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gossip. She took her time leaving, waiting until Levin paid the check and hanging back until all but Dr. Perkins and his wife remained.
    “Which way are you going?” Perkins asked Lake as they walked toward the front of the restaurant with her.
    “Upper West Side,” she said, praying they were bound for some Jersey suburb, which would require them to head for the Holland Tunnel.
    “We’re on Central Park West. You’re welcome to share our taxi.”
    “Oh, thank you, no. I need to stop at a deli.”
    “Well, at least let us drop you part of the way,” Perkins said.
    “Thank you, but you go ahead,” Lake urged, ready to bite their heads off. “I have to make a call first anyway.”
    Lake rustled in her purse, faking a search for her cell phone. After giving them two minutes, she headed outside, her trench coat flung over her arm. Glancing at her watch, she saw that close to fifteen minutes had passed since Keaton’s departure, and she suddenly felt frantic to get going.
    She swung left outside the restaurant and hurried along Spring Street. It was only when she reached Broadway that she realized she’d gone the wrong way. Cursing, she dashed back to the restaurant and then up to Crosby. On a hunch, she turned left, crossing the street.
    A few doors up the dark, canyon-like street she saw by the numbers that her guess had been right. Number 78 turned out to be a quarter of the way up the block, an unassuming twelve-or thirteen-story building that might have once held small factories on each floor before being converted into apartments when SoHo became fashionable to live in. The exterior was sooty with age, as ifthey still burned coal in New York. There was a small vestibule and beyond that, behind a locked door, was a nondescript lobby with no doorman. She looked behind her and glimpsed people walking along Spring Street. But Crosby was deserted.
    As soon as she stepped inside the vestibule and saw the intercom panel, she let out a groan. She’d never asked Keaton for an apartment number. He was probably subletting and his name wouldn’t be on the buzzer. Her eyes raced down the two rows of buttons. To her relief, she spotted his name next to PH2 .
    “Hi there,” he answered after she’d pressed the button. “Come on up. Penthouse 2. On twelve.”
    The buzzer sounded, nearly making her jump. She pushed the door and stepped inside the lobby. One wall was mirrored, which made the space seem bigger than it was, and she glanced at her reflection. Her cheeks were less flushed but still pink. I’m really going to do this, she thought. She felt nervous but also nearly drunk with anticipation. It had been ages since she’d felt seductive or yearned for—or charged with desire.
    She half-expected music to be playing (please don’t let it be Barry White, she prayed), but when Keaton answered the door of his apartment—smiling, his jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled—it was absolutely silent behind him.
    “I was beginning to worry that you’d opted for a crème brûlée instead of an after-dinner drink with me,” he said. He was teasing her, she knew. He was the kind of guy who would never be bested by a crème brûlée. He accepted her coat and she followed him into the apartment.
    The place was beyond anything she could have predicted from the lobby down below—a double-height loft with open living, dining, and kitchen areas, all decorated in whites and beiges. A staircase led up to a bookcase-lined mezzanine. And, most spectacular of all: a large terrace beyond French doors. There werea few soft lights on out there and she could see teak tables and chairs, a couple of chaise longues, and several box trees.
    “This is fantastic,” she said. “You must be subletting, right?” As she set her purse down at the far end of a creamy white sofa, she noticed the hallway that shot off to the left, most likely to the bedroom. Her heart knocked against her chest.
    “No, I actually bought it six months ago—I knew