On Friday, I peeked in his office to thank him for the flowers and to mention that this was such a nice touch. He wasn't there. I didn't actually see him at all that day; Joe said he was off at our industrial plant doing some training for part of our European security managers.

By the time he showed up for our date ... er ... research expedition ... or maybe it was a focus group ... but by the time he showed up, I had neatly arranged the notebook I was carrying with me. Inside the front cover, under the clip, I had three sheets of paper that I'd carefully crafted on my computer that day. It was a list of criteria about his technique, his method of delivery, his general demeanor, his specific body language and a few intangibles. I had numbers out to the side so I could easily circle his grade, from 1 - 10, along with a large box to the side where I could make notes for later analysis and documentation. On the other part of the notebook, I had a lined pad of paper so I could make note of anything not on my preprinted grading sheet.

I had two pens with me, just in case one ran out of ink. A second before the doorbell rang, I tucked a third one inside my purse ... us wonks like to play such important issues safe. Imagine if both pens stopped working? It's happened. Now I was covered.

When I opened the door, he was holding out still more flowers ... this time, it was burgundy roses. Long stemmed. Three of them.

I was intrigued.

But my attention also wandered to the sight of him ... dressed in a sharp, wool gabardine suit, black, that looked Italian in cut. His shirt, Oxford, was white with shadow white striping. He was going to get a 10 out of 10 based on the shirt alone in the category of attire. His tie, however, may have earned him bonus points. At first, it looked sophisticated and artistic. It was a mustard yellow with a delicate black and burnt red pattern peeking out just above where the bottom of the tie was hidden by his buttoned jacket. It wasn't until later, until he was sitting on my couch, and he unbuttoned the jacket ... and I leaned in and said ...

"Is that King Kong?"

"Yes."

"Batting down little planes?"

"Yes."

"You are a man of many delights, Thorne, not the least of which is your irreverent humor when you let it show."

"I pass inspection, then?"

"Absolutely."

"The tie's not a deal-breaker? Not too over the top or flip?"

"No ... it's like a little secret between you and your date ... that you're wearing something that appears quite sedate but in reality is rather subversive. I approve."

"So I'm doing well so far?"

"Well, the tie works for me, so if you chose it with me in mind, then that's good. But you can't treat all women alike and so you'd want to ... er ... well, I don't want to skew the research by giving you too much feedback while we're in the midst of it."

"Point taken."

"Now ... about these three roses ... why three?"

His head tilted to the side and he looked at me steadily. "One to remember when we met. One to remember when you said yes to tonight. And one ... one in honor of how very beautiful you looked when you opened the door."

Wow. How could that kind of thing not have women lined up for blocks to go out with him? Still ... the night was young ... he still had hours in which to screw this up. "I'm touched by the gesture. Truly touched. I think something like that would work with any woman."

By the time we got to his car, I had lots to mark down on my notepad. He got excellent marks for an assortment of things ... helping me on with my coat, complimenting me, keeping the patter light and easy, bringing me flowers, having a great car. It was a forest green Jag. Seats were nut brown leather and incredibly cushy. He said it was a rental and I said I'd never been inside a car this nice. I asked him to show me what it could do when we hit the highway but he just tutted and said he'd not want to take any chances with my safety. I told him to remember who he was talking to. That gave us both a chuckle. So he said he'd just hop off at the next exit as it led to a great stretch of lightly traveled road and he'd let me see what the car could do.

So off we roared and he drove nimbly all the while he kept giving me this funny run down on evasive driving tips he said all bodyguards had to learn. I asked him if he'd ever been a bodyguard. He said that was a story for another time.

I looked over at him. He was watching the road; he seemed nonchalant. Yet his eyes were bright, focused and totally intent on what was going on all around him.

He has a strong jaw line. When he sets it, I think there is something about the affect of it that makes me swallow hard. And there's this moment after, when he seems to be willing himself to decide if he should remain stone-faced or if he should smile. If he smiles, at first, it's like a practice smile. But then you may get lucky to see the real smile as it spreads to his eyes ... it comes out when he relaxes. Not before.

"This was fun. We were getting too serious about this research."

"Never want to be too serious on a date."

"Not the first one anyway."

"Not a blind one."

"Right." I grinned out my window before turning to catch his eyes in the twinkle of time he took them off the road. "So what else don't I have a clue about you? I would never have taken you for a Jag man."

"No? I thought that was so obvious."

