Shane folded his paper, as if intent on reading the Business column, while his eyes glanced up for a mere moment, just in time to see Tara enter the elevator. She could try, he thought, amused at her confidence. It was all he could do to keep her from packing for Rio that evening.

“You haven’t won anything, Saba,” he had told her that morning as he got into his shower. “Anyone could have gotten her name at the Front Desk; getting paid on the side to name-drop is one of that job’s perks.”

Tara arched her dark eyebrow, defiant. “She’s also his daughter,” she threw back at him. The noise of the shower drowned out her next comment so she waited until he had stepped from back out from behind the curtain dripping wet. “The senator’s younger daughter,” Tara continued, with irritation. “Visiting Daddy for a week since she can’t go riding anymore on the ranch. Horse threw her, after being startled by a nest of snakes in the underbrush, according to Calvin at the Front Desk.”

Shane pretended not to be impressed and turned so she could towel him down before his massage. Tara was the last word in massage, worth keeping for that service alone. “Go on,” he said, looking at her in the wall- to-wall mirrors.

She kneaded the top of his shoulders, working to the back of his head and down his spine an inch or so, then outward to the rhomboids, always so stiff. He had scar tissue there, from what she didn’t know. “What more do you need? It’s enough for Rio.”

He smiled, eyes glinting, “it’s enough for me to take your bet seriously, but not enough to win it, Saba darling.” He winced as she worked hard at the knots in the scar tissue, aware that she was overdoing it.

Tara used the flat of her palms to rub in oil as she moved her massage lower down his back. “Name is “Alicia” but Daddy calls her “my precious daughter.” She’s only been in that cast a week because they had to do some kind of surgery on the miniscus thing in her knee? Or whatever, before putting her that plaster cast. And, it’s not the first time she’s done damage to that same knee, either. Had arthroscopic surgery two years ago after a skiing accident in Vail; she’s described as a cross between a klutz and a daredevil.” Tara deepened her massage strokes and leaned forward, whispering in his ear, “just your type.”

He held her look in the mirror, silently mouthing “go on” as if growing impatient with her. Tara went to the counter, where all his shaving items were and found the razor. He let her trim his mustache and beard, and then shave him where necessary. The after-shave stung like an invigorating slap. With the small scissors in hand she straddled his legs and carefully shaped the heavy mustache to best show off his beautiful lips.

“I know there’s more,” he said calmly. His deep set, hooded eyes, which looked brown or green-brown depending on the light, burned holes into her veil of pretense. She was holding back and it was driving him crazy.

“Well,” she said slowly, savoring his mounting annoyance, “you’ll just have to wait until tonight to find out. That’s when I find out. Unless, of course, you manage to find out for yourself before then…”

She was just too sure of herself. Shane lifted up his chin so she could finish shaving his neck under the jawline. More after-shave was dabbed on, the way a woman does that sort of thing, and gave him a quick kiss. She surveyed her work and seemed pleased.

“If I do find out first Saba, you do lose the bet, you know,” he said lightly. He exhaled and stood up, transferring her bottom to the counter. “No Rio for Saba…” The towel dropped and he moved into her embrace, his swelling penis driving between her tanned legs, wedging between her thighs an inch from the “V” of her mound.

She had developed this morning routine, after his shower, and rocked from one hip to the other, as he slid each hand under her butt so he could hoist her upward, waiting for her legs to open wider. She liked the feel of him inside her when he did it to her standing up, using his whole body to press forward, mashing her shaven lips as the penis thrust past and into the pink wetness of her pussy.

She wrapped her legs around his waist as they became hitched together; she could see his butt tightening and relaxing as he thrust into her, easily, faster and faster. He dipped his head to her heavy breasts, trying to suck on the pierced nipple, biting at it as he fucked her, his right hand straying to the mesh of his hair with her smooth mound. His thumb toyed with her clit, making it stand hard, a bulb of heat and nerves. She started coming and rotated her hips to meet his thrusts. He arched back, to watch her come as it rolled and coiled up from the pit of her abdomen, making her skin rise up in goose pimples. It felt good, they were a perfect fit. I should let her win the bet, he thought.

