At the time, Marshall Fox had been several months into his well-publicized estrangement from his wife, Rosemary, an estrangement that had already seen a number of high-octane if short-lived affairs with women of notorious beauty. The word on Fox was that he was a decidedly passionate and skilled lover. “Voracious,” came the grinning report from a particular Hollywood actress who was not known for suffering klutzes in her bed. Interviewed on one of the entertainment tabloid shows, the actress had looked directly into the camera and pronounced, “Let’s just say this is one hungry cowboy and leave it at that, okay?”

Robin’s first direct encounter with Fox came midway through the party, when she found herself cornered on the large patio by a large drunken British film director who had snared the last drink from her tray then locked a grip on her free arm as he looked her up and down with red bleary eyes.

“By fuck, if I couldn’t bend you over this rail right now and give that lovely USDA a proper nailing.”

In the process of attempting to free herself, Robin lost control of the empty tray, which clattered loudly to the patio floor. The director tightened his grip on her arm. As he moved closer, Robin was treated to a putrid exhaust of Scotch fumes.

“Let’s have us a fuckin’ kiss. Come here now.”

“Jeremy!”

Robin whipped her head around. It was Marshall Fox. As Fox made his way across the patio, he tossed his drink glass into the shrubbery. My God, Robin thought. Cowboy saves the day.

The Englishman gave Fox a sloppy smile. “Hallo, Marshall. Stinkin’ little bash, in’t it? I take it you’ve seen these lovely appetizers?”

“Let her go, Jeremy,” Fox said evenly. His voice held a low, liquid menace.

The director scoffed, “Fuck all, Marshall. Don’t be a prig.”

Fox glanced at Robin, then addressed the director. “Jeremy…old chap. How about for just one moment you pretend you’re not an asshole. Hmm? I know it’s hard, old chap. None of the rest of us have ever been able to do it. But why don’t you give it a try?”

Without warning, Fox’s left arm shot out, his open hand catching the Englishman square in the chest. As the director went tumbling into a deck chair, Fox grabbed Robin’s other arm and yanked her free. She stumbled up against him. Fox grinned and took a chivalrous step backward.

“I apologize for Jeremy. We don’t know who it was that let him off his leash.”

Still muttering, the director attempted to rise from the deck chair, but Fox placed a foot on the arm of the chair and succeeded in toppling it. The Englishman tumbled onto the tiles and went silent. Fox bent down and retrieved the tray that Robin had dropped and handed it to her. “It’s so hard to get good guests these days.”

He squeezed off another smile and left the patio by a nearby set of winding stairs, rejoining Kelly Cole, who was standing barefoot down on the grass, tolerating the stories of two overexcited young screenwriters. Robin had a sense that the entertainer knew full well she was watching him.

It wasn’t long after midnight that Kelly Cole lifted a martini from Robin’s tray, instructed Marshall Fox to get the hell out of her life immediately and then proceeded to launch the contents of her martini glass at him. The reporter’s aim was perfect, and the drink landed squarely in Fox’s face, the olive bouncing off his cheek. Robin had never seen a face as red with fury as Kelly Cole’s. The reporter’s expression was volcanic. For his part, Fox took a beat, then reached down to pick up the olive off the ground and blithely handed it over to his infuriated date. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I think this fell out of your ass.”

Cole’s slap seemed to echo back all the way from the boathouse. She stormed into the mansion. Fox produced a handkerchief and dabbed at his face and the front of his shirt. Conversation in the immediate vicinity had stopped, and Fox shared a bemused expression with astonished faces.

“Favor? The next time Ms. Cole orders herself a martini, could someone please ask the bartender if he can’t make it really, really, really dry?”

Soon afterward, Robin was down on the lawn, taking a moment to look out at the moon-blue water and the several boats that were anchored just offshore, when she became aware of a couple tangled together in a nearby hammock. Just as Robin realized that the couple were doing exactly what it sounded like they were doing, someone tapped her on the shoulder from behind.

“Hello there.”

Robin wheeled around. It was Marshall Fox. He offered his hand.

“The name’s Fox.”

Robin realized she was blushing mightily. She hoped it didn’t show in the moonlight. Fox made a show of guiding her hand into his and giving it a small squeeze.

“This is where you tell me your name. My name, your name. Then we’ve had what is called a communication.”

Robin withdrew her hand. “I’m…My name’s Robin Burrell.”

“It’s good to meet you, Miss Burrell. Though I feel like we’re old friends at this point, don’t you?”

“I meant to thank you before.” She indicated the patio.

“Jeremy? Hell, don’t mention it. By tomorrow that gin sponge won’t even remember it happened. He won’t remember a damn thing about the entire party. Which, now that I think of it, might not actually be such a bad thing. Tell me the truth, hasn’t this party been boring the pants off you? I’m dead serious, I can think of three thousand places I’d rather be. I love Gloria and Alan and all that, but this just ain’t really my kind of orgy.”

“I’ve never been to one of these parties,” Robin stammered.

“Well, you don’t want to make a habit of it, trust me.”

“People seem to be enjoying themselves.”

As if on cue, low moans rose from the couple in the hammock. Fox’s eyebrows rose. “I suppose they are. It’s a regular bunny farm around here, isn’t it? How about you? Are you enjoying yourself?”

Robin felt the color rising again to her cheeks. “I’m not supposed to enjoy myself,” she said. “I’m the hired help.”

Fox asked, “So where do you hail from, Miss Burrell?”

“I’m from Pennsylvania originally. New Hope. But I’ve lived in Manhattan the last six years.”

“Do tell. What part?”

“ Upper West Side.”

“Jews and Commies, I know it well. Which are you? Are you a Commie?”

“Me?” She laughed. “No.”

“Jew?”

“I’m a Quaker.”

“Quaker? Good Lord woman. I love thou people’s oatmeal. Upper West Side, huh? Ever since I hit town I’ve been an Upper East Sider myself, though the fact is I ran away from home a few months ago. Maybe you heard. You probably have. My so-called private life seems to have taken up residence on Page Six these days. Now I guess I’m a Jew and a Commie.”

“Excuse me?”

“ Upper West Side. I’m holing up on Central Park West.”

“I’m on Seventy-first,” Robin said. “About halfway down from the park.”

“You don’t say.” Fox touched her lightly on the arm. Robin could have sworn she felt a tiny electric shock. “How sweet is this? You’re practically the girl next door. You and I should meet up in the park sometime and walk our dogs together.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

Fox made a face. “I thought all of Manhattan ’s beautiful women had dogs. We’ll have to do something about that. I’ll tell you what, New Hope. May I call you New Hope?”

Robin laughed. “If you want.”

“I want. Listen, New Hope. Maybe I can come by your place sometime and you can take me out for a walk. How does that sound? Forget the dog. Walk the Fox. What do you say?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think you-”

Fox clapped his hands together. “Good. Excellent. I like this. This is good. You know, I’ve been hanging out with the wrong sort of people long enough. This will be good. So when are you free?”

“I’m not sure if-”

“Tuesday?” He put a hand to his ear. “Is that what you said? Good Lord, I’m free Tuesday, too! What are the chances? Now, please don’t go getting yourself another dog between now and then, dear New Hope. I happen to be well trained, but I do still bite. Sometimes. Maybe you can do something about that for me. We’ll have to see.”