“Whitney and Mariel are definitely attractive,” Berman continued, totally unaware of Pia’s thoughts. “But they are not you.” He now reached around Pia’s shoulder and put pressure on her to draw her toward him. Pia acquiesced to a degree, then pulled back gently. She fought with herself to stay in control and not lash out at this man, who at the moment represented everything she found repulsive about the opposite sex.
“Let’s slow down,” she said softly. “Let me get you another drink.” Her goal was to get him to drink as much as possible as soon as possible.
Berman sat back and looked at Pia. “You’re making me work very hard, Pia.”
“I think we need to get to know each other better.”
“I thought when you came to see me in my office at the crack of dawn today that you were ready to take things to the next step.”
Pia stood and leaned over Berman, one hand on either side of his legs. Her face came close to his. She fought against the urge to give his neck a sharp karate chop that probably would have made him as limp as wet spaghetti.
“Maybe I am ready, but my Italian mother told me that the man had to show he respected me before I should let him do anything.” Pia was amazed at herself coming up with a line like that. In reality she could not remember one single thing her mother had said, as she’d had died a violent death when Pia was just a toddler.
Pia knew she was driving Berman crazy. He was shifting in his seat as if he were going to explode. Pia stayed where she was, and shimmied her hips a little and smiled. She couldn’t believe herself. “So what can I fix you?” she questioned. “I remember from Sunday night that you like scotch, right? I’ve always admired men who drank scotch. It’s such a masculine drink.”
“Yes, I do like my whiskey.”
Berman could hardly speak. He actually licked his lips.
Pia smiled again. The method acting she had done during her undergraduate days at NYU was coming in handy.
“So which way’s the bar?” She stood and took a step for the door.
“There’s one right over there,” said Berman. “I keep whiskey in here, so it’s close at hand.”
Pia swore under her breath. She had left what she needed in her clutch purse on the dining-room table. She assumed she’d be able to fix a drink in the wet bar in the living room, from which Berman was getting the wine and Champagne. She looked over and saw a built-in cabinet she hadn’t noticed. She walked over and pulled on what she thought was a large drawer. Instead the whole front of the piece swung aside to reveal cut-glass decanters and whiskey glasses.
“Which one?” asked Pia.
“The lighter of the two. A Laphroaig single malt.”
“Ice!” Pia said, triumphantly. “I need ice.”
“Pia, I really can’t allow you to sully a lovely single-malt whiskey with ice. It’s really not the way you drink it.”
“I’m sorry, but if I am going to try it, I need ice. Where do I go?”
Berman stood. “You should let me get it, please.” He’d regained a modicum of composure. He took a glass and poured himself a dollop. Pia reached under his elbow to encourage him to add a bit more. She smiled. He smiled back.
“I need to use your bathroom,” said Pia. “So I can get the ice on the way back.”
“You know where the bathroom is, you used it the other night. It’s off the foyer. The wet bar is in the living room, and I should—”
“Now, you sit down and don’t move!” said Pia with trumped-up authority. “I’ll be right back.”
Pia hurried out of the den, picked up her clutch purse, and headed for the foyer. Her pulse was racing. In the bathroom for a couple of seconds, she located the two thirty-milligram capsules of Temazepam. Then she flushed the toilet and washed her hands. Back at the wet bar in the living room, she filled a wineglass with ice from the icemaker, tucked her purse under her arm, and headed back to the den.
Berman was sitting on the couch, nursing his scotch. On the cocktail table in front of him was a second tumbler half-filled with neat whiskey, normally enough alcohol to knock her out cold. Pia realized that her plan was in danger of backfiring badly at the crucial moment. She could not get drunk herself. How much had Berman had to drink? A couple of glasses of Champagne, a couple of glasses each of white and red wine. Some, but not enough for a man the size of Berman and with a tolerance gained from being a heavy drinker. And herself? So far, she had had most of a flute of Champagne and less than half a glass of wine. She could take more than that, but with whiskey, that would be pushing it. She had no real experience with hard liquor.
Pia poured the whole cup of ice into the whiskey and mopped up the overflow with a napkin.
“Sorry, spilled a little. Well, good health.”
“Santé!” said Berman, taking a sip of his whiskey and relishing it.
Pia took a sip, and the booze made her cough.
“Steady on,” said Berman. “Are you enjoying it, or would you like something else?”
“I like the taste. I developed a liking for this stuff a while ago. But when I was at middle school it was more often Crown Royal I drank.” She was warming to the role she was playing. Looking over her shoulder, she gazed at all the photos. “I get the impression you’re an active guy.”
“I think that’s a fair description.”
“Is that one of you on the top of a mountain?” Pia asked, pointing to one photo in particular.
“It is,” Berman said proudly. “It was taken on the summit of one of the lesser peaks in the Himalayas.”
“I’m impressed,” Pia said. “Would you mind showing it to me?”
“Not at all!” Berman got up and walked around the couch. As he did so, Pia reached her tumbler down under the cocktail table and managed to pour out most of the liquid while holding in the ice with her fingers. When Berman came back with the photo she dutifully pretended to admire it. In actuality she thought rich man’s mountain climbing was one of the more ridiculous endeavors.
Berman came back around the couch.
Pia laughed as she put her tumbler down onto the cocktail table. “Now, that was a treat.” She pretended to belch and laughed a bit more. “Come on, with your drink. You’re losing.”
“I wasn’t aware it was a race.”
Pretending to be getting high, Pia said, “Can you change the music? Come on, let’s have a proper party.” She snatched Berman’s glass and handed him his iPhone. The glass was still about half-full.
“What do you want to listen to?” Berman asked.
“How about something a bit more contemporary,” Pia suggested as she stepped over to the open liquor cabinet and filled Berman’s glass to just below the brim. She looked back at Berman, who was busy with his custom app, apparently scrolling through music selections. Pia dropped both of the Temazepam capsules into the amber fluid and tried to get them to sink.
“How’s this?” said Berman. What sounded to Pia like the Beatles came on.
“No, too old,” said Pia. She used her finger to stir the whiskey, but there was no effect. The red-and-blue capsules floated around like miniature buoys. “Shit,” Pia quietly hissed. She put the glass down and fished out the troublesome capsules.
“This?” Berman called out.
The new music was unfamiliar to Pia. “I don’t recognize it. What is it?”
“It’s an old band I used to like in the eighties. Is that fun enough for you?”
“The eighties? Do you have anything from the last ten years? Something I might have heard of?”