Waking up with a hangover in a strange hotel room is bad enough. But seeing a naked stranger walk in a moment later is even worse. Well, Mother wouldn't see these as bad things, particularly since the naked stranger is the most gorgeous man I've ever met. But then, I'm nothing like my mother.

He smiles at me and says in a New York accent (The Bronx? Brooklyn? Definitely not Manhattan), "Oh, good, you're awake. You want some?" He holds out his hand, with two white pills in his palm. I notice he has a small glass of water in the other hand.

Since I apparently also have partial memory loss, taking drugs from the naked stranger seems like a particularly bad idea. "No thank you," I say as politely as I can under the circumstances.

He shakes his head. "It's just aspirin. I thought you might have a hangover, too."

"Oh. Well, thank you." I sit up and take the pills and the water from him. They do have "Bayer" on them. I swallow both "aspirins" and wash them down with the water. I feel funny about trusting him, but it may be too late to be worrying about that.

He smiles again. "You look cute in my jersey."

I look down at myself. I hadn't realized till now that I'm not naked. I see two birds sitting on a baseball bat, and some word in red cursive that I can't quite read upside-down. Then I look at him. "Thank you, you're cute, too."

His smile gets bigger and so does something much further down.

"Uh, I mean." I'm sure my face is as red as the birds and the word.

"Sorry about last night."

"Well, uh."

"I had too much to drink and then I guess I passed out. Thanks for sticking around till the morning so we could try again."

"Oh, um." So we didn't have sex last night? Not that my body feels any less celibate than in the past seven weeks, but you never know.

"I'm gonna get aspirin for myself and then I'll come right back."

"Um, OK." I know I should use this opportunity to sneak out of the room but I don't seem to be wearing anything other than his jersey. Not to mention, I would need to find the key to my own room. And I can't exactly go down to the front desk and ask for assistance.

I wish I could remember more of last night. Well, anything actually. Hopefully it will come back to me very soon.

I wonder how much he remembers. I wish I at least knew his name. God, how did I end up here? Even without sex, this is so unlike me!

I don't know if Mother would be more shocked or amused. Yes, she teased me when I left for Reno, but I behaved in Reno. I mostly just read classic literature and soaked up the sun. Then I decided I may as well visit Vegas. It was silly to come all this way and not go. And I hadn't been here in over nine years. Who knew I would have as strange a night as I did then?

He comes back, still smiling, still naked. "How ya feelin', Abby? Can I call ya that?"

"You could, but my name is Angela."

He frowns. "Oh, I thought you said Abigail."

"No, it's Angela." At least I remember my own name.

"Well, I was close. Three syllables, starting with an A, like mine."

Well, there's a clue. Alistair? Avery? Arturo? Apollo? He could be Hispanic or Greek. He's got dark eyes and hair and olive skin.

He smiles a little. "Anthony? Remember?"

I blush. I may as well be honest about this. "To be perfectly frank, I don't remember much of last night."

He frowns. "Oh. Either you had more to drink than I realized, or I definitely didn't make an impression on you."

"The, the first one."

"You'd like me to put on some clothes, wouldn't you?"

I know how Mother would answer, but I appreciate his sensitivity. "Yes. Sorry."

"Hey, Ab—Angela, no sweat. This must be a weird situation for you."

I nod. "I don't, I mean, this isn't my usual, um."

"Ah. Got it." He goes over to a chest of drawers and pulls pajama bottoms out of the lowest drawer. I try not to ogle his tight, firm derriere, and then he faces me again. As he pulls on the pajamas, he says, "It didn't used to be for me either. I remember some of last night. A few blanks spots, not just when I passed out. But I remember you, I remember inviting you upstairs. I remember dancing with you."

I shake my head. "I don't dance."

"What do you mean you don't dance? You're amazing!"

"I am?"

He chuckles. "Unless I'm remembering wrong."

"No, whenever I go to a disco, I bump into people."

"But we didn't go to a disco. I hate disco."

"Oh."

"I took you to a place with oldies." He shakes his head. "Jesus, songs from ten, fifteen years ago, when I was a kid, are oldies now."

I look more closely at his boyish face and his boyish hair. How old is he? He's definitely got a man's body. Somewhere in his 20s I suppose.

"But you said you liked them, too. You know, '60s stuff, especially Motown."

"Yes, I was a teenager ten or fifteen years ago when they were popular."

"Yeah, exactly. And we danced real well together. Real well." His eyes, which looked puppy-doggish a minute ago turn bedroomy, and I can see exactly why I accepted his invitation upstairs.

I shake my head. "I'm the Connecticut Klutz. It's hard to believe that drinking would make me graceful."

"But you were. I taught you my favorite dance and it was like we'd been dancing together forever."

