“Oh, good.”

“What part did he offer you?”

“The lead in his new musical.”

Stone was stunned. “The lead? What sort of audition did you do?”

“I sang ‘I Loves You Porgy’ from Porgy and Bess and a Sond heim tune, ‘I’m Still Here,’ and I danced a little. This was in the theater.”

“And he let you get all the way through the two songs?”

“Yes, and there were a dozen or so people sitting in the orchestra seats who all stood up and applauded. That’s when Mr. Wood invited me up to his office to talk.”

“That sounds like something out of a movie about a Broadway show,” Stone said. “Small-town girl shows up in the big city and wows everybody at her first audition.”

“Well, it wasn’t my first audition,” Carrie said. “I had to audition for the lip modeling, too.”

“And who did you have to kiss?” Dino asked.

“A mirror. I didn’t mind that; a mirror has no hands.” Her crème brûlée arrived, and she did it justice.

“Coffee?” Stone asked

“A double espresso, please.”

“No trouble sleeping?” Stone asked.

“No trouble at all,” she replied, giving him a little smile that made those beautiful lips enchanting again. “The benefit of a clear conscience.”

“Always a good thing to have,” Stone said. “Tell me, do you remember the names of the people at the dinner party?”

“Most of them. My date, Tony, will know them all.”

“And have their addresses?”

“Yes, I think so. They were all his friends.”

“First thing tomorrow morning you should write little notes to those people, expressing your regret for having to depart the party and say how sorry you were that you didn’t have time to get to know them better. Start with your hostess.”

“Just to remind them who I am?”

“Exactly, and please be sure your address, phone number, and cell number are clearly printed on your letterhead. If the letters don’t get you other auditions, they will, at least, get you some dinner invitations-dinners Mr. Wood will not be attending.”

“What a good idea, Stone,” she said. “Now, will you be my attorney so that I can sue Mr. Woodie?”

“I’m afraid I have a serious conflict of interest that would prevent my representing you. However, I’d be happy to give you some free advice and to recommend an appropriate attorney.”

“What’s the conflict of interest?” Carrie asked.

“I am so impressed with your beauty, your intelligence, and your quick wit that I would much rather take you out to dinner than take you to court.”

She laughed. “I think I would like that, too,” she said. She opened a tiny purse and gave him a beautifully engraved card, and Stone reciprocated.

“Now, give me the free advice.”

“I don’t think you should sue Mr. Wood-at least, not right away. I think the dinner party incident will show up in tomorrow’s papers, and with nearly all the details. Mr. Wood can’t hold you responsible for that; he has only himself to blame. And who knows? You might even end up working for him some day, but under more favorable circumstances. Do you have your Equity card yet?” This referred to Actor’s Equity, the union representing stage actors.

“No, but all I need is one job to get it.”

“I think you are more likely to get that first job, if you don’t have a reputation for suing producers for sexual harassment. Anyway, having drawn a very firm line in the sand with Mr. Wood, you will henceforth have a reputation as an actress who does not brook unwanted advances from potential employers, and you will be treated with some respect.”

“A good point,” she admitted. “I will take your advice.”

“And, should you feel receptive to an advance at some point in the near future,” Stone said, “I will be around to fulfill that need in an entirely nontheatrical setting.”

She smiled broadly at him. “We’ll see,” she said.

WHEN STONE ARRIVED at his desk the following midmorning, the New York Post was lying on his desk, open to the “Page Six” gossip column, which was not on page six. His secretary, Joan Robertson, had left it there and had conveniently highlighted the passage:

Last night at dinner at the home of theater diva Gwen Asprey, the composer/producer Del Wood, whose reputation as a casting-couch Lothario is richly deserved, was given his comeuppance after having previously made advances on (including, we hear, a request for anal sex) and been rejected by a new girl in town, the beautiful and talented Carrie Cox. When Woodie, as he is known to some, began to tell the table of his thwarted attempt, Ms. Cox, who had, unaccountably, been seated next to him, dumped his own plate of red-sauce pasta into his lap and made a grand exit. The evening was greatly enjoyed by everyone present, except Mr. Wood. Incidentally, only that afternoon Carrie Cox had performed a brilliant audition for Mr. Wood and his backers that resulted in an offer of the lead in his new musical. Unfortunately, Woodie considered the transaction a trade instead of an offer, so the lovely Ms. Cox remains at liberty. (Other producers, take note!) Later in the evening, she was seen at Elaine’s in the company of local lawyer Stone Barrington. Out of the frying pan and into the fire!

Stone thought that the piece was a remarkably accurate account of events, for a gossip column, and he was surprised to see a very good photograph of Carrie Cox, in balletic flight, accompanying it. He wondered where the paper had found it on such short notice.

His phone buzzed. “Carrie Cox on line one,” Joan said.

He picked up the phone. “Is this the beautiful and talented Carrie Cox?” he asked.

“That’s what it says in the papers,” she replied, giggling. “You were right!”

“I’ve seen the Post,” Stone said. “How did they get it so accurately?”

“There was a message from them on my answering machine when I got home,” she said, “and I played the tape for them.”

“If the tape should ever be mentioned again, deny its existence and tell them you took notes after the conversation.”

“All right,” she said, “but I made them promise not to mention that, and they didn’t.”

“You’re a lucky woman, as well as a smart one.”

“Thank you, kind sir.”

“How about dinner this evening?”

“I’ve been invited to a dinner party,” she said. “Another prediction of yours come true. Why don’t you come with me?”

“You’re on. Where shall I pick you up?”

“I’m downtown, and you’re closer to the dinner; why don’t I pick you up? You can make me a drink around, say, seven?”

“You’re on again. Is this a necktie party?”

“Well, I hope I’m not going to be hanged.”

“For me, not you.”

“My mother always said a gentleman can’t go wrong by wearing a necktie, and tonight you’re supposed to wear a black one along with a dinner jacket.”

“Then wear one I shall. You have my card; see you at seven.”

“Bye-bye.” She hung up.

Joan was leaning against his doorjamb. “I don’t believe this,” she said.

CARRIE ARRIVED at seven on the dot, and Stone met her at the door.

“Oooh,” she murmured, looking around the living room. “I want the tour! How many bedrooms?”

“Five, and as many baths, with three powder rooms scattered around the place.”

“How long have you owned it?”

“Since I inherited it from my great-aunt. I did most of the renovation myself. Come on. I’ll show you this floor.” He took her through the living room, the dining room, and a garage. Finally he sat her down in the study and produced a half-bottle of Schramsberg champagne from the wet bar.

“Such wonderful woodwork and bookcases,” she said.

“My father built all of them. In fact, you could say that this house saved his career and his marriage. He was going door-to-door in Greenwich Village, doing whatever carpentry work he could find. This house bought him his shop and equipment and made him feel that he could earn a living at what he did best.”