desire go unsatisfied…though instead of letting go, he indulged his imagination anyway, a little longer, fantasizing. Had she touched his computer while she sat there talking to him? Had she rested her soft, pretty hand on his mouse and slipped its pointer across the screen to his private folders, opened his files? The only other hands as lovely as hers were those of his wife…

Were.

And with that recollection, his daydream terminated. He had arrived at the beginning of the road that wound its way up to his home. The car's transmission automatically down-shifted as it climbed. And so did his mood. As if commiserating with the machinery that had helped him reach this point, Matthew let out an exhausted sigh.

On either side he passed huge concrete gates that fronted the estates of some of the most powerful entrepreneurs and business people in Silicon Valley, including Peter, whose home was only a half-mile from his own. It had been more than six months since he had been to Peter's home. And ever since Matthew's wife Greta had told him more than a year ago that she did not want Peter in her house again, Matthew and Peter spent less and less time together. Recently they had only seen each other in formal meetings. Looking back now, Matthew was actually appreciative for his wife's restriction. After all, had it not been for her, he might never have distanced himself far enough from Peter to get where he could realize his own power.

He made a mental note. When all of this was settled, he would do something nice for her.

* * *

Reaching for the door handle of the dark blue 500SL convertible, the parking attendant was momentarily struck with a small surprise: A rather gaudy but finely tailored purple gloved hand, wildly flapping at him like some exotic bird. Before he had a chance to open the door, the woman to whom the gloved hand belonged was climbing out of the car. She was dressed in black designer sweats and lavender sport sneakers. Purple sunglasses shielded her eyes, and a madras scarf protected her hair from the wind. As she turned and reached inside the car for her purse, the attendant understood at once, from this angle, that she was not wearing this outfit to pursue an athletic regimen. Still in his first two weeks of summer employment, he had begun to regard the ladies who shopped here with amusement and fascination. He paid special attention to mannerisms and hair color. The intended overall look sought by women like this one was, he had come to believe, that of carefree, understated elegance. Most of them pulled it off beautifully. But this one? Not quite. The gloves were definitely a first, and a definite give away. She wasn't the type, he was certain of it. Too unrefined.

Or so he thought, until she removed her scarf. He observed the loose chestnut ringlets of hair, which appeared to be her natural color. Pausing for a moment, she casually shook down the curls, which were surprisingly long and appeared soft to the touch. At the same time she pointed her face directly up into the shaft of sunlight cutting through the rows of large buildings on either side of the street, and with obvious pleasure basked in the warmth for an instant. The effect was striking, as though the rays somehow transformed her into something more attractive, which imposed a temporary snag in his analysis. Until she spoke.

"I'll be just a few secs," she said, gesturing at the store with her Chanel wallet. "I have to pick something up."

"Of course, madam," the attendant said, touching his hat. Indeed, the woman's tone was all wrong, too rough, as was her accent, or lack thereof. Yes, his initial estimation was correct. Her wealth was definitely nouveau. The worst wealth of all.

A second attendant smiled as he opened the large glass door that announced Gump's, in gold leaf lettering. Removing her sunglasses, she headed straight for the elevator. As she waited for its arrival, she lifted an antique hand mirror from a display. Taking in her own reflection, she shook her hair and checked her teeth. Her brown, Bette Davis eyes grew even more expansive at the discovery of a pinpoint blemish just above her eyebrow. She touched it and clucked. Swearing under her breath, she returned the mirror to the glass counter and replaced her sunglasses. She had to get out of these bright lights.

A bell chimed, signaling the arrival of the elevator. Turning from the counter, she noticed a small, smiling elderly woman.

"Madam, can I show you some of our other fine silver mirrors?"

Greta Locke spun to hold the elevator door open. Wearing an expression intended to come off as playful, she turned back to the saleswoman. But when she noticed the woman staring at her gloved hand holding the jutting elevator door, Greta's response was anything but playful. "The last thing I need is an expensive silver mirror to remind me to stop eating chocolate."

She boarded the elevator.

"Why Mrs. Locke, what a pleasant surprise!" said the attractive salesman, all smiles, as Greta approached. He stood before the Steuben crystal room situated at the end of the mercifully subdued second level. Behind him there stood a row of ghostly illuminated glass cases containing spectacular pieces of some of the world's finest crystal. His modest platinum name badge said he was Mr. William Armond.

"Billy," Greta said, pausing one step before proceeding past him, "there's something I'd like to see in the Houston collection."

"Of course," Mr. Armond said, trailing her. He glanced at his associate, Ms. Olson, whose territories were the Lalique and Baccarat rooms. Reluctant to catch his eye, she pursed her lips and busied herself at her desk, addressing small, golden catalogs.

Greta Locke was Mr. Armond's best customer, one of Gump's best customers, and everyone who worked there knew it. She had spent several hundred thousand dollars at Gump's in the two years Mr. Armond had had the good fortune of knowing her. Last year she had arranged a deal between Gump's and Wallaby, Incorporated, to purchase corporate gifts at a special quantity discount. A discount of five percent can be quite sizable, she noted to her husband, when he purchased eight Steuben flower vases last year as Christmas presents for the wives of the Wallaby board members, at four hundred dollars apiece.

She removed her sunglasses and studied the curves and artwork of a large bowl displayed in the glass case. She'd had her eye on it for some time now. It was a James Houston original, engraved with painstaking detail. Circling the bowl's rim were salmon swimming against an invisible current, surrounded by tiny air bubbles. The piece was breathtaking.

"Perhaps a closer inspection?" Mr. Armond said, producing a small ring of keys. But before he managed to insert the small key into the case's lock, Greta stopped him.

"Don't bother. I'll take it."

"A splendid piece, Mrs. Locke," he said. "May I have it gift-wrapped for you?"

"No," she said, "That's not necessary." Without removing her gloves, she deftly slid her credit card out of her wallet and handed it to him. "It's a gift to me. For all my hard work." She lingered behind him as he moved to his clerk's desk. "Anything new?" she asked, over her shoulder.

"There are some lovely new crystal animals," said Mr. Armond, indicating one of the other cases. The collection consisted of exquisite, palm-size creatures. A dog…a cat…a bird…a bear. All resting peacefully on a black velvet blanket.

She seemed uninterested; she'd gotten what she came for. However, as she was exiting the parlor, a little farther along the display, she saw something,