The plush carpet of the penthouse living room shaded from light beige to dark grey from the scrape of her shoes as Moira Weston paced, wringing her hands and finally shredding the piece of tissue she'd been worrying. She shoved the remnants into the pocket of her satin robe and snugged the belt tighter about her waist. Doubt came in the form of an upset stomach and a sour taste filled her mouth as she stared vacantly out at the black night.

The call to Brian had been a smashing success; he was baffled, angry, threatening-everything she needed to capture on tape and as arranged, it had been picked up and taken to the technician for dubbing but now, on the critical day, her erstwhile partner/lover was letting down the side. It was almost midnight and she still hadn't heard.

Below, the city bustled with the lights and sounds of its denizens playing out the endless struggle to be king of the hill. The pendulum wall clock struck eleven-fifteen and she emitted a tiny groan, hurrying to the bar that curved out from the glass wall beside the doors to the expansive balcony. The phone call she expected was already three and one quarter hours late. Barton would be home by midnight and she needed to have the finished tapes when he arrived or the carefully planned scheme would be all for naught, not to mention the degrees of humiliation she had let herself endure. The liquor burned her throat on the way down and she set the glass down, coughing and hastily pouring a second just as the unregistered cell phone rang. Still trying to clear her throat, she grabbed it up and answered.

"Moira?"

"Yes. Yes! Where the hell are you? Why haven't I heard?"

"Oh, you sound funn-"

"Tell me!" She rudely cut off the caller.

"He didn't come home did he?"

"No, thank god. What the hell is happening?"

"Nothing, everything's fine. You should hear any second now. Our man picked up all the material."

"Thank God! I expected this call hours ago." The line went dead and Moira shut the phone off, slowly sinking onto the leather sectional sofa and trembling uncontrollably. The telephone on the marble-topped coffee table jangled and Moira froze, one hand on her throat the other hovering over the receiver. The machine answered and she gasped aloud as she heard the message playing down the line. It was perfect-so perfect she couldn't believe it wasn't real.

She stood over the phone, fascinated as she listened to the edited version of her original recording and then when it stopped, she quickly rewound it, put it in the desk with the other one and reloaded the machine. She was ready. It was happening just the way he said it would; her worrying, while unavoidable, was unnecessary. It was now in motion she could do nothing but see it through to the end. It struck her with a sudden frightening clarity that what had been a wish fantasy was now an event moving at lightening speed, carrying her forward to its inevitable conclusion.

Calmer now, she made herself another drink and went back to the window, observing not the city below but the reflection of a surprisingly smug woman who tossed her stylish hair back and drank with a confident abandon. It was almost unbelievable how the events of the past weeks had eluded Barton. Moira snorted at the idea of having three separate yet simultaneous affairs in such a short time and not once having her husband suspect. If she had known how easy it was she might have gone that route years ago. Face it Moira, it's the lure of money and power; without such a major incentive you would have been caught first time out. She threw back her head and laughed, covering her mouth as the elevator bell sounded outside in the hall.

•••

Moira heard the key in the lock and hastily composed herself for her husband's entrance. The tapes were in the drawer and although she would have preferred hearing them all again before confronting her husband, she mentally crossed her fingers that they would sound as good to him. The moment had now come for her most important deceit, notwithstanding the affairs.

"Darling, you're still up? I'm sorry to be so late. The damned fallout from last night's meeting just wouldn't end. I've spent the whole damned day on the phone. Brian has rallied more of the bloody ungrateful stockholders than I thought he might. I'm beginning to regret taking that little bastard on as a partner.

If Peter hadn't splashed a little water on the proceedings with a fifteen-minute break to cool everyone down, we might be rolling on the floor yet." Moira shifted uneasily at the mention of the break. "And when we got back things heated up again. Old Ben Melloti just stood up and yelled that he'd had enough of the bickering and stormed out." Barton stated all this while tossing his briefcase on the side table, wrenching his Hugo Boss tie down and unbuttoning the collar of his shirt, all while heading directly for the bar, pouring a more than generous tumbler of vodka over ice, raising a polite toast and downing the contents in one noisy swallow. "Aaaah, that's the ticket. Get you one?" he asked, refilling his glass.

Moira shook her head, indicating her own drink and waited until he had flopped down on the sofa next to her, offering a perfunctory peck on the cheek, spent his evening's business currency, and was relaxed. "Good old Melloti. He might not be politically correct but he certainly cuts through the B.S. So, how come you're still up?" He sucked another mouthful from his glass and smacked his lips.

These were the little things that had grown into hated traits: the mandatory peck on the cheek, the endless chatter about work, the lip smacking after every swallow, the posture the... She sat glaring at the man she'd married and wondered deep inside what on earth had compelled such a move in the first place. It was the potential for money, Moira, that and his overwhelming energy directed at making more. He took another swallow and then turned a dopey expression toward her, tilting his head in expectation of her explanation.

"Brian called last night," she began, affecting a slight tremble in her voice and gauging his attention. "He- he must have been drinking I think, anyway he made some very inappropriate remarks regarding what I should be doing instead of sitting home while you're wasting everyone's time with meetings."

Barton sat up and turned to face her. "What? What kind of remarks? When?"

"Sexual." She clenched her fists in her lap and looked down, avoiding his eyes.

He set his glass on the table and moved to the edge of his seat. "Brian Cathcart, my partner, made sexual remarks to you over the telephone! Last night? He was at the meeting with me!"

"It- it's not the first time."

"What?" He stood shakily and stared down at her. "Wait a minute! What do you mean, not the first time?"

"I never said anything before because it seemed harmless and I knew he'd been drinking, but this time... this time he went too far. It's all on tape in the desk." If this part of her plan failed she might as well walk right out the window.

"The rotten son-of-a-bitch! I'll kill him!" Barton stormed over to the desk and yanked open the drawer, glared at the contents and then moved angrily to the window and raked the city below with a venomous glare. "When did he call?" He asked in a more controlled voice. "Exactly."

This was the moment, Moira thought. The time was critical and once given she was irrevocably committed. "It was eight-twenty. I know because I missed the quarter hour chime and I went to see if the clock had stopped. I was hoping it might be you." The time was precise because she knew it was when Peter arranged the break and Brian would be out of the meeting and able to take a personal call, a call she had placed to his cell phone. A call that kept him occupied and totally confused with promises of future delights while extending her inventory of his speaking voice and establishing a timeline.

Barton squinted out the window, pulling at his chin. "He left the room for about fifteen minutes to take a break with the rest of us. Actually, I saw him on his phone." He spun around. "The bastard left to call you! He wasn't getting his way in the meeting and he turned his attack on you!"

"Barton, I don't know what to say. I couldn't believe the things he was saying to me. He said he wanted my vote on your merger and that if I cared about your safety, I'd play along...with everything... and shut up."

"He threatened me? This was to get your shares?" His face turned red and he clenched his fists until his nails nearly broke the skin of his hands.

"He's been our friend for so long, why would he do this?" She kept the tremble going in her voice thinking it was a nice touch.

"I really don't care why, Moira." His voice grew hard as he stared at her. "But it's the last call he'll be making to this house...by phone or in person-ever."

"Barton? What are you going to do? You mustn't-"

"Oh yes I must. This is the end of the partnership and the friendship. Right now. Tonight. I don't care what happens to the damn company. They can merge until the cows come home." He strode back to the hall and yanked his jacket off the hook in the cupboard.

"Barton where are you going? Please, don't-"

"I won't be back tonight. I'll call you tomorrow." He gave her an ugly smile and slammed out of the apartment.