“I’m sorry. You don’t need to explain,” Drew offered coolly. I could tell that he assumed I was playing some kind of game with him, that I had someone waiting at home for me while I egged him on all evening.

I spoke over him as I shook my head, “No, no. I mean, it’s a dog.” He looked up and laughed. “It’s my neighbor’s dog,” I went on, “I’m just not used to having to keep such regular hours and have some living thing depend on me.”

“My rival’s adog? I can deal with that. How about a brandy at your place, then, and someone to keep you company on your midnight dog walk?”

“An offer I can’t refuse. Let’s find the hostess.”

Joan was making the rounds of her guests as they sipped at demitasse cups while Jim passed cigars to those men who still smoked.

Drew and I thanked her for the evening. She hugged me goodnight as he went to fetch our coats. “For once, I’ll forgive you for leaving early. Did I mislead you?”

“Not so far. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Brunch at Mortimer’s with me and Jim?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve got tons of paperwork to review on the investigation and indictments to proofread in seven other cases. I’m going to work at home, but it’ll take the better part of the day. Me and the usual suspects.”

“Alex, don’t be a sex crimes prosecutor tonight, will you please? Be a girl.”

“Go back to your guests, Joan.” Drew helped me on with my coat and we went down to the street to get a cab to my apartment.

Prozac was pleased to have our company when we came in and followed closely on my heels as I turned on a few more lights in the hallway and den. I poured us each a brandy as Drew walked around the living room, picking up picture frames that sat on most of the tabletops and asking who the people were in each of the scenes. When I flipped on the CD player, the velvet voice of Sam Cooke sang to us, soothing me with “You Send Me” and the thought that his big thrill started as infatuation, too.

We settled onto the wide sofa with our snifters, Zac nestling below me as I kicked off my shoes and made myself comfortable. I chattered with Drew about my girlfriends, his childhood, my career, his partners, and all the time I wanted him only to reach over to me and kiss me into silence.

When it happened-somewhere between the tales of my first college romance and his last fly-fishing trip to Scotland -I opened my mouth and tasted his tongue, drawing him deeper as I reached up to stroke the soft brown hair that curled up at the nape of his neck.

Drew leaned back, lifting me with him and pulling me against his body as he embraced me and whispered “Alexandra” over and over again, his mouth pressed against the crown of my head. I took the knot out of his tie, unfastening the top buttons of his shirt to kiss his throat and chest. He raised my face, holding it between his hands so he could look at me, meeting my eyes with his smile and approval. I shook free, searching out his mouth again with my tongue.

It seemed this gentle foreplay went on for hours, but it was only three or four songs later when Drew planted a more playful kiss on my nose and suggested we take Zac for a walk before he left for home.

All this and sensible, too, I thought to myself as I got up from the sofa, pulled down my skirt, stepped back into my shoes, and ran my fingers through my messed-up hair.

The whole thing felt so good that I didn’t mind putting brakes on the sexual progression. My face was flushed and my body tingling with the fresh excitement of arousal, a feeling I hadn’t experienced for far too many months. I wanted to savor it and make it last and I wanted Drew to want me as badly as I wanted him. I was already fantasizing making love to him and I knew it was going to be without the false stimulants of alcohol and wine.

I hooked Zac’s collar onto her leash and we put on our coats and descended in the elevator. We walked a couple of blocks, Drew holding the dog’s leash with one hand and me with the other. Perhaps it was that March was nearing an end, or because of the warmth of my company, that I didn’t seem to mind the night chill and didn’t want the stroll to end.

We returned to the front of my building and Drew kissed me another time, holding me against one of the large pillars that framed the entrance to the driveway. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I’ve got to take a trip to San Francisco this week to close a deal. Save me some space on your calendar, will you?”

“Days or weeks?” I asked, not ready to turn to go inside.

“Am I too greedy to think months?” he said as I laughed at his enthusiasm. “Does a case like this one consume you entirely or will I be able to find you when I call?”

It was his first reference to the murder investigation all evening and the sudden insertion of Gemma Dogen into my thoughts eliminated every trace of giddiness instantly.

“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble finding me if you try, Drew.” We pulled apart and he turned to walk away.

I watched as he went out to the street to hail a cab, then took my four-legged companion upstairs to go to sleep.

Lounging in bed on Sunday morning with theTimes was a rare treat for me. Zac had an early outing, then I came back inside with the paper, got under the covers, and devoured every section of the news and features before I got up to shower and dress for the day.

Joan called at eleven. “Can you talk?”

“As in, is Drew still here?”

“Well, that thought did cross my mind.”

“He’s gone, but I do owe you for this one, Joan. Yes, I had a wonderful evening. Yes, the dinner was fantastic. And yes, I am going to see him again. Can you hold a minute? The call-waiting thing is clicking.”

I pushed the button on the telephone console and Chapman came on. “I got news for you, Blondie-”

“I’ll call you right back, Mike. Let me get off the line.”

“Okay, but I’m not at home. I’ll give you the number.”

He reeled off the digits, then told me to ask for extension 638.

I held my curiosity in check while I told Joan I had to blow her off to talk business.

I dialed and heard a switchboard operator answer. “ Saint Regis Hotel, how may I direct your call?”

I gave her the extension number and waited until a sultry accented voice picked up and said, “Hello.”

“Mike Chapman, please.”

“Certainly,” she said, and after several seconds Mike spoke into the receiver.

“Her expense account or yours?” I asked.

“Last timeI paid for a hotel room, the bathroom was down the hall and my date was gone before I could find the switch to turn on the space heater. There’s a minibar in this place you could live out of longer than I could stay alive in your kitchen.”

“This the reporter from Milan covering the police beat?”

“On-the-job, Blondie. On-the-job. This is all business-no need to be jealous.

“But Peterson beeped me this morning and I thought you oughtta know right away. One of the old hairbags in the precinct, working in the record room, came across a 61.”

Sixty-ones were the complaint reports filled out by uniformed police officers when civilians reported crimes in New York City.

He continued. “Complaining witness was Gemma Dogen. Call came into the precinct a little over a month ago, at the end of February. It’s listed as an aggravated harassment.”

Telephone calls that annoyed or alarmed the recipient.

“What does the report say? Who took it?”

“Easy. I don’t have it in front of me. I can just paraphrase it for you. Dogen was getting a series of threatening messages on her home machine. Male caller. Didn’t recognize the voice but thought it was disguised. Veiled threats-”

“Exactly what kind of threats?”

“Peterson says she never said they were life threatening. Foul language, mostly, telling her to get out of town if she knew what was good for her. The lieutenant wants me to interview the cop who took the call and see what he remembers. That’s all I know at this point.”