Thomas was still giving him the eye.

Rollo smiled brightly.

"You can report to Pam that I'm fine-eating my vegetables, sleeping well, bathing daily, taking my vitamins."

Rollo shrugged, as if that wasn't exactly what he planned to do. He decided to change the subject. "So does the shipment meet with your approval?"

Thomas stared at the cigar balanced between his fingers and grinned.

The Cohiba Corona Especiale was more than a cigar-it was a work of art, a silken extravagance, a thing of beauty. He took a puff, savoring the delicate notes of honeyed tobacco, warm cocoa, and roasted nuts on the back of his tongue, tasting the heat with his brain, his eyeballs, his very soul, glorying in the pleasure of his one and only illicit vice.

Yes, it met with his approval, unlike most everything else in his life, and Thomas closed his eyes, thanking God once more that Rollo had a patient who was an official in the U.S. Customs Agency.

"It's mighty fine, Rollo. Stupendous. Send along my heartfelt thanks."

Rollo took a puff of his own. "Always do."

The men smiled at each other in conspiracy and Thomas took comfort in that brief exchange. Sure, things could be better, but he still had an occasional cigar. He had Rollo and Pam and his nephews. He had work and rugby. He supposed it was enough.

It would have to be.

"Hey, what the hell is that horrible sound?" Chick frowned and cocked his head as he returned to his seat. "Hear it? It's like a cat puking up a hair ball."

"It's called jazz," Stephano muttered.

"No. Seriously. There it is again-"

Thomas jumped up, spun around, and peered into the dimly lit living room. Oh, great. He thought he could get away with keeping Hairy under wraps, but it looked like the jig was up. He jogged to the small pet crate in the corner. He yanked away the ficus tree, creating a shower of small, crisp leaves, then whipped off the old pillowcase.

Hairy was hacking his brains out. He was wheezing, shaking, staring up at him through the metal bars with bulging, frightened eyes. When he sucked in air, Thomas could see his throat collapse with the battle for oxygen.

"Jesus!" He yanked open the latch and reached for him.

"What the hell is that?" Stephano's mouth fell open in disbelief.

"It's a dog," Rollo whispered to the men now gathered in closely. "Thomas's dog."

Thomas wheeled around. "He is not my damn dog, all right, Rollo? How many times do I have to tell you I'm just keeping him until I can find a home for him?"

"A dog? Are you sure?" Manny seemed genuinely perplexed.

"Is he wearing a sweater?" Chick's words came out in a shocked whisper.

Everyone leaned in closer and felt free to comment. "That's the ugliest thing I've ever seen."

"It looks like a fetal pig."

"A sewer rat."

"An alien."

"Whatever it is, it's choking to death."

"Damn! It's the cigar smoke!" Thomas ran to the foyer and threw open the front door, taking Hairy into the September night air. He sat on the front stoop, his long legs nearly folded under his chin as he examined the dog.

Hairy continued to cough. His breathing steadied but the wheezing remained.

"Should we call the vet?" Rollo asked.

"Try Terminix," Stephano said, which cleared the way for guffaws all around.

"Shut up so I can listen to him breathe, would you?" Thomas swung his head around and he glared up at his friends.

"Maybe we should call it a night," Manny said. "We've got that early meeting tomorrow and I'm wiped. Let's go in and settle up."

Rollo patted Thomas on the shoulder. "I'll turn off the air conditioning and open the windows. I'll collect for you."

Thomas nodded. "Turn on the exhaust fan in the kitchen, too, would you, man? Thanks."

When the front door shut behind him, Thomas sighed and peered down into Hairy's pointy face. For a moment it seemed as if a look of gratitude passed through the animal's eyes. Then, in the darkness, Thomas thought for sure that Hairy smiled at him. He'd obviously had a few too many beers.

At least the little mutant was still alive, which was a good thing because he'd just spent close to six hundred dollars on medical care and supplies.

"You are one freakin' high-maintenance dog," Thomas muttered.

Then Hairy began squirming in a way that signaled the onset of urination. Thomas unfolded his body from the stoop and released Hairy in the small patch of grass in front of his townhouse. The mutant squatted like a girl the way he always did and took care of business, sniffed around the rhododendrons, then toddled over to Thomas's feet and sat, staring up in adoration to his new master's face.

He was still wheezing.

The tree frogs and crickets were especially loud that night. Emma listened to the soft creak of the front porch rocker as it kept time with the twirling, buzzing, beeping melody that washed over her damp skin.

She couldn't sleep, though she knew she needed the rest. She wondered if she sometimes did this on purpose, just to have an excuse to come downstairs in her nightgown and bare feet and sit on the porch in the dark-alone. It was peaceful here. The hay fields of southern Carroll County smelled so ripe and clean, just the way they had when she was a girl. The stars blinked off and on behind wispy night clouds.

This was her private world. At night, she could think. She could make her wishes. She could convince herself that there was still a chance they'd come true.

Ray's hard head nudged insistently at Emma's knee, and she scratched the soft spot behind the old guy's ear. She listened to his low growl of pleasure and it made her smile. She wished she could be more like Ray-he always seemed so glad for what he had instead of worrying about what he didn't have. Maybe that was the difference between dogs and human beings right there, in a nutshell.

Emma plopped her bare feet up on the wide, smooth porch railing and leaned back in the rocker. With her free hand, she twisted her long hair up into a knot. A hot whisper of humid air brushed up the back of her neck and under the backs of her thighs. It tickled. It teased.

She thought of Thomas Tobin again and laughed at herself.

Velvet was so right-it wasn't natural for a woman her age to be alone. She needed a man. Soon. And if she was fantasizing about Robot Boy again, she knew she'd reached a whole new level of desperation.

As she did nearly every night, Emma wondered why it was that a decent-looking, educated, fun-loving, and kind woman couldn't find a normal man.

Was it her imagination, or were they in short supply here in the Baltimore-Washington metropolitan area?

Was it her imagination, or was it really true that with each passing month the odds got less good and the goods got more odd?

She didn't hate bars-she liked going out every once in a while with a group of women friends to hoot it up.

What she hated was the desperate trolling, the scoping, the hunt associated with the human mating ritual. She felt hollow. She felt on display. And no matter where they went, she was always sure she had the biggest butt on the dance floor.

As a scientist, Emma knew what it was really all about-a search for quality chromosomes to perpetuate her genetic line.

As a woman, she knew it was so much more than that. She was looking for spark. Passion. She was looking for love. It was slightly embarrassing to admit, but Emma wanted to be swept off her feet, just once before she died. She wanted to know what it felt like to be pursued, treasured, spoiled! Was that so outrageous?

Just once before she died, that's all.

It sure hadn't happened that way with Aaron. Emma had come to see her thirteen-year relationship with Aaron for what it was: a pact based on intellectual compatibility and physical familiarity-with a healthy dose of dysfunction thrown in for excitement. They'd been lovers, husband and wife, and business partners.