boheme.'"

Puccini Che gelida manina from La Boheme

Steele suddenly became aware of the music. "Of course! 'La Boheme.' I thought I'd heard that tune before. That's the one where Rodolfo tries to warm up Mimi isn't it?"

"Very good, Mr. Steele. 'Che gelida manina.' Poor Mimi. If only she'd had mittens."

"Or cough syrup. Being a soprano is a risky business." Steele observed dryly before vanishing back into the kitchen.

"I, for one don't plan to freeze in a garret this Christmas Eve."

"Where's your sense of adventure, Miss Holt?"

"I'm an alto, Mr. Steele."

Laura listened for a moment as the poet's song soared to a passionate crescendo, then the floodgates closed and the mood became hushed and yearning once more.

Steele returned bearing two small salad plates filled with mixed greens and grilled mushrooms topped with a basil vinaigrette. He put the plates on the table and grated fresh parmesan over each.

"I've always made fun of the unbelievable plots of operas," Laura mused. "Still, I think with a gorgeous soundtrack like that even I could fall in love in fifteen minutes or less."

"If I'd known Puccini was the way to your heart I could have saved a small fortune in candy and flowers."

"Maybe it's for the best," Laura mused sadly. "In opera they fall out of love every fifteen minutes, too."

"Well, a dash of realism never hurts."

Laura poked him sharply with a fork.

"Ouch. Well, almost never."

"This looks inviting," said Laura, looking down at her plate.

"I thought something unaffectedly simple would refresh the palate."

"I don't think my palate is going to forget Tournedos Rossini for a while but I'll give it a try."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Just remember, I'm saving room for dessert."

"Nice to know there are still some things in life one can count on."

"We'll work off the calories later." Laura winked lewdly at him and took a bite of her salad.

"My, my. You certainly do have an appetite tonight, Miss Holt. Don't worry. There's more than enough for seconds."

"I'm counting on it, Mr. Steele."

While they ate Laura's mental clock ticked ahead, thinking of music still to be heard and more intimate pleasures yet to be enjoyed. Caught up in the web of her own daydream, she was jolted back to the present when her fork almost slipped from her hand. She hurriedly ate a mouthful of salad, wondering if Steele had noticed her preoccupation. She sneaked a glance at him.

He was toying with his wine glass, concentrating on her with an intensity that left her struggling for breath and fighting to conceal it. His long finger slowly traced the length of the stem... up and down... up and down.

A completely innocuous act took on a sensuous, erotic guise. As if hypnotized, Laura watched, blood singing, heart hammering. Finally he raised his glass to his mouth and sipped, promptly lowering it and caressing the stem once more. He glanced up and caught the look on her face returning it with a fervor that doubled her heart rate.

They stared across the table at each other, keenly aware of an extra-sensory vibration in the air that had nothing to do with the music. Laura swallowed hard and drank a sip of wine. Steele absently speared a piece of lettuce. They both made quick work of the salad as if eager to move on to the next phase of the evening.

A brief moment of silence fell as the aria came to a close. Steele got up from his chair and gathered up the dishes. "Still room for dessert, I trust?"

Laura fought the nervous impulse to glance down at her waistline. She was sure it had expanded measurably in the last half hour. "The spirit is willing, but I'm not sure the flesh is up to it."

Steele's fragile ego was affronted. "Laura, you can't mean that you'd leave such a delicate confection to languish untasted, untried, unseen. Wasting its sweetness on the desert air."

"We're not in the desert, Mr. Steele."

"An immaterial point, Miss Holt. Poetic license is the chef's privilege. Not that balsamic strawberries with mascarpone cheese need any embellishment," Steele said with bland assurance.

"Strawberries?" Laura breathed wistfully.

Steele smiled at her unguarded reaction. Sensing he'd hit upon a fatal weakness, he extolled the virtues of the dish in rapturous prose. "A truly inspired combination. The ripe perfection of strawberries, the tart drizzling of balsamic syrup, the velvet smoothness of the sweetened cheese filling. Topped with a generous spoonful of fresh whipped cream..."

"Why do you always have to make everything sound so damn irresistible?" Laura sighed.

