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I PASS A HAND OVER MY FACE TO GATHER MY WITS, clear my head before moving to stand beside her at the fireplace. She does not acknowledge my presence. She's grown still. She's staring into the fire, eyes dreamy and unfocused, head tilted, her thoughts obviously turned inward. She seems to be listening. To what or to whom, I have no idea.

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The sound of my voice brings her back. It's subtle. Her shoulders straighten a bit, her eyes brighten. She half turns toward me, an eyebrow arched, as if trying to remember who I am or why I'm here.

The ambiguity passes quickly.

"Anna." She gestures toward one of the chairs placed on either side of a large coffee table. "Please, sit down. We have business to discuss."

No indication, no mention of what transpired between us. She gathers the long folds of the gown and eases herself into a chair, waiting for me to do the same.

"I want to know about the dress," I say, still standing.

She looks up at me with a hint of impatience drawing the corners of her mouth into a small frown. "I told you. I found it upstairs."

"Not possible. It was my gown, and I know where I left it. It was not in this house."

She waves a hand. "God. What difference does it make where you left it? It may not be the same dress."

"It's the same. It was an original." I hesitate a moment, wondering if I should say anything else. When the expression on her face darkens into irritation, it trips my own. "I know it because Avery told me it was. The night he gave it to me."

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"And you believed everything he told you. How did that work out for you?"

Her fingers begin to move restlessly, picking at the dress, pinching the silk, plucking at the neckline. It's as if they are acting to relieve the agitation I see building again in her eyes. She's fighting to control-what? Herself? Me? I'm having a hard time recognizing the woman who bewitched me in Culebra's bar with the sound of her voice, the warmth of her smile. Suddenly, I feel foolish. Why am I standing here dressed to seduce or be seduced by a woman who doesn't seem capable of either?

I feel her watching me. When I meet her eyes, the frantic movements have stopped. Her expression is once again calm, detached. Then, as if having conjured up my last thought, she rises from the chair.

"We can do whatever you want, Anna," she says, her voice rough as new wine. She slips the straps of the gown off her shoulders, and it falls in a silken puddle to her feet. "All you have to do is ask." pqdm.com