" 'On Broadway,' " I murmur. I remember that part now.

"Right."

"I can tell a lot about a woman by the way she moves on the dance floor."

I blush yet again. Maybe these are all lines, maybe he says these to all the women he invites to hotel rooms, but he is getting to me. Why is this sexy man hitting on me? There must be something wrong with him.

I resort to humor as a defense. "Oh? Can you tell what I do for a living?"

I expect him to say actress or model. But he comes closer, looking at my eyes and my hands. "Writer?"

"Close enough. I'm in advertising."

He sits on the bed, near but not next to me. "Right. You might've told me that. It sounds familiar."

"What about you?"

"Guess," he teases, pulling gently on the sleeve of the jersey.

"Clothes designer."

"Oo, so close! I play for them."

"Them?"
"The Cards?"

I look down at the word in cursive, again trying to read it upside down. "The Cardinals?" That explains the red birds, and the bat.

"Uh, yeah." He looks a little offended that I'm not sure.

"I'm sorry, I don't follow sports."

He laughs. "Oh. Well, that's kind of refreshing I guess."

"Anthony, about last night—"

"Call me Tony."

"OK. Tony. I find you very attractive but I'm not the sort of person who just goes to bed with strangers. Not that I'm judging you but—"

"I'm not that kind of person either. I thought we were more acquaintances."

"You didn't even remember my name!"

"I knew it last night. I knew other things about you then. Like you're from Connecticut, right?"

"Yes. And you're from St. Louis?" I think that's where the Cardinals play.

He chuckles. "New York. I thought the accent was sort of a giveaway."

"Then why not play for the Mets?"

"The Mets didn't give me a break. The Cards did."

"Oh. What position do you play?"

"Second base," he whispers, tracing the word "Cardinals" with his fingertips.

"Tony," I whisper, but I don't know if I'm asking him to stop or asking him to continue.

"There's a real nice way to get acquainted, you know."

"It's not that I don't want to."

"Yeah, you said you find me very attractive. I find you very attractive."

"Why?"

He blinks. "Why? You've got legs like Tina Turner, hair like Farrah, a neck like Grace Kelly, and eyes—"

"Yes?" I wait to see what line he'll come up with.

"Like midnight," he says quietly, gazing into them.

"Oh, I wish I'd packed my shovel."

He chuckles again. "You're not good with compliments, are you?"

"Not when someone's trying to get me into bed."

"I did get you into bed, Baby. But I'm not gonna push this is if it's not what you want."

I feel both relieved and rejected. "Thank you."

"On the other hand, Connecticut's not too far from New York."

I smile. "Would you like to go out some time?"

"Yeah, if you would."

"I'd like that. But aren't you on the road a lot?"

He shakes his head. "Baseball season is over. Well, for the Cards it is anyway."

"Oh. Um, how did you do?"
"We placed fifth."

"Oh, well, that's not bad." I try to remember how many baseball teams there are.

"In the National League. East."

"Oh."
"After the Phillies."

"Oh. That's not that good, is it?"

"Not really. There are only six teams."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "You win some, you lose some."

"And not just in baseball."
He snorts. "Ain't that the truth."

"Um, Tony?"

"Yeah, Angela?"

"If we go out, I'm not looking for anything serious. I mean, I don't want a one-night stand obviously, but I just got out of a very serious relationship."

He looks away. "Yeah, me, too. No, that sounds good. It would be nice to just do the dating thing again. Dinner, dancing." He looks at me again.

We smile at each other. And then we lean in and kiss. He's a very good kisser. He's not what I'm used to—I've never dated a jock before—but I like him, the little I know of him.

He smiles again when we stop kissing. "Will you think it's a line if I say you're a great kisser?"

"Not if you say it like that."

"You're a great kisser, Angela."

"So are you, Tony."

He smiles. "Fifteen years of practice."

"Me, too. Well, not non-stop."

"Well, yeah, I had to stop to eat, drink, talk, spit."

I laugh.

"Snore."

"Do you snore?"

"You didn't hear me last night?"

"Well, I was pretty out of it."

"Yeah. Listen for it next time we sleep together."

I know I should accuse him of arrogance, but he says it so matter-of-factly. "I will. Assuming I'm sober."

"You better be! I want you to remember everything when we really go to bed. And you will," he adds suggestively.

"So will you," I respond automatically. That's unlike me, too. I can't flirt with good-looking men. I'm usually too shy and tongue-tied. But Tony is different, in many ways.

He grins and then he actually looks a little shy as he asks, "How's your head?"

"Better."
"Uh, you want a neck massage?"

"My Grace-Kelly-like neck?" I tease.

"Yeah."

