”As a matter of fact, I am. I love good food. I love all the good things in life.” His tone was dry. “I mean to get them, too.”

“Oh, you will. You’re so young.” Thirty, she thought; I hope he says thirty.

He gave her a long, level glance. Then he said: “Twenty-eight. Why? Do I look like that much of a growing boy to you?” He gave a playful sneer.

Only seven years apart; she felt a sudden pang.

Again she had a sense of titillation. It was amazing how he could make that man-woman contact in a moment; it was as basic, as uncomplicated, as a quick thrust of an electrical plug into a socket, instantly turning on the current. But it was shocking, too. She must say something now, something that would reflect an amusement at his confidence, the kind of “now-now-I’m-a-good-girl-around-people-I-don’t-know” remark that would let him know that she didn’t let strange men look and talk to her like that.

But as she opened her mouth to say the words, they stopped in her throat. Some instinct told her that they would be a mistake, dull her shine in his eyes, reduce her in his mind to just another ordinary, conventional woman. He probably expected something far different from her.

She said slowly, staring into his face: “No. You look like a man.”

He didn’t say anything. Again they sat looking at each other as the seconds went by. This is crazy, Olivia thought, this can’t be happening―not this fast. It’s as if we were in bed together this morning and he’s doing marvelous things to me. And I’m letting him do them.

Abruptly, he said, “I don’t seem to be getting much eating done. You’re a very distracting female.” He began buttering a piece of his roll. “Do you live in the city?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, relieved that he had begun to eat, that he wasn’t looking at her. “About seven blocks from here.” Finally, she could breathe again.

“I’m even closer than that,” he said. “I live practically around the corner on 49th Street.”

“Really? Are there apartments there?” She always remembered the area as being commercial.

“Art studios. I rent out one of the galleries over the restaurants. Top floor.” He shook his head. “It’s an offbeat place but it has its charms. I sublet it from a curator friend. Oh, I’m Oscar, by the way. Oscar Harris.” He finally extended a hand.

“You’re an artist?” She was impressed. “I’m Olivia Maynard. I work in advertising.”

“I’m a painter. I have murals all over my walls.” He glanced up at her. “Come up and see my murals?”

“Um, well, I’m not sure… But what do you paint?”

“Ghosts, the afterlife, the beauty of the supernatural. Dark and brooding, yes, but with some watercolor and expressionism I give it new meaning and substance.” He was eating again, his gaze lowered to his plate. “You might as well tell me you don’t go home with strangers. I saw your face.”

She was startled but felt bad. “Doesn’t my being cautious mean something to you?”