"Next thing I know, I'll find out you like opera and ballet and art openings."

"Who doesn't?"

"Oh, Terry! I could just see you at an opera or ballet."

He slowed down and with it, the landscape was no longer a blur rushing past us. He looked over at me. "So I'd fail on that one, would I? Because, if I remember correctly, you told me once you liked opera."

"Yeah. I can't believe you remembered that. That's nice." I coughed a bit ... because ... well ... he remembered and it had just been a passing, throw-away comment. What are the odds? When I lived in D.C., going to the opera was the most incredible experience. "We have opera here in Chicago, of course, but the quality is just ... it just lacks something. Not that I'm an expert."

"Your favorite?"

"Opera? Oh. Gosh. I would say Carmen." I smiled at a memory. "What about you?"

"Madame Butterfly."

"Such a beautiful one, too." And then I turned to study him. To see if he was putting me on. "Have you been? To a live performance, I mean? Or did you just pull a name out of the air?"

He pursed his lips at me. "You have misjudged me, Carey. I have an affection for culture. Why would you presume otherwise?"

"Well, I would have said the only reason you might have gone to an opera was because you were trying to score points."

"I admit the first time I went, it was more about hitting a home run with the woman I was dating ... but I have come to regard its finer points all for myself."

"Truly?"

"If you go on doubting me, Carey my love, I shall be forced to defend my honor."

"Defend away. Surprise me, even."

"As you command."

We settled in, both smiling, soft and easy with each other. I wondered again ... what was wrong with those other women? But then I thought about this and made a quick note on my pad to point this out in the final report to him on his dating techniques: he was obviously more relaxed with me because he knew it wasn't a date. So maybe he needed to approach every first date as if it was not a date. I rolled my eyes at myself ... surely I'd be able to come up with better when I crunched the numbers on the survey after our date.

"Where are you taking me for dinner, anyway? I keep waiting on you to turn around and head back to the highway ... I presume we have reservations?"

"You're in good hands, love. We will make our reservations. Ah. Here we go ..."

He slowed, braked hard and turned left down a road that said "DuPage Drive." That name ... sounded familiar but ... and just then, we rounded a bend and I saw lights, blue lights along a runway.

"But this is ..."

"DuPage Airport."

"Yes but ..."

"Just brought us in the back way ... okey dokie ... Here we go ... just down here ..."

He made another sharp turn down before a row of hangers and pulled smoothly to a stop before the second one. 

"I thought we were going to dinner and a show?" I asked him as he opened my door to help me out.

"Dinner will be in-flight," he said. "The show will be in Cleveland."

"Cleveland?" I asked with a gulp. "As in Ohio?"

He was leading me to a small jet parked on the other side of the hangar, along the spur of a runway. The night was so cold and crisp ... the landing lights sparkled like fine jewels.

"Thorne ..." I said, his hand on my lower back keeping me moving toward the jet's stairs. "What are you up to?"

"This is supposed to be a real world test of my dating attributes and shortcomings ... right?" I nodded and he plowed on as he started me up the stairs. "If this was a real date with you, Carey, then I would plan something just with you in mind. Something to show I wanted you to have an interesting time with me on our date."

I made this mental note ... well, in and among the myriad mental confusions of being taken by this man into a plane that I now realized he wasn't joking about it lifting off shortly and whisking us away to Cleveland ... Cleveland? ... but my mental note was this ... maybe his blind dating techniques could do with an improvement as easily as this: that he needed to ask a few more questions about the woman so that he'd know something he could do for the date that would knock her off her feet like he was knocking me off my feet ... because, really, no one had ever taken me in a private jet before on a date.

This was pretty cool.

I turned to look at him when I made the top step. He looked so confident and so very manly. But for this flashing moment, there was a look in his eyes when he realized I was looking down at him ... as if he was suddenly nothing more than a simple man wanting to make a good impression on a woman he liked. What was wrong with all those women? Didn't they see him? He was a great guy ... if I could just get him to show that on a real date, he'd make some woman a memory she'd never outdo.

He seemed to gather himself again in the next second ... maybe I was transparent in my gaze ... and he ushered me into the plane ... breezing me toward one of the armchairs that faced each other over a broad table inside the snug fuselage.

"Whose plane is this?" I asked him as he took my coat and hung it up in the small closet.

"Company plane," he said softly. "Ready for champagne?"

"Champagne?"

"I believe you're partial to brut?"

