that shimmered in the right light. Then he turned up the volume on his stereo and blasted show tunes at a volume that astounded his nearest neighbors and sent the cats galloping into the bathroom closet for quiet.
The music was so loud, in fact, that he failed to hear the phone ring. Nor did he notice the message light blinking before he hurried downstairs to meet Lilah. She was waiting in the back seat of the limousine. His highly impressed doorman, Mahmoud, dashed out to open the door for him, bestowing silent and respectful homage on T.S. as a tribute to his excellent taste in women.
If Grady stepped on it, T.S. decided, they would have just enough time for a quiet dinner together before Lance Worthington and his party beckoned. There was a small Indian restaurant on the Lower East Side that he thought Lilah would love. It was appropriately exotic and a bit off the beaten path. A good choice, considering the unusual romantic journey (for him, anyway) that he had embarked upon.
T.S. had not talked to Auntie Lil even once that day. Had she known why, it was doubtful that Auntie Lil would have minded a bit. But she didn't know why and, consequently, she was steaming.
She slammed the phone back in its cradle with childish temper, thinking of how much she loathed answering machines.
Evening had arrived. Auntie Lil sat in the darkness of the Homefront office and glared out onto the crowded street. How dare all those people rush past without a glance, while she was stuck in here? Where was Annie and who the hell had the keys? She ought to just walk out and damn the consequences of an unlocked front door. There was nothing for her here. She was wasting her time.
It occurred to her that Bob Fleming might keep an extra set of keys in his desk. She opened the top drawer and searched through it hopefully, encountering coffee shop packets of sugar, ketchup, jelly and salt; a supply of tattered paper napkins; three cough drops; some loose straws; and an upturned plastic box of paper clips. No keys.
Then it hit her. Good God. She was getting old. Why was she sitting here pouting? She was being handed a golden opportunity to rummage through all of Homefront's files. It was nirvana to someone as exquisitely nosy as she: one large desk, two large file cabinets, all kinds of dark corners and countless messy piles of documents. All for the taking. She glanced once more at the front doorway and briskly set to work.
"I thought you'd enjoy a change of pace," T.S. told Lilah.
"It's wonderful here." She patted his hand fondly and he beamed back as if she had just said something enormously clever.
They were sitting in a tiny alcove of a small Indian restaurant, finishing their coconut soup. They were protected from the view of other diners by strategically placed pots of miniature palms and a large and colorful tank of exotic tropical fish. It was a little like being lost on a deserted isle together. Except, of course, for the overly obsequious waiter. Sensing a potentially huge tip from a besotted couple, he hovered about with servile determination. This devotion amused Lilah; the small smile that played about her lips charmed T.S. to distraction.
"Next he'll be offering to eat my soup for me," she decided.
T.S. beamed at her in reply and admired the graceful way she sipped at the remainder of her first course. Early training in a finishing school had left its mark.
"More poori bread, sir?" the Indian waiter inquired, popping out from behind a palm with the sudden efficiency of a Bengal warrior who had spotted a tiger.
"Heavens, no," T.S. replied. The table was littered with plates of untouched poori that swelled like small parachutes among the silver.
A few minutes later, a warm breeze of curry mixed with cumin and other fragrant spices announced the return of their attentive waiter. He burst through the palms bearing an enormous tray loaded with plates of steaming food and colorful rice.
"Good heavens." Lilah stared at the feast. "Do we have time to eat all this?" she asked faintly.
T.S. glanced at his watch, annoyed at being reminded of their impending task. He sighed. "We'll just have to be fashionably late," he said firmly. "Lance Worthington will just have to wait."
Anyone else would have found it an eerie task to search through the darkened interior of Homefront while unsuspecting passers-by flowed past without a glance.