Chapter 1: Lena Wriggles her Finger

“I like the way you handle a knife,” she said.

I was chopping carrots, and her comment was almost enough to make me miss my aim and slice into my own finger. Because I knew she wasn’t really talking about the knife.

We were students in a cooking class, and we had been paired together by the instructor from the beginning of the course. It was a wonderful coincidence, because otherwise I doubt that I ever would have gotten this close to her, much less have had a conversation with her. I realized she must live near me, because I had seen her exactly three times: once jogging, once at the local grocery store, and once sitting in a Starbucks. Each time was like being hit by a thunderbolt. As my eyes took in her gorgeous smile, then her erect posture and finally her long slender legs, I would find myself staring, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

Each time I saw her I found my mind racing, wondering if I could make a play, find any excuse to meet her. But she seemed quite aloof and unapproachable, as many women with her striking beauty are. She also had a particular air of mystery, which made her even more desirable and unapproachable.

She was like one of those delectable ‘total babes’ that seem to have stepped out of a magazine, and who will be just as accessible as those models. So you can imagine my surprise and delight when she showed up in my Italian cooking class, and became my partner no less. I still need to thank the master chef for that.

During our first session, she hardly spoke to me, and my lame attempts to start a conversation were met with a polite but chilly smile. She had a faint European accent, but I couldn’t place it, and I was too intimidated even to ask what country she came from.

Luckily for me, by the third week she started to warm up. We joked about the class, and I found that she had a great sense of humor. I found her less reserved, though still reluctant to talk about anything personal. I had no idea what she did, nor where she lived, nor (most important) whether or not she was single.

It was during these classes that I began to fall for her in a big way. It was June, and she was wearing sleeveless blouses. Out of the corner of my eye, I would study the long line that her slender arms made from her shoulders all the way down to her delicate, sensitive fingers. Every once in a while, while cooking together, our arms would brush against one-another, and it would send an electric thrill through my entire body.

Her look was Italian, though it was clear from her limited knowledge of the Italian vocabulary that Italy was not her home country. She had wide cheekbones, full lips, and the sultry, luscious expression that one associates with the greatest Italian beauties. In one respect, she was different: while Italian women seem to gravitate toward the plump side, she was wonderfully slim, almost like a teenager, but with enough subtle curves to show that she was a woman (I found out later that she was 25, but she looked younger). In the end, it was her smile that captured me. It was so full and genuine, I found myself doing everything I could to bring it out. I was definitely hooked.

Little did I know that the cooking class was having a similar effect on her. Weeks later, she told me that she had hardly noticed me until I started chopping vegetables. Imagine how I felt when, in her soft voice, she described how ‘I was watching your strong hands handling the different knives so decisively, slicing the vegetables, and massaging the dough ... and I began to fantasize about those hands on me.” She knew very little about me, but she realized that she wanted to be handled firmly by hands like that.

But she knew how to keep me off balance. Just when I was convinced that she had no interest in me whatsoever, she would come out with a provocative question, which never failed to take me by surprise. After her comment about my handling of the knife in Monday’s class, I got up the nerve to invite her for a cappuccino after class. To my surprise she accepted, and although she still kept her distance, I managed to get her to talk a bit about herself.

What I learned was at first discouraging. She had been married for almost a year, to a prominent Washington lawyer, Donald Major, whose name I saw in the paper from time to time. My heart sank. He was a big shot. But as we continued with our banter, she hinted flirtatiously that he was not enough for her.

Sensing an opportunity, I decided to be direct.

“Are you not satisfied?”

She stared at me, her cool green eyes boring into mine. After a long pause, and in a voice so soft I could barely hear it, she said “I wonder if any man could really satisfy me. A man should not wind a woman up if he’s not able to finish the job.”

I could hardly believe my ears. Things were accelerating fast, in an unexpected direction. I decided to be honest in return.

“Well, if that’s what you need, it shouldn’t be too hard. A girl like you only needs to wiggle her little finger and she can have any man she wants.”

She acknowledged my compliment with an ironic smile on those sensuous lips. Again she paused, staring at me intently. Assessing me.

“But you see, I need a very special man. He has to be always available, ready to come to me at a moment’s notice.” Despite her playful smile, her voice seemed quite sincere, even passionate.

I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I decided that boldness was called for.

“Then today is your day, because you can call me anytime, anywhere. I’ll be there.”

“Is that so?” Her eyes were wide now and were now practically boring into mine.

“Absolutely. I am at your service at a moment’s notice, milady.”

Following her lead, I used an ironic tone to indicate that I might be joking. But I was not joking, and her eyes seemed to spark at my use of chivalrous language.

“My card,” I intoned, as I passed her one of my business cards.

She studied it carefully. The card informed her that I’m an architect, and showed the address of my home/studio, along with my office and cell phone numbers. She raised her eyebrow a fraction of an inch, and casually slipped my card into her stylish handbag – it looked like a Mark Jacobs. Moments later, with one last heart-stopping smile in my direction, she was out the door, leaving me there with a bill to pay and a foolish smile on my face.

A famous photographer once described how it feels to be on a shoot with Marilyn Monroe. He said she exuded a raw sexuality that made every man there feel that, if only all the other men would leave the room, something extraordinary would happen. Without being so overtly sexual, Lena – for that was her name – made me feel the same way.

In fact, forget Marilyn Monroe. If given the choice, I was far more attracted to this slim, cosmopolitan young woman, with her air of mystery and her elegant manners. She had me by a chain, and all she had to do was yank it.

And that’s exactly what she did, much sooner than I expected. At exactly 8:02 a.m. the following morning, just as I was sitting down to a cup of coffee, pondering the ingredients for a smoked salmon omelet, a text message popped up on my iPhone:

Come now 832 Q Street

I hesitated. Was it Lena? I didn’t know her phone number, but the address was in upscale Georgetown, only ten minutes walking distance from my studio. It had to be her. My hesitation didn’t last long, because moments later I found myself and walking up the hill in the direction of Q Street.

I had no meetings scheduled that morning, so if this was a wild goose chase, there would be nothing lost. I wondered what she wanted. Maybe just to test me, to see if I would really come? Or maybe to help her move a piece of furniture? Draw up a plan for her garden?