I chuckled at the expectant look on his face and then nodded eagerly. Champagne! Oo la la! And then he stepped into the little galley and a moment later, I heard the unmistakable sound of a cork being released.

No sooner had he handed me a flute of wheat colored champagne than a young man from the cockpit came to tell us to fasten seatbelts as we were being cleared for the runway. Co-pilot, Terry told me, when I asked who he was.

Takeoff was smooth as silk. I couldn't help the giddy feel of it ... and watching the lights of the city, off in the distance, it was ... magical, I suppose. Imagine feeling as if some man is pulling out all the stops for you?

"This is incredible, Thorne," I said to him. He inclined his head as if to say, 'it's nothing, do it all the time.' I leaned across the table as he sipped his champagne. "But what I don't get is ... how could any woman not have a great time with you?"

"That's your mission tonight, Carey. To determine where I've been failing and to come up with a game plan for improvement."

"Perhaps if you ..." I stopped in mid sentence. "Okay, you're right. I'll await the end of the testing period and analyze the data before giving you conclusions."

"All this analysis must have worked up an appetite ..." he said, evenly, as segue into rising from his seat and gliding down the aisle back to the galley. On his way, he grabbed my notebook from my hand and tossed it over onto the couch on the other side of the fuselage. My signal, I realized, to observe more and take less notes while this test date was unfolding.

He was true to his word ... he served dinner aboard the flight. Well, rather ... he settled plates that had obviously been catered on the table ... the first few were filled with cold appetizers ... he went back to heat up the main courses but I heard him curse so, curious as ever, I got up to find out what he was doing ...

A look of almost chagrin on his handsome face ... he admitted that he'd not counted on the microwave being quite so super-dooper ... and on the counter was a very nuked out something or other on a plate. I suggested we share whatever was on the second plate he was putting in the microwave ... having set it in there at a much lower power level, it came out with the right amount of heat waves and was instantly recognizable as steak, asparagus and baked potato. My favorite, I said. He looked smug at having ordered the right kind of food for me. I told him smugness was a bit too fetching on him. He blushed. I divided the meal and we carted plates back to the table.

I don't actually know how long we were in the air. It seemed to me that we'd barely been up there five minutes except in that time, we'd drunk plenty of champagne and cleaned our plates pretty thoroughly. And it seemed like we talked almost non-stop.

As the plane began descending, I finally asked, "So ... what's in Cleveland? It's going to be a let-down after all this, isn't it?"

"Thought you were supposed to be an objective observer tonight, Carey. Don't make judgment calls so soon."

"Well ... of course ..."

There was a car and driver waiting for us. It was not a limo but it was still very impressive. Terry had had us bring our champagne flutes along and we settled into the back seat to sip as the driver whisked us off into the night.

We didn't head directly into any downtown area ... instead, we took an interstate off just a ways into what Terry assured me was a very nice urban area of Cleveland, just a ways down the lake. The car stopped at a gaily lit, granite bricked building with splendid finials atop its three-story tall roof ... there were marble stairs, maybe 20 of them, leading from the sidewalk up to the columned entrance. People were scurrying up, rushing in the cold air toward the welcome of a warmly lit lobby.

"Bel Canto Opera Cleveland?" I said aloud as I read the sign in front of the building. I turned and looked at Terry. "An opera company? In Cleveland?"

"Not just any kind of opera, though."

"No?"

"Are you familiar with bel canto style opera?"

"I think I've heard the term but ... I've never been to one."

"Welcome to an experience then, love," he said as he opened the car door and got out. He reached back in to help me out. As we started up the stairs, my hand on his arm, I told him I couldn't believe I was going to an opera in Cleveland of all places. He looked down at me, so serious. "Don't be uppity."

"Me? Uppity? Rather like you and Australian rugby?" I said in mock shock.

"Averse to exposing yourself to a different kind of culture, Carey?"

"But what would you know about opera enough to know this would be any good?" I teased him.

"You're not the only one who does his research. Thought a different kind of opera might be a good first date."

"Well, a good pretend first date. Just to show me ..."

"To show I can put effort into it ..."

"I never doubted that. You're not the sort of man who would, if I'm any judge."

He tilted his chin down and looked at the steps we were traveling up. And then ... "So you've never been to a bel canto opera? Well, I understand this house is becoming almost a legend ... they have a mission to preserve and promote the 19th century Italian operatic arts, of which bel canto operas is so little known."