"It's a rare talent. Call it a gift, if you will."

"I won't."

"Really, Laura. There's no need to keep up the pretense now that we're about to join matrimonial forces, as it were. I'm well aware of the devastating effect of my powers of persuasion."

"Let's keep the effects to a minimum, shall we? At least where food is concerned. For the sake of my waistline?"

"And where other things are concerned?" Steele murmured huskily.

Laura's eyes roamed over his body, lingering on those areas she found hardest to resist. "I'm willing to be convinced."

"I'll save that demonstration for after dinner."

"It's a date, Mr. Steele. Now where's this epicurean dazzler of yours?"

"Ah! You can resist everything except temptation, eh? Coming right up, Miss Holt."

Steele returned in short order with two elegant goblets filled with the refreshing Italian dessert. Laura took a deep breath and dipped in her spoon, throwing caution aside. The simple ingredients provided an unexpectedly arresting contrast in flavors. Both Steele and Laura soon found themselves absorbed in the act of savoring each bite as if it might be the last.

"That was incredible, Mr. Steele," Laura affirmed. "Everything I expected, and more. I bow to your superior skills. In the kitchen that is."

"As I've said before, Laura. I'm only too happy to use them for the common good."

"Your dinner was a hit from first course to last. Rossini would have loved it."

"One artist to another, eh? What finer praise could there be? Except of course, yours, Miss Holt. A never ending source of inspiration." Steele lifted his wine glass in salute, drained it, and got up briskly from the table. He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

For her own part, after four courses, Laura felt somewhat less agile. The prospect of weeks of dieting seemed imminent. Still, she couldn't deny it was worth it. She suddenly realized that the tape had continued playing and was now well into the next musical selection. Surely her partner would recognize this one, she thought.

Bizet - Carmen Suite / Toreador Song

Steele gathered up the goblets and silverware and idly whistled the melody. He ambled into the kitchen and began to run some water in the sink.

Laura joined him, only too glad to stretch a bit and shake off the feeling of drowsiness from the wine and the heavy meal.

"Music sound familiar, Mr. Steele?"

In reply Steele picked up his apron with a flourish, brandishing it before him like a cape. Continuing to whistle the tune he maneuvered as if to sidestep the onslaught of a charging bull.

"I told you charades would be more fun, Laura. Four syllables. To-re-a-dor, to be exact."

"Your memory is better than I thought. The 'Toreador song' from 'Carmen.' Also known as the theme of Herschel 'The Hammer' Sinclair. To his loyal legions of fans."

"None other." Steele re-hung the apron on the wall. "You might say I beat you to the punch, Miss Holt."

"Hardly, Mr. Steele. That's just the end of round one."

"Well, the night is young. There's plenty of time for sparring before we both hit the canvas." Steele began rinsing the dishes under the faucet and transporting them to the dishwasher.

"And for learning the ropes. How is Herschel 'The Hammer' these days? Early retirement still suiting him?" Laura helped Steele stack the dishes and wipe down the counters.

"He's making more money now than he ever did as a fighter. Syndication has done wonders for his bank balance."

"What's the name of his newspaper column again?"

"Astrology - the Sweet Science."

"How could I forget?"

"Climbing the star charts with a bullet, as they say. Herschel's branching out into a new sideline. Some pay phone service called 'Dial-a-Horoscope.' He's beating the bushes for investors."

"In Galileo Enterprises. I'm told the name was Barney's idea. He rang the office last week by the way."

"What do you think, Laura? Should we get in on the ground floor on this scheme? What do the stars say?"

"Taurus is bullish but Virgo doesn't want to rush things."

"Split decision, eh?"

"That's what Mildred says. Or maybe it was her manicurist. Or one of her bowling partners."

"Remind me to keep a sharp eye on the discretionary fund."

"Leave that to me, Mr. Steele. You know, Barney and I had a very interesting conversation. He says the Kilkenny Kid still has what it takes."

"He said that? The old fox. He's just trying to find the surest path to my wallet for this new venture." Steele shrugged off the compliment but Laura could tell he was pleased.

Laura waited a beat and then let the other shoe drop. "He also said you were in training."

