"He's my boss, the one that got me the commission," Joe said, and then blurted, "I'm not trying to get you into a hotel room or anything like that."

"I certainly hope not," she said.

"All the key is for is so we could get a table," Joe said.

"You said that," she said. "He lives here, or something?"

"No. The key . . . this is an involved story. . . ."

"I'm fascinated," she said.

He told her what Stecker had told him. Their eyes met, and in them she saw that he was telling the truth.

And now that's over, she sighed inwardly. The key has been explained, and I believe he did not get himself a room here, confident that I would jump in bed with him. So why do I feel a little let down? He almost sounds as if he doesn't want to go to bed with me. My G.o.d, this is an insane situation!

"I'm sorry," he concluded.

"Why should you be sorry?"

"Because you thought-"

"Let's just let it drop, OK?"

"OK," he said, with enormous relief. "What would you like to drink? I mean, do you drink?"

"Scotch," she said.

"Scotch?" he asked, in disbelief.

"Something wrong with Scotch?"

"I didn't think girls drank Scotch."

"Girls drink gin fizzes and brandy Alexanders, right? Things like that? And then they get sick to their stomachs. Well, this girl learned that in college, and this girl drinks Scotch. If that's all right with you."

My G.o.d, why did I snap at him like that? What the h.e.l.l is wrong with me?

"Sorry," he said.

"Stop saying you're sorry!"

"Good evening," a waiter said. "May I get you something from the bar?"

"Scotch," Joe said. "Scotch and soda. Two of them."

"I'm very sorry, Sir, we're out of Scotch."

Barbara looked at Joe, and she saw that he was looking at her, and that his lips and his eyes were curled in laughter he was afraid to let out.

"That figures," Barbara said, and then she laughed; then, without thinking about it, she reached out and touched his hand with hers. But instantly withdrew it.

"What now?" Joe asked.

"Do you have any rye whiskey?" Barbara asked the waiter.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Rye and ginger ale, please," Barbara said.

"Two, please," Joe said.

He handed them menus and left.

They read the menu. Joe was astonished at the prices; Barbara was horrified.

He's only a first lieutenant. He can't afford this. I wonder how he would react if I suggested we go Dutch treat?

"I'm not really very hungry," she said. "I think I'll just have a salad."

"I know what you're thinking," he said.

"I certainly hope not," she said. "What am I thinking?"

"You're thinking the prices are crazy."

"They are," she said.

"Two big things have happened in my life in the last forty-eight hours. And I happen to have a lot of money. Let me splurge. Please."

"What two big things?"

"Look at my shoulders," Joe said. "A year ago, I was a buck sergeant."

"Being an officer is important to you, isn't it?"

"I'm not sure I'll be able to hack it," he said.

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "I'm just not sure, is all."

As if with a mind of its own, her hand touched his again, and was again instantly withdrawn.

"What was the other thing?" she asked, idly curious.

"You," he said.

Her eyes moved to his, and then away.

My G.o.d, he means that And I'm blushing!

"I wish you hadn't said that," she said.

"Why?"

"It makes me uncomfortable."

"Sorry."

"Stop saying you're sorry!"

The waiter appeared with a silver ice bucket on a stand. There was a towel-wrapped bottle in the cooler.

"We didn't order any wine," Joe said.

The waiter disappeared without a word.

"What's that all about?" Barbara asked.

Joe shrugged.

The waiter reappeared, this time carrying a silver ice bucket, tongs, two gla.s.ses, and a soda-water siphon.

"What's all this?" Barbara demanded.

"I wasn't aware before, Sir, that you're Pacific & Far Eastern," the waiter said, almost in a whisper. "The cooler contains Scotch, Sir. From the P&FE cellar. You won't mind mixing your own? And please keep the towel in place. Because of the other guests."

And he disappeared again.

"Do you understand what he said?" Barbara asked.

Joe shook his head, then took the bottle from the cooler. He unwrapped the towel, then closed it again.

"Scotch," he said. "Something called Old Grouse."

"Let me see," Barbara said, and he handed her the towel-wrapped bottle.

"It's Scotch, all right," she said. "Good Scotch."

"Where did it come from?" Joe asked.

"You ever hear the expression 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth'?"

He took the bottle from her, and made a drink for her. It was, to judge by the color, far stronger than Barbara would have preferred, but she didn't want to make a fuss.

After the first couple of sips, I'll dilute it with more soda.

She waited until he had fixed his own drink, then touched her gla.s.s to his.

"Congratulations on your promotion," she said.

"To you and me," he said.

She met his eyes for a moment, then echoed him.

"To you and me," she said.

The waiter took his sweet time coming back for their order. She had just about finished her second drink by the time he did. She had really only wanted one, and that to be sociable. The second drink was as dark as the first, but it didn't seem to taste as strong.

She indulged him and gave up the idea of having just a salad, telling herself that she would make it up to him somehow. She ordered a shrimp c.o.c.ktail, a New York strip, and asparagus.

"And for a wine, may I suggest a very nice Cabernet Sauvignon? It's Mr. and Mrs. Pickering's favorite, I might add."

"Well, if it's good enough for them . . ."

"I think you'll like it, Sir. It's made right here in California."

I will have just one sip of the wine. The last thing I can afford to do is get tight.

She looked down at her gla.s.s and saw that he had refilled it.

I don't need that. I just won't drink it.

"What's a New York strip?" Joe asked. "I don't think I've ever had one."

The admission took Barbara by surprise.

He really doesn't know, which is not surprising. Since the day before yesterday he was a Marine sergeant, a prewar Marine sergeant, someone my father would claim was in the Marines because he couldn't find a job, and because the Marines offered three square meals a day and a place to sleep. Regular Marine enlisted men have few of what my father would call the social graces. And no social graces came to Joe miraculously when he put on that officer's uniform. Ordinarily, G.o.d forgive me, I am uncomfortable around the enlisted men. Why is it different with this man?

"You know a T-bone?" she asked, and he nodded. "The big piece. They cut the bone out of T-bone. The little piece is a filet mignon, and the big piece is a New York strip."

"I came in the Corps when I was seventeen," Joe said, and she took his meaning: that she had a social background and he didn't; and that was why he didn't know what a New York strip was. New York strip was not common fare for Marine enlisted men.

My G.o.d, is he reading my mind?

She felt a wave of compa.s.sion for him as her mind's eye filled with a picture of Joe Howard at seventeen, looking like the kids she saw in the Marine Recruit Depot here. Frightened little boys in uniform.

That's all he is now. The only difference is that he's twenty-four or twenty-five and wearing an officer's uniform. But he's still alone and more than a little frightened.

She finished her drink before the meal was served. And she had three gla.s.ses of the Cabernet Sauvignon with the steak. The steak was delicious. While they ate, a band started to play. When they were finished eating, he asked her to dance.

She could smell his after-shave when they were close, and she remembered the firm muscles of his chest and arms.

What I'm going to do now, when we finish dancing, is go back to the table and have a cup of coffee, and then I'm going to tell him I have an early day tomorrow and have to go home.

He spun her about, and her eyes moved across the people at the tables around the dance floor.

And fell on Lieutenant Hazel Gower, NC, USN, who was staring at her. She was with another nurse, the skinny little old b.i.t.c.h who had sent her to the Venereal Diseases Ward after Barbara told her she didn't want to work in Obstetrics.