Tara, flushed with her come, feebly disengaged from the embrace, and slid to the floor. She wanted him to finish in her mouth, wanted to go down on him in that unthinking frenzy she got giving head. He wound his hands into her hair and braced himself against the counter. She sucked dick in the most unconventional manner, no one stroke or angle seemed to satisfy her; it was nearly impossible to come like this.

He was about to suggest she lay on the floor when he noticed the back of her toes, as she knelt before him, all curled up and tight. She was sucking so hard, if erratically, that her hands were fists around his shaft and balls and her toes were balled up with need. He imagined running his tongue along their furious tension, forcing his tongue between them, freeing them. Poking between the toes, then swirling his darting tongue around each one, starting with her big toe. Shane erupted into a stream of cum almost without realizing it, the image of her little balled up toes melding with the hot flood of pleasure he got from the back of his thighs to the tip of his penis, now lodged all the way down her throat. He pumped in jerking motions, emptying out the full load, a rush so complete he fell over top of her, exhausted.

When the elevator opened again Shane dipped his head behind the paper, not wanting Tara to see him. She had only been up there five minutes at most. He wondered how much it cost her to learn the whereabouts of Alicia, the senator’s daughter. The only way Tara was going to win their bet was if she managed to get the real details about the riding accident and that meant actual contact with the girl. He knew what he had paid Irene, the Front Desk clerk on duty, to inform Tara that the senator’s daughter had gone out for some shopping at Bergdorf’s. He knew what he had paid the hotel staff upstairs to corroborate the story and wondered, with a certain wry amusement, if Tara had bought the information for less than he had had to pay to plant it.

Shane smiled as he pushed away from the marble column in the hotel lobby, left the paper where he had found it, and proceeded to the darkened lounge, to end this silly bet with Tara. The senator’s daughter had been ensconced at the bar for at least the last hour, ever since her father had left their suite to attend some meeting over at the United Nations building. He knew this instinctively; someone who is described as reckless and accident-prone was very likely to be a drinker and not sipping tea with trophy wives in the hotel’s five-star restaurant.

He entered the bar on a light step, his lanky frame moving easily down the aisle as he scanned the leather- clad booths and stools, his gaze flitting over the office workers who had stopped in for a drink, or a pick- up, before hitting the subways home. He used his height to peer over their heads, around inert clusters of women in too-tight black dresses, the female uniform of the city. It occurred to him that she might be tucked away in a private room, reserved for the hotel’s elite, but discounted that thought the moment the woman in the large brimmed black hat looked up. Enormous sunglasses, plunging neckline, leaning on the bar counter because her long white plaster casted leg had to be balanced as she sat somewhat tippy on her stool.

She had the tiny pert nose, peeping out from under the huge sunglasses, and that combination of a wide jaw and narrow neck that made men immediately fantasize about getting head. She had the too-blonde hair carelessly pulled back and under her hat, the winged black eyebrows hovering over the rim of the sunglasses and the “look at me” aura of a supermodel trying to hide out in public. It was irresistible.

She seemed unaware of the business men who attempted to flirt with her with their lame jokes and offering to “refresh” her drink, which appeared to be the last of a margarita. She was equally oblivious of the people who were tittering to each other that she was Madonna or Sharon Stone or maybe Cameron Diaz. As their curiosity mounted, and the various groupings pushed closer to her, the woman finally removed her sunglasses, laying them on the counter with a pointed “so there” attitude. She tilted her head, smiling with a certain hostility, and the interest in her evaporated; she wasn’t anybody, after all, just some blonde with a bad haircut and a black eye. Intriguing enough, perhaps, in a different sort of bar, but no Madonna.