"Did you memorize their promotional literature, Thorne?" I teased him.

"I have an excellent memory. Glad you noticed."

Inside ... cut crystal chandeliers that cast sparkles of light over a crowd of maybe 200 people mingling about sipping from small plastic cups. We made our way to the bar after checking our coats and scarves. Terry scoffed at the plastic cups as he handed me a glass of wine and I made some crack about high culture in Cleveland. We both earned scowls from people who overheard.

The theater itself was very intimate. We could almost reach out and touch the actors who neared the edge of the stage. Before the lights dimmed completely, I studied my program. The opera that night was Rossini's Semiramide, it said. From what Terry then told me, the issue with bel canto operas is that they were written very quickly, under contracts sometimes as short as 40 days. Audiences expected these types to be rather light, frothy ... but this one disappointed its Venetian audience who found it rather stuffy and too dramatic. But it has since come to be considered among the standards of this style, he said.

All the time he was telling me this, I was pretending to find the program of such interest. The truth was, I could have listened to his voice, pitched low and intimate between us, all night long.

When he paused, I looked up to find him studying me. I know I blushed ... I teased him about being ready for the final test on Italian operas ... and then I touched his hand and told him the truth ... that I was incredibly touched at the trouble he'd gone to, even if this was not a date.

Imagine someone going to that effort? To find a new experience for an opera buff and then reading up on it all just enough to help her understand it so she could enjoy it more?

The lights went low and the moment between us ended as if it had never happened. Except ... I seemed so much more aware of him ... and I forgot for long stretches all about making mental notes to mark his scores down on the sheets in my notebook that I'd left safely tucked in the hired car as it had seemed rather gauche to bring them in to the opera house.

The opera was a tragedy and it featured murder, mixed identities and confused allegiances. I don't know when I reached for his hand and held on ... perhaps it was the soaring libretto after the evil queen meets her new lover who turns out to be her son ... or perhaps it was the grave interlude when the son vows to avenge his murdered father ...

When I realized I was holding his hand ... and it was like we were sweating inside the grip ... I would have pulled away but he held on with gentle pressure. When it was intermission, our hands released the other so we could rise and make our way out of the aisle ... but he held his hand out to me there and looked into my eyes, steady and inviting ... and I reached out to him. In the lobby, we broke apart but then he placed his hand on the small of my back, guiding me through the small crowd.

We took plastic cups of white wine and strolled outside because I felt flushed and overheated. There was a moment ... it came as we stood under a frosted arbor with winter-brown vines ... our conversation faltered ... I put my free hand in his ... and for just that moment, it was almost like being Cinderella and knowing you'd never go to the ball but were going to now be able to dream of it now that you'd seen the Prince in person.

I thought he might kiss me. I hoped he would. But perhaps he remembered he was being graded and judged ... perhaps he remembered this was not real romance but was a shadow play, done for no reason other than to help him date other women more successfully.

This is what's silly ... I am a bad date. I truly am. Things just seem to go wrong when I'm on a date. And besides, I never once went out with any man with a heart like this man. If I had ...

So he didn't kiss me. Oh ... how I wished he had. My mind flitted around the edges of that almost-kiss for the entire final act of the opera.

Driving back with him to the airport, I didn't even mind at all the way the movement of the drive seemed to nudge our bodies together in the back seat. We held hands back there ... I don't remember who initiated it but I think it was him. I do know that as we made the turn-off for the airport, my body was pressed in against him by the force of the turn ... and he raised my hand to his lips and I held my breath as he kissed in lightly along my knuckles ... and then he told me how very much he enjoyed watching me enjoy the opera.

But my mind was focused only on the feel of his lips along my knuckles ... even long after he'd let my hand go to get out of the car.

Inside the plane, he went forward to chat with the pilots and I stood, swaying to the last cantata, and smiling blithely over the whole evening ... and I turned and saw the grading sheets inside the notebook where it'd been tossed on the couch and came back down to earth with a thud. When he strolled back toward me a few moments later, I was sitting in one of the chairs, buckled up, grading sheets out, making notes .... His eyes flickered to what I was doing and then he slid into his seat opposite me.

There was an awkward moment. I didn't understand why exactly ... or maybe it was only me who found that remind of the purpose of this test date to be awkward in that moment.

After the plane lifted off, I made a show of putting the papers away again. 

"Something to drink, Carey?" he asked when I did, his voice soft.