I swallow. I know where this can lead, especially with the two of us half-naked in bed. And there's no guarantee that he will actually look me up when we get back East. But I've lived most of my life not taking risks, and I find that this is a risk I want to take. "Yes, please. Thank you."

He has me sit in front of him, my back to him. I feel both vulnerable and safe. No man has ever made me feel like that before. I put my head forward and he begins gently but firmly rubbing my neck.

"You have good hands."
"Thanks."

I wonder if I should return the favor when he's done, since after all he has a hangover, too. It's strange to be with a man who thinks of my needs first. Maybe it's all part of the seduction, but it's nonetheless wonderful.

He moves his hands down to my shoulders but then he puts his lips on my neck. I shiver in surprise, delight, and, oh dear, arousal! "Is that OK?" he whispers.

"Yes," I breathe. I just want to keep saying yes to this man. This is insane! But lovely.

I imagine his hands moving to the front of the jersey, cupping my breasts. And then—

And then, in reality, the phone rings.

"I'm sorry, Angie. Do you mind if I get that? It might be my daughter's babysitter."

I'm startled, and not just by him calling me Angie. "You have a daughter? Are you married?"

"Widowed," he says quietly.

"Oh. I'm sorry." Is that what he meant by recently getting out of a serious relationship?

"Yeah, well." He moves away and grabs the phone. "Yo, this is Tony." Then the rest of his side of the conversation is composed of "I see," "Uh huh," and "Oh," in various orders. He says, "Yeah, I'll tell her." He hangs up and says, "That was for you."

"For me?" Who would be calling me here? Mother can be suspiciously psychic, but if she somehow tracked me down to Tony's hotel room, you'd think she'd insist on actually speaking to me.

"Yeah, I didn't want to have you talk to them because I thought at first it might be one of my teammates playing a joke."

"OK."
"Angie, can you put on some more clothes?"

"Where are my clothes?"

"I put them in the top drawer of the dresser last night after, um, I took them off."

"Oh." Did more happen here than I know about? Exactly how far did we take it before he passed out?

He smiles a little. "I just undressed you. I didn't touch you beyond that. And then you must've found my jersey and put it on."

"Oh." I go over to the drawer and take out my golden disco dress, my golden beret, my golden purse, even my golden shoes.

"Oh, could you check in your purse for me?"

"What am I looking for?"

"You'll know when you see it."

I reach in and take out my lipstick, eyeliner, eyeshadow, and blush-on. He shakes his head. Then I take out my diaphragm case and I blush. (I don't really need blush-on around him, do I?) I open it and see that the diaphragm is still inside. Good thing we didn't have sex!

"I was gonna ask."

I shake my head. And then there's my wallet. I decide not to check it, since that might seem like I was accusing him of theft. Next is my room key. And at the bottom of the purse is a folded piece of paper.

"Yeah, that's probably it."

"It?"

He gestures for me to unfold it. So I do and in disbelief I see that it's a marriage certificate, officiated and witnessed in Las Vegas, Nevada on Thursday, September 28, 1978, between Angela Katherine Bower (née Robinson) and Anthony Morton Micelli.

"Morton?"

"Yeah, well."
"We're married?"

"Uh, sort of."

"Sort of? Is this a joke license? Is that how you got me to come upstairs with you, by pretending to marry me?" I feel like some deceived virgin in a Victorian novel.

"No, of course not! From what I'm remembering now, I thought it was real, official. The thing is, there's a little complication."

"A little complication?"

"Yeah, um, that was the minister who married us just before midnight, and he went to turn in the paperwork at the Department of Records this morning, and, um, well, they said you're already married."

"Oh, not anymore."
"Not anymore?"

"No, you see that's why I went to Reno. To get a quickie divorce. It takes forever in Connecticut. But it was official as of yesterday."

"Is this to that Michael Bower guy?"

"Yes, did I tell you about Michael?"

"I don't think so. But the minister just did. It seems that the Records people have been trying to get ahold of you. Your other marriage, your first marriage, never got dissolved."

"My first marriage," I say slowly. And then I murmur as if in a dream, "Brian. Brian Thomas."

"Yeah. It seems this Brian Thomas guy filed for an annulment in Mexico."

"Yes." We didn't actually have sex.

"But he filed it with the Mexican Bureau of Sanitation by mistake."

"Oh, Brian." I shake my head, both sadly and fondly.

"I'm guessing he doesn't speak much Spanish."

"No. And he's a poet, not very practical."

"Uh huh. So this was back in '69, right?"

"Yes."

"And you were married to Bower when?"

"'74 to, well, yesterday."

"Angie Baby, you're a bigamist! In fact, you might even be a polygamist, if I count."

I stare at him.

"So under the circumstances, I guess it's good we didn't have sex, huh?"