Shane purposefully did not walk by her section of the bar; instead, he crossed his long legs and rested on an elbow along the ornate mahogany trim, perhaps two seats from her, and quietly ordered a gorgeous raspberry margarita, big enough to swim laps in. Overhead the iridescent lighting props, shaped like ivory- carved fish, dangled on wiry suspension, the slightest puff of air allowed them to ‘fly’ through the air. He gave them considerable attention, as he waited. The pairings that were going to happen did so, while others drifted off to the booths for dinner or paid up and left for the scramble at Penn Station. She didn’t seem in the least interested.

The margarita, which he had ordered, remained untouched, right where the bartender had left it, and the sugary crust on the edges dissolved in the warmth of the bar while he sipped from his glass of water. She looked over at him just once, without registering any particular emotion. People moved in and out of their line of vision and she chewed her lower lip, still lost in her own world.

He noticed that she not only didn’t favor her casted leg she didn’t seem aware of it whatsoever. Not unlike the attitude Cheryl had had with her various casts. For Shane, who felt every nerve scream aloud inside of him at the mere sight of a cast, there was something almost devastating about a woman in a cast who had literally forgotten about it. Who simply didn’t notice.

It was in this preoccupied mood that she spoke to him. She had to say it twice, so lost in thought did he appear to be, “I don’t think you’re friend is going to show up.”

“Pardon?” He did seem truly in a fog. Partly this was genuine, he had just about given up with his margarita ruse. It had seemed to him that she was going to let it turn to sludge after all. He knew from years of practice that coming on to someone who expects it never works. Do something they don’t expect, that works.

“Your drink there; unless you blow real money on imaginary friends.”

Shane glanced at her with a slight disapproval, if not contempt, taking her in from her wispy pixie-cut blonde hair to the tip of her casted foot, the nails left unpolished, which excited him uncontrollably. He saw her stiffen just a bit, and smiled sheepishly. How could women not know what he was thinking?

“Apparently,” he offered unconvincingly, “I have misunderstood what time she said she’d be here,” and peered intently at his expensive watch as a Fortune Teller would a crystal ball.

Her eyes narrowed; it was an old black eye, mostly purplish now, all the swelling gone. “I’m Alicia; and if you’re not going to drink it, then pass it over here, friend,” she said, her speech fighting off an accent he couldn’t place.

Shane’s heart expanded through the ribcage, this was it, he was home free now. Ten minutes of chat and they’d be on their way to his apartment across the street, where he could do the “precious daughter” and wait for Tara to find them in bed together. It was criminal, he thought, absolutely criminal, to win a bet this easily.

He licked his lips hesitantly, as if unsure about her forwardness, and moved over a stool, gently nudging the margarita along the dark wood of the bar counter. It left a trail of condensation. He pushed it just far enough to be within her reach, if she stretched for it. It wasn’t just to see the breasts better, making her lunge across the counter, they were more out of her dress than in; rather, it was the hope that she couldn’t quite reach it and he’d have to move even closer to her; quite close to her.

Alicia regarded the frothy globe, succulent raspberry thick and sticky; she pulled herself off the stool and stood on her good leg as she leaned over and sipped from the edge of the glass. It left a slight coating on her upper lip, she turned to him, somewhat tipsy, and licked it off with the tip of her pink tongue.

“My third one, no, I lie, this’ll be the fityth.” She gazed down into the margarita and added, “tequila just wrecks me.”

“I see.”

“Don’t know why. I can drink anything else, like a fith,” she grinned. “Like a fish,” she said more coherently.

“Is that how you broke your leg?” he asked carefully, unable to bring his heart rate into order. She hadn’t realized that when she pulled herself up to the bar her leg in its heavy cast scraped to its new place, touching the cuff of his pant leg.

She swirled a pale finger in the margarita, licking it slowly, unconcerned with how it looked. “Hell no.”

“Then,” he pressed her, moving closer, so their conversation was private, tucking a strand of hair back under her hat, “is it how you got the black eye?”