I watched him walk to the galley ... I tried not to think of how much I liked how he moved but how much I liked even more how he'd always looked me right in the eyes when talking to me ... how he'd always been an unexpected experience in my life. And I thought about him ... and how he'd gotten to this place in his life when he could be so comfortable with an old shoe like me but choke on real dates ...

And then he was walking back toward me, champagne bottle in hand, two flutes in his other hand ... and I had that same feeling I'd had when I'd wanted him to kiss me but knew it wasn't what he intended to do.

He poured champagne in my flute; our fingers touched when he handed it to me. For some reason, it made me blush. Maybe my eyes were straying where they should not ... and then he sat facing me again.

"About tonight ..." he said softly.

"I'm not going to give you your grade yet ... still have to run the figures and curves," I said, trying to make it a tease but not sure if I succeeded.

He smiled but it was fleeting. I grinned but it was embarrassed. Just to have something to do ... something other than staring into his eyes when I shouldn't be ... I unbuckled, rose to stretch and then sauntered across to the couch. I glanced up to find him moving over to join me on the couch.

We both cleared our throats.

I spoke first and tried to play it safe on the surface ... but there was a hidden question that I rather thought he'd read. "So, I'm curious ... were you showing off for me tonight or was this ..."

"Normal for a first date?" he asked. I looked in his eyes and wondered how he'd fare on this section of the analysis ... truth and all rates high on dating data, I believe. "I would only pull out all the stops when it counts."

"Then when you planned tonight's events ... you wanted me to see you ..."

"... at my best," he finished, dipping his chin as he sipped his own champagne.

I smiled into my flute. His ability to tease me even as he seems to be teasing himself ... it's something I liked about him. "It begs the question of what you'd do for an encore date."

"Ah. Well ... for the third date then ..."

"Not the third ... I meant the second ..."

"Well, that one hardly counts. After all, the second would be up to the woman."

"It would?"

"Yes. And then third date would very much depend on the second date, you see."

"Yes." I frowned. "Well ... no. I confess, you've lost me there."

He leaned back into the couch. I had to turn, swiveling around on the couch, so I could look at him. He took his time ... gazing up at the ceiling of the fuselage as if finding words but I never believed that for a moment ... he was just lulling me in ... waiting to zing me with some clever quip or punch line. I knew already I'd enjoy it.

"If the first date is good enough to earn me a second date ..."

"No fishing!"

"Wasn't fishing ... so for the second date, I'd ask her what she'd like to do. Her answer would tell me how the third date should be devised."

"Interesting."

He cut his eyes my way. His fingers smoothed over the index finger of my hand that was playing with the seam along the couch's cushion. His fingers were warm. "Let's play this out, shall we?"

"Play it out?"

"Yes. This research into my dating abilities. Real world scenario as much as possible, shall we? Then ... where would you tell me you wished to go for our second date?"

"Mmm. Well ... since tonight you took me to something you knew was an interest of mine ... I'd want to go to something that was an interest of yours ... it would feel as if I was being let into your life in a small way."

"Go on ..."

I grinned at him. "I'd ask you to take me to a rugby game ... in Chicago, mind you, before you rev the jet up for London ... I would want to go to one of those ones I told you about that they have in the park near the lake on Saturday afternoons ... and we'd take a blanket, sit on the sidelines and I'd make you explain the rules to me so I could maybe finally understand the game a bit."

"And I'd make fun of how they play ..."

"Of course. Because it would go without saying that Americans could never ever play as good as Aussies ..."

"And you'd tell me I was being rude ..."

"Only if you said it loud enough for them to hear ..."

"So for our third date, then, I'd take you driving in the country."

"That day?"

"No, the next weekend you're free."

"It's a bad time of year to be driving into the countryside for a man who hates our cold weather, Terry. Where would you be taking me in the dead of winter?"

"No place in particular. We just want to get out of the city and find someplace with virgin snow so we can build a snowman."

I blinked in response. The way he said it ... it was so simple a concept ... it was almost ... romantic ... that earned him bonus points. His hand was holding mine ... when had that happened? How was it that we kept touching like this without me being aware of when it started? "That's nice," I said softly.

"We'd be so far out of the city before we found a perfect field where we could pull over. We'd work hard on our snowman. But when we were finished, just as I was stepping back to admire him, you'd pelt me with a snowball."

"Would I?"

"Yes, you're bad that way."

