The maitre d’ leads a young couple to a nearby table.  Her glance drawn instinctively to movement, Marquesa casually follows their progress.  By the looks of them, She guesses, Married. His dress seems a bit too shabby to come here often, so he’s taking her to dinner?…Celebrating something, perhaps? — a salary increase, an anniversary, her birthday?…Nice enough but Boring.

Swiftly tiring of them, Her glance swings back to the bar, and, suddenly, Her pulse quickens and Her eyes narrow.  Moving to an unoccupied high table off to one side of the bar is a youngish man, in his early to mid-30’s…at first glance, very good looking.  She watches him intently as he moves from the bar to a table under an overhead light, a fresh drink in hand, Scotch, by the loom of it.  During the few seconds in which he seats himself, he unknowingly presents Her with a clear view of his face, and instantly, She likes what She sees:  Trim, tallish — maybe 6’2″, well dressed — much better dressed than the fellow just seated — sandy haired, handsome and knows it, moves with the easy self-assurance of an alpha male.

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