Alicia laughed at him, chewing on her lower lip. “Stop hitting on me. You’re not in my league, believe me.” She drew circles in the margarita with a long stirrer, then let it dribble into her mouth; red droplets fell on her lips, on her white breasts. He noticed that she wasn’t all that big after all, it was a push-up bra, he could see the lacy trim where it just skimmed her dark pink nipples.

Shane sobered, but not willing to give up this soon. “Sorry, foreplay in public always fools me.”

She regarded him anew, raising her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, baby, you’d know if I was hitting on you. Not that that would ever happen.” Alicia swiveled her hip so she could lean into the counter as she held the margarita, gulping it with emphasis. He watched her suck in a mouthful, swirl it luxuriantly in her mouth and then swallow with an almost comical “ahhhh.”

Undaunted, Shane cocked his head and countered, “and that’s why you’re demonstrating giving head, right? Just to be a bitch?” His hand had moved to her casted leg, slipping under the slit of her dark skirt; he fondled the rough edges of the plaster cast, its irregular texture getting him harder than he could remember being in a very long time.

Alicia noticed it and let him feel her cast, daring him to ride his hand higher up her leg. In the semi-dark of the bar, where they stood, he could have fingered her without anyone catching on. “I’m not a bitch, I’m just not the pick-up you were counting on.”

“And I’m not so hard up that I have to stoop to doing a drunk.” His hand had traveled to the back of her thigh, near the edge of the cast; he could feel skin, and no panties. A thong, probably. He expected the margarita to be thrown in his face, except if she was a drunk; they didn’t waste good liquor over trifles like insults.

Alicia examined him over the margarita. “You’re plenty hard, friend,” she said, sliding her casted leg between his, “I suggest you call a cab.”

Not all encounters were this harsh, it made him wonder about the sex they were about to have, probably a lot rougher than he was used to getting; well, he thought, she’ll be eating out of my hand soon enough. He paused for a moment, then signaled to the bartender, paid his tab as well as hers, and slowly moved outside to the hotel lobby where he requested a cab. He turned in time to see Alicia joining him at the massive glass doors, swinging uneasily on her crutches. He took her by the elbow and they waited together.

“We don’t really need a cab,” he said, about to tell her he lived just across the Avenue.

“No?” she replied with a coolness that irritated him. This was not going to be worth it, he thought. He didn’t mind a woman who pretended to not be interested in him, in the middle of the seduction, it made the chase all the more provocative, but this felt like something altogether different. And not a good kind of different.

The first taxi to pull up outside the doormen was theirs and Shane helped her to the door, confused and reluctant. She was wearing her sunglasses again, looking as presumptuous now that it was night time as she had at the bar. He stepped back as she settled into the cab and he waited for her to scoot her butt over, giving him room to join her. Instead she laughed, “Thanks so much for the entertainment, friend, but now it’s hasta la vista, baby.”

With a nod to the doorman the cab door was shut, he heard her issue directions to the Plaza. The doorman returned to the canopy at the entrance; Shane turned on his heel and walked down the Avenue, furious, and relieved.

It was almost four in the morning before Tara finally returned to his rooftop loft. She didn’t bother to join him in bed, but went straight to the bathroom for a long perfumed bath. Since he had slept fitfully, unaccustomed to being by himself, it didn’t take much to disturb his sleep. He noticed light from under the door and heard the soft lapping of water. His first feeling was irritation, being rudely awoken; then, as he pushed the door open and saw her usual dozens of lit candles lit along the marble backdrop to the oversized tub, his temper cooled. It was good to see her. She had her hair up in clips, making her look even younger than she was, and smiled at him as he sat on the white chaise opposite the claw foot tub. She was nodding her head back and forth, singing something like “Mary had a little lamb.” The idea that she might be drunk struck him as almost shocking. After leaving the island, and her diver crowd, Tara hadn’t touched anything stronger than an occasional Coors Light. He peered over the edge of the tub, where a bottle of champagne was submerged. Okay, he thought, why the hell not? He felt like joining her.