"I bet you wouldn't hesitate to start throwing snowballs at me in retaliation. You'd show no mercy."

"None." He was leaning in toward me. Or maybe I was leaning toward him. 

"We would both be covered in snow. Wet and icy ... you would be shivering and I'd feel so sorry for you since you hate being cold."

"So I'd insist we go back to that little country inn we'd passed a few miles back. We could sit in front of the fireplace so I could warm up again. And then I'd suggest we have lunch while we were there."

"Lunch?"

"Sure. But lunch would drag on for hours as we just lost track of time."

His thumb was drawing the most obscene circles in the palm of my hand. It felt hot and close in there all of a sudden. His eyes were on mine. I could not look away.

"We would not even notice that a snow storm had started. By the time we did, it would be too bad out to drive back to the city. So I'd get us two rooms for the night."

"Two rooms?" Did he notice the disappointment in my voice? I cleared my throat.

"I am a gentleman, Carey."

"Of course." I looked at his mouth as he licked his upper lip. 

"Though I am not above seduction, mind you."

My heart skipped. Seduction ... the word sounded forbidden and erotic on his lips. I tried so hard not to sigh. I failed. He was looking at me, expectant, and so near me now ... I said the first thing that came to my mind: "Seduction can be quite nice."

"I'd see you to your room ... and at the door, I'd kiss you."

I was biting my bottom lip. His finger on my lip enticed me to let it go from between my teeth. A long moment went by before I felt his breath upon my lips. Would he, I asked myself in breathless anticipation ...

He would.

The kiss was sweetly seductive ... it invited me to invite his tongue in but he only touched the tip of my tongue before moving away with a lingering draw upon my bottom lip.

"I'd ask you in for a nightcap," I whispered to him. "And later ... when you said it was time for you to leave and you rose from before the fire in my room ... I'd tell you that it was much too cold outside in the hallway ... and that I'd worry over you as you traveled to your own room. And that maybe you should stay there ... with me ... where it was warm and safe for you."

I opened my eyes to look at him ... to see what my reckless statement had wrought. He seemed on the verge of something I could not identify ... I remembered this wasn't a real date ... I felt ... I felt ... I felt as if I had just left the realm of assessor of his dating issues and gone into a role so unfamiliar ...

This was me ... the woman who would never date ... the woman who'd realized the fallacies of dating ...

Did he just smile, I thought, confused. What did that mean?

I heard someone clear their throat. It wasn't me. It wasn't him.

"We're cleared for landing, Mr. Thorne. Seatbelts," said the co-pilot.

I got up and moved back to the cabin chair. Buckled myself in. He sat across from me, in the other chair. Buckled himself in. We watched the airport's lights guide us down for a smooth landing.

Just before the plane stopped next to the hangar, he said to me, "I'll be looking forward to your analysis of my dating techniques."

I said to him, "I'll need a few days to crunch the numbers."

We were looking at each other but I wondered ... how do you objectively analyze a look like that?

There wasn't really much talking on the way back from the airport. I was thinking that it felt like I'd left my notebook on the plane. I had to search around me until I remembered it was in the back seat ... where he'd placed it after handing me into the passenger seat. I turned and looked back there ... it was lying so innocently there, on the brown leather, under his overcoat.

He always took his overcoat off before he got into the car. I had asked him about that once. He said he didn't like his arm movement to be confined by a heavy coat when he drove. I figured it was something he'd learned along the way, some tip he integrated in his lifestyle where driving was an art elevated to self-defense technique.

At my condo building, he walked me to the elevator. Inside, he handed me my notebook. I made some joke about his test being almost at an end. He didn't smile. Not really.

It took me a few moments to fumble my keys from my purse and into the lock. I was glad he didn't just take them away and do it for me. 

"If this were a real date, this would be where I'd kiss you goodnight," he said as the door opened.

"If this were a real date, I'd kiss you back."

He blinked. For a moment, I wondered ... would he?

He wouldn't.

But he did smile, slow and soft, as he backed away and then he was turning to walk down the hall to the elevators.

I called out to him, "Would you like to come in for a nightcap?"

He hesitated and for a sick moment, I thought all sorts of raw disappointing thoughts about how I'd really stepped in it this time. But then he turned ... and I swallowed hard but I held the door wide for him to come in. Inside my condo's entry hall, I took his coat from him and hung it in the closet there by the door. He had wandered in to wait for me in the living room.