"Really? Whatever gave him that idea?" asked Steele in what he hoped was the requisite tone of casual indifference.

"Just the fact that you've been sparring at the gym four times a week. I wondered why you were taking those long lunches."

"Just trying to keep in shape. Your nagging is finally paying off."

"Do you mind telling me what's really going on?"

Steele approached the touchy subject with extreme trepidation. "I was hoping to keep it a surprise, actually." He eyed Laura for encouragement but she was stone faced. "We, ah, that is, Herschel and I, weren't dead certain it would pan out."

"Certain what would pan out?"

"Er--a match of sorts. For charity. Between two ex-pugilists, and -- old friends." Steele flashed her a quick, nervous smile.

Laura was stunned. "Did I hear what I think I heard? A match? You and 'The Hammer?' In the ring?"

"I know it sounds a bit reckless -"

"Try insane."

"Don't worry, Laura. I won't hurt him too badly."

"It's not 'The Hammer' I'm worried about."

"Your lack of faith rather disturbs me."

"And when is this main event going to take place?"

"We're still hashing out the details, but sponsors are lining up around the block as we speak."

"Sponsors? You have sponsors for this forlorn hope?" Laura threw up her hands. "Why am I always the last to know?"

"I couldn't afford to take any chances. You have a devastating right hook."

"So does 'The Hammer.' Don't forget, Mr. Steele. Your famous face is an asset to the agency. I'd hate to see it get rearranged. Not to mention the effect on morale at the LA Tribune if your profile was no longer fit to print. You're the sole support of the Lifestyles editor, and several news photographers."

"Not to worry." Steele reassured her. "A broken nose didn't do Robert Mitchum any harm. A few more bouts under my belt and I could play Philip Marlowe."

Laura was unconvinced. "I thought you liked the Bogart versions better."

"Don't fret, Laura. You know how soft hearted 'The Hammer' is. He'd never do serious damage to our, um, friendship."

"Just to your midsection. Your ribs. Your jaw."

Steele blithely ignored her predictions. "While I, on the other hand still have an underdog's killer instinct. In fact, if I were a betting man I'd say by the fifth round -"

"I thought this was strictly a charity event."

Steele curbed his runaway enthusiasm. "Quite right, Miss Holt. Gate proceeds only."

Laura looked him in the eye, arms folded skeptically. "I think I'm getting the picture. What's the line on the Kilkenny Kid?"

Steele was all innocence. "Really, Laura -"

"Unofficially."

Steele acknowledged the obvious with a resigned shrug of his shoulders. "As of this morning 12-1 by decision, 9-2 by knockout. And I'd prefer to keep it that way."

Laura couldn't repress a smile. "Don't worry. I'll keep your skills under wraps."

Steele grinned boyishly and put an arm around her shoulder. "I was hoping you'd be in my corner."

"Do I have a choice? I have a proprietary interest in keeping you alive. It's called a mortgage."

"That's the spirit, Laura. I knew you'd come around."

"Don't make me regret it, Mr. Steele. Oh, I almost forgot. Barney said you still need to get your weight behind your punches. Use the floor for leverage, pivot from the hip, and there was something else..." Laura racked her brain for a moment. "Wait! Now I remember. Training regimen. No rich food and no hanky panky."

"In that order? I think this evening puts the kibosh squarely on that old notion. Barney's worse than 'The Hammer,' though he'll never admit it. Superstitious to the last. Next time round he'll be telling me to throw salt over my left shoulder and hang a horseshoe above the door."

"Now that you mention it he did say something about a lucky pair of gloves."

"Don't humour him, Laura. It only makes things worse. That reminds me. Take the phone off the hook, will you?"

Laura started to comply but then decided unplugging it from the wall was even better. "Should I hang out a 'do not disturb' sign? We aren't in Martinique yet."

"Paradise is where you find it, Miss Holt." He pulled her into his arms and whispered an invitation in her left ear. "Care to dance?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

"Wonderful! I need to practice my footwork," Steele said with a wink in Laura's direction. He demonstrated a graceful slide-and-step move in a boxer's stance.

Laura brushed his jaw with a playful right fist. "Don't push it, Mr. Steele."

To Part Three...