Myles was surprisingly competent as a dance partner, leading Moira through a series of intricate steps beyond what was necessary for the music and finishing with a twirl that deposited her on a small settee next to the bar.

"How very Fred Astaire, Myles."

"Why thank you, I like to think I'm reasonably well versed in the physical social arts." He stroked his tiny moustache with a, Simon LeGree flair. "May I fetch you a gin and vermouth?"

God, what a stuffed shirt! "Well put your mind at rest then and no drink, thank you." She smiled sweetly.

"Actually, Moira dear," he lowered his voice and slid onto the seat close to her, reminiscent of their last party conversation. "What would set my mind at ease would be if you and I could have that chat you mentioned. I have some advice I think you'll find interesting. There is an incredible opportunity in all our futures." She looked at him without responding, the ghost of Miriam's favour flitting across her brain. "Of course Barton would also do well," he added as if offering a salve for her possible doubts.

"What kind of opportunity, Myles?"

He shifted closer. "Stock mergers." A long finger bisected his lips accompanied by a slow wink. "There could be a lot at stake."

"You mean with WesCat?" She gave him a doubtful grin and prepared to leave.

Myles held her arm almost desperately. "You mustn't mention this to anyone, Moira. Not even Barton... just- just think about what I've said."

Moira stared at him for a long time, her mind floundering for an anchor to steady the sudden flood of unexpected ideas. "There could be more at stake than you think." She patted his hand with more than a passing tap. "Let me think on it a little longer, Myles."

He stood and watched her sail across the floor to where Brian was chatting with a small group of men. More at stake than you think. Whatever might that mean?

Arnold Chang managed a short dance with Miriam, gushing gratefully over her introduction to Peter. He was anxious to know if she had heard anything that might give him hope. She chided him for contravening the rules of corporate, political cocktail parties where everyone was carefully watched and assessed as to their allegiances.

Arnold was mollified and as discretely as possible, kept his distance from all the WesCat family for the rest of the evening. Miriam did a quick scan of her husband and Moira, pleased with the smooth direction things seemed to be going.

The evening continued with the inevitable waning of propriety that accompanies the availability of free drinks. Jackets shed, ties loosened, boisterous, backslapping congratulations and a separating of the sexes. Barton commanded a large circle of giddy, puffy-faced business magnates, regaling them with tales of his scrambling early years. Most of the wives sat at the huge, round dinner tables, chatting about things domestic-things that freed them from the constant world of business.

Moira wandered slowly across the room, sorting her thoughts and examining the hints Myles had nervously divulged and Miriam's observation regarding her shares, a position that previously had never even crossed her mind as one of actual power.

A brief flash of her dance with Brian gave her an almost tangible sensation of his arm around her waist and she plucked a glass of wine from the tray of a passing waiter and gulped a large mouthful. Suspicion dampened her excitement momentarily and she wondered if Brian, like Myles, was just attempting to create an ally.

Peter had displayed a rather paltry interest in her at their lunch; his primary concern seemed to be her thoughts on the evolution of WesCat. The thought grew and reshaped itself as she considered using the exact same ploy herself. Why not? With Brian's stock and Myles' plus her own and possibly even Peter's, there was a very good chance Barton could be defeated leaving her on the winning team. She finished the glass of wine and traded it for another as the waiter glided by.

Tingling with nervous excitement, her mind went spinning in a dangerous direction-maybe she could find a way to get her husband's shares as well. She continued across the room to where she found Brian in conversation with several men along with Peter and his ultra-fashioned, skin lotion model, companion.

She joined their conversation, chatting idly about nothing important and taking the opportunity to study her prey. Brian eventually floated off with Peter's plastic Barbie and the others just melted back in with the anonymous guests.

A trace of jealousy slithered across her mind and she felt the increased pull of determination. Perhaps there was more at stake than seemed apparent. Moira would never have dreamed that she might allow herself to slip so easily into such a situation, which made the decision all the more exciting and deliciously mischievous. Using the B movie ploy of a trip to the balcony for the contradictory rationale of fresh air and a cigarette, she opened the first steps in the forbidden dance and left the room with Peter.

Twenty minutes later Brian found them on the balcony and with a few words of meaningless small talk, returned Peter's trophy date and stayed to enjoy a second cigarette with Moira.

"Was that your thrill for the evening?" She asked coyly.

"You mean, Barbie? Trust me, Moira, a woman that is constantly gawking about to see who's looking at her is not what guys consider a thrill." He leaned on the railing and blew a stream of smoke out into the night.

"So what is a thrill for you?" She leaned beside him, dropping her own cigarette and following the sparkly glow as it spiraled down out of sight.

"This."

•••

She glanced outside, taking in the jagged profile of the city against the evening sky, remembering the literal shiver of thrill when he slipped his arm around her back and pulled her lips to his. It wasn't chaste or tender, the constraint of time and circumstance seemed to push the action into fast forward and in a split second lips were grinding hard, tongues poking and searching and bodies writhing together; nothing else mattered in that moment. They were alone in the protective night sharing the dangerous exhilaration of illicit conduct.

She turned from the window, the memory of the moment bringing a flush to her cheeks and wandered to the bar, savoring the almost tangible sensation of their kiss. She filled a glass with crushed ice from the silver bucket and splashed a generous amount of liquor over the top and sipped slowly, bringing the memory back in focus. She recalled with a small, grunted laugh the sudden panic at Barton's appearance by the balcony doors, calling her to come inside for the speeches At that moment Moira Weston had felt her stomach plunge and her vision sprinkled with snow like bad TV reception. When she realized he'd seen nothing, she managed to steady herself, bolstered by the new feeling of having dared and succeeded.

A new confidence was emerging-and perhaps the beginning of a new plan.

She wandered to the sofa and sat languidly, holding her glass up to the light and smiling at the tiny bubbles. Things were changing quickly.