"Cognac?" I asked him. He nodded. I thought perhaps he was even impressed that I'd offered something appropriate and sophisticated. When I returned from the kitchen with two snifters, he was standing at the balcony doors, looking out at snow that was just barely frosting the sky. "I wish I had a fireplace on nights like this."

"We could snuggle down together before a blazing fire."

"Though I do have the furry rug down there before the couch. We could pretend."

We sipped our cognac. I tried not to guzzle it. But his hand touched mine and it seemed as if some huge electrical spark snapped between us. I think he felt it, too. I wondered how I'd write this phenomenon of him up in the analysis report.

He did kiss me. I think it counts as seduction. I think it should count even if the second kiss was initiated by me.

"I should be going," he said eventually but only after he'd once again done that thing he does with his thumb and obscene circles in the palm of my hand.

Our eyes met.

I suppose stranger things have happened to me in my life. Though I don't know when. This was reverse déjà vu, I believe, if there's such a thing.

"It's so cold outside. I'd worry about you and how cold you'll be if you leave ... and have to drive home in this weather."

He looked out the balcony door ... I followed his gaze ... the snow was even more sparse than it had been before.

"See? It's snowing up a storm out there. You don't want to drive in this."

"Is there somewhere warm here where I could spend the night?"

He kissed the smile from my lips.

I think I whispered to him, as he released me after we'd kissed until we had somehow ended up together upon the floor, nestled atop the furry alpaca carpet before my couch ... after he'd deftly rolled my body beneath his without so much as breaking the rhythm of the kiss ... I think this is when I whispered to him how warm and cozy my bed would be ...

It's hard to remember. He was hard, that's easy to remember.

It'd been a long time for me so maybe I'm not the best judge of all this but I do believe we'd gotten each other undressed before we made it to my bed. Is it at all believable the clothes just evaporated until we were skin on skin? No, that's silly. Besides, his hands are really quite nice to remember ... the way his fingers performed on my shirt was fun ... I even laughed but then he made me moan because he shoved me against the wall of the hallway and hiked one of my legs up over his hip and his fingers were light on my sensitive flesh behind my thigh. I shivered even as I moaned.

What kind of man can elicit that with just the tips of his fingers on the back side of your thigh? I mean, really?

He can.

When he let me go, I shoved him back against the other wall of the hallway. He had his hands on my skirt's zipper ... I had mine on his shirt front only I got the buttons done about two seconds after he got my zipper done so his hands were not attached to me at that moment so I was able to shove his shirt down his arms and off his hands until ... until ... you know, I'm not sure I remember ever really gliding my hands over another man's torso exactly like I did his in that moment.

His nipples puckered and peaked. I licked first one and when he shivered, I licked over the other. He said I was being cruel. I suckled.

I was about to unbuckle him, when his fingers released the back of my bra. Wow, I breathed. Because it was that smooth and because he was looking at my breasts the way I would want a man to look at them the first time he unveils them.

See? His hands undressing me are worth remembering.

Actually, his hands touching me ... anywhere ... anyhow ... are worth remembering.

We were on my bed ... I was on my back ... he leaned over me. His fingers trailed down my cheek and then dipped down under my chin. He sighed before he kissed me that time. And he kissed me for a very long time. And all the time he kissed me, our bodies tried to wrap together. He felt divine next to me. His hand stroked over my back ... and around my hip and then ... oh ... it was like he knew how to touch ... just knew.

When he finished kissing me that time, we took a breather, I suppose. Our bodies were still wrapped around each other but instead of kissing, we were watching the other's eyes as we touched and stroked.

And then he took my hand ... he whispered to me and I would have melted but I didn't ... he drew it down his body until he wrapped my fingers around his hardness. He licked his lips. I loved the way he did that. Almost nervous but it wasn't nerves ... it was desire ... it was the want a man has for a woman to touch him with her own want ... to please him by showing her want of him.

His voice got so husky ... his hand smoothed over my mons and then dipped lower. He slowly moved a finger inside me ... my hips were moving ever so slowly, an unbidden reaction to the feel of holding him ... but when he put that finger inside and stroked, my movements quickened and my breathing grew to pants ... impending intimacy gave way to an orgasm that made my body arch and my cry catch in my throat.

When we came together, it was as if we'd just known the way ... it was slow and deep ... He was kissing me almost the entire time he entered me. Nibbling my lips while I mumbled about how good it felt. His tongue flirted with mine. He made a hoarse grunt when he hilted. He broke the kiss for brief moment ... to look at me and ask me if I was okay. I was so much more than okay, I told him.