Shane unceremoniously dropped his boxers and slid in behind her, setting off squeals and giggles from the girl. It was going to be one of those nights, he thought, wrestling her in the water. She was slippery and kittenish, suds hanging from the end of her nose and breasts. He couldn’t stop squeezing them, suddenly as hungry for her as she seemed to be for him. As she rode him, holding on to the sides of the tub, she sloshed about wildly, making the water pour over the edges, recreating her Caribbean “islands” of suds on the wooden floors which she pointed out. It was like having sex with Surfer Barbie.

“Let’s do it again,” she said, over his shoulder. He laid face down on the bed and pulled his pillow over his head. She tugged at his shoulder. He had dried off before going back to bed but Tara hadn’t and the wetness of her body chilled him; he turned over angrily and pulled her under the covers, trying to restrain her groping hands and wiggling body.

What the hell had gotten into her, anyway? He lost hold of her wrists and immediately found her swarming over his abdomen, kissing everything in sight. She went down on him with fury, stroking and playing with his balls in a kind of frenzy, as if she had only just been released from solitary and nothing could satiate her. Every come was followed by an instantaneous demand for more. He laid on his side, watching her finger herself, rubbing against him, still giggling. Change that to sex with Barbie on E.

The phone pierced the quiet room, daylight streaming in through his windows which he hadn’t shuttered from the night before. Shane turned over onto his back and stared at the gray ceiling. His entire bedroom was a study of gray, pearl gray, French gray, pinstripe sheets, heavy fur coverlets in tones of smoky gray, walls covered in a starchy gray linen. He had made the mistake of letting Tara redecorate.

Shane sat up suddenly, where was she? His head, which felt heavy from lack of sleep, cleared after a quick shower. He couldn’t face the thought of food, not even coffee, so he went to work downloading his e-mail while he listened to his voice-mail messages. The date for Rio had been moved up a week. Rio. He wondered if Tara had already been through his messages. He noticed there were shopping bags all over his office area, from Bergdorf’s. As he went through his mail it occurred to him that if he was going to take her to Rio he had to change his flight plans; unless she flew down after him.

He paused, confused. He didn’t lose the bet, he just didn’t know how to win this one. But she didn’t know that, did she? he put the matter aside and spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on his mail, sending off the most recent articles he had done for that jaunt through the Northeast. Two he knew would be picked up by the local magazines for their restaurant sections and the longest piece, for the casino’s, could be parceled out as need be. He made notations as to how he would edit the material, forgetting he hadn’t eaten all day. Was that the phone? Why didn’t Tara answer it?

He put his folder down, rubbing his scratchy cheek. She hadn’t shaved him today. He hadn’t seen her at all. Thoroughly confused, Shane returned to the bedroom, wandering around, checking the walk-in closet, walked past her garden on the roof-deck, stopped for a long moment in the small private study that she used for her hobbies, growing concerned, as if he had mislaid her somewhere. Was that the phone again?

“Hello?” he answered uncertainly.

“Hey! you’re finally awake. I’ve been calling you all day!”

It was Tara. For some reason anger welled in him, “where the hell have you been?”

“Out shopping, for Rio.” Her laughter caught him off-guard. Before he could become argumentative she added, “we’re going out for dinner at Romanino’s at six, please try to clean up and meet us on time, please?”

When did his whole, nicely structured life get out of control? Why did it always feel like this when he was back in town with Tara? He never had to go through this couple-ness ordeal when he stayed with Cheryl, or Lola, his German girlfriend based in London.

He tried to focus, interrupting Tara’s stream of directions, “and who is this ‘us’ that we’re having dinner with? And why did you set up dinner with anybody? I have a zillion things to do before leaving since I have to be in Rio a week earlier than I planned…”

The little giggle that had driven him crazy from the night before erupted again; as she hung up, she promised him that he would definitely not want to miss this dinner. Not if he wanted to meet her new friend, the senator’s daughter.