As he started moving, with me and inside me, he kissed me hard and deep and very wet. We rolled together until he was on his back and I was rising and falling over him. And he fondled my breasts and said sweet things about them to me. I leaned down, all the way, until I could kiss him. I broke the kiss ... I had an itch to scratch and it had reached a point where it was going to kill me not to scratch it hard.

Eventually, I lost the rhythm ... it just got to be too much ... I was so close and yet ... and yet I lost the rhythm. He pulled me down to his chest. He wrapped his arms around me and helped me move over him. I kept mumbling things like 'it's so good ... you're so good to me ..." right up until I just couldn't talk anymore and my back bowed and I was desperate. His hands grabbed in around my hips and he was pumping up and helping me shove down ... until I came, wordless and open-mouthed against his neck.

He said something about that being sweet ... but it was just him muttering, maybe. A second later, he flipped us around and I was on my back ... and he was pumping into me, thrusting hard, going faster. He was propped up on his elbows. My hands were on his ass and I could feel the energy of his rhythm and movements. My legs were wrapped around his waist and I was shoving, hard, in response. His head dropped. I was coming ... and when it was over, I felt it still soaring through me and I love to come that way but it's been so very long. That realization floated through my fuzzy mind just as he gave those last powerful thrusts and came into me with a choked on little sob of relief.

I held him as he slowed to a stop; I loved the sigh he gave even as I wiped sweat from his brow and temples. I whispered to him ... nonsense sounds ... soothing us both just to be holding him and feeling a strong man when he's vulnerable in a woman's arms.

He kissed me after. I could feel his heart has slowed down by then. Other men would fall asleep. He would, too, but first ... first, he raised his head ... wiped my damp hair from before my eyes and then slowly, sweetly kissed me.

"Thank you," I whispered when he did that.

His eyes got soft but he didn't say anything. He rolled off me, pulled me into his body as he curled up at my side. We entwined fingers. We fell asleep like that.

It was warm. Safe. Just what I promised him if he stayed.

When I woke, it was just turning light out. He was lying on his side, looking down at his hand as it trailed a pattern around my breasts, which were enjoying the attention.

"Good morning," I sighed to him.

We nestled together and he had obvious intentions but then so did I ... until ... even in the fog my brain was in, something nagged at me and I just had to ask him ... So I put my hand on his chest until he pulled a breast from out of his mouth to ask me if everything was okay.

"About last night ..." I said.

"Our date?"

"Well, the test date, yeah ... Don't think I'm horrible or rude ... but, Terry, I just don't understand. Those other women ... all my friends ... they had terrible dates with you and yet ..."

"And yet last night, when it was us, it went so well that ..."

"That we're here, this morning," I said as I shook my head. "I don't get it ... Do you? How come you were such a total disaster on those dates ... was last night just an aberration?"

He cleared his throat. "Well, about that ..."

"Yes, about that."

"Turns out, your friends were all in on it."

"In on what?"

"In on the fact that it was you I wanted to get to know."

"Huh?"

And what it was, was this: he had told first Susan ... and then the others ... that it was me he had his eye on asking out ... except I kept setting him up with all my friends and, after all, I wasn't dating anymore ... so what was he to do if he wanted to go out with me, if he liked me enough to pursue me without me knowing it? Well, he apparently told each of them how he felt ... and they all liked him, of course they had, and they liked being in on the joke ... and they liked the idea of me ending up with him in the end. So together with each women, he concocted one more outrageous story after another of his failure in the dating arena, of what a loser he was ... and then they would each report back to me following their supposed date.

Only I never seemed to run out of friends with whom to set him up and he was beginning to fret that I'd never give up so that he could suggest the test date and all that pseudo-analysis stuff.

"All that trouble ..." I said when he finished his tale. "All to set up the un-date of last night? To get me to give you an assessment of your dating abilities ... and we wind up in bed together ..."

He propped himself up on an elbow and gazed smugly down at me. "Well? Points out of 10? Don't save my feelings ... I can take it."

"Out of 10?" I mused, taking a deep breath and considering his point total. "20."

"20? That all? The last woman gave me 25." He stroked a hand through his hair and sighed deeply. "Well, obviously, I have a lot of improvements to make ... you mind if we just go over this one more time?"