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prints lined the far wall, movie posters of the same dead white screen actress, the one who starred in My Fair Lady , Gigi, and a slew of others from the fifties and sixties that were now relegated to Turner Classic Movie fare. For the moment, Marc was blanking on her name. No doubt it would come to him, but for the time being the scarlet stain smudging the glare-free glass covering Breakfast at Tiffany’s reminded him that he had more important matters on which to focus.
    â€œI’m sure she’ll be happy to know that the elevator’s fixed. Hoofing it all the way to the ninth floor carrying a mop and broom must wear on a body.”
    She didn’t answer that, not that he expected she would. Dropping her gaze to his full hands, she asked, “Have you come bearing gifts, doctor?”
    He hesitated, looking down at the bags he’d as good as forgotten, one white paper from the hospital pharmacy with the prescription information stapled to the outside, the other plastic bearing carryout and the Mendy’s logo. Looking back up, he said, “You ran … left before I could write the script for your meds.”
    He held out the pharmacy bag, but she drew back as though he’d offered her meth. “I don’t take drugs.”
    Marc stifled a smile. “Again, good to know, but you might want to make an exception for the next day or so. One is an anti-inflammatory to reduce the swelling—”
    â€œI know what an anti-inflammatory does.”
    â€œAnd the other is to help manage the pain. Take it on a full stomach and avoid alcoholic beverages.”
    She hoisted her chin. “Other than the occasional glass of champagne, I don’t drink.”
    He couldn’t help it. He glanced over to the Art Deco cocktail cart. Prominently positioned, it was as well or better stocked than most commercial bars. “Someone here does, though I’ll admit you don’t strike me as much of a scotch drinker.” He would have pegged her as a Veuve Clicquot girl, though when she first came into the ER last night he hadn’t detected so much as a whiff of alcohol on her breath.
    Her swollen face flushed. “I entertain frequently. A good hostess anticipates the desires of her guests.”
    â€œWho do you party with—Guns N’ Roses?”
    Her unhurt eye narrowed. “Any other prescriptives before you go?” She wasn’t only being rude for the sake of it. She was frightened.
    â€œYeah, this.” He handed her the carryout.
    â€œIs that—”
    â€œChicken soup. It’s good for the soul, or hadn’t you heard?” The side trip to Mendy’s on Park and 34 th Street had taken him several blocks out of his way, but it was worth the walk. The celebrated kosher deli made some of the best chicken soup in the city.
    She tilted her head as though making a study of him when, really, it was the other way around. “Are you quite certain it’s my soul you came here to check up on? I’d thought it was my body.”
    Improbably, he felt himself flushing. Seeing her in her own clothes and environment, rather than swathed in the hospital gown in a curtained exam room beneath neon lights, was a different experience entirely. Any previous pretense to detachment flew out the goddamned window—or in this case, sliding-glass door. Even dangling a broken strap and denuded of beads, her floor-length evening gown was unmistakably couture—and she wore it like a queen. But then she had the sort of body his mother would call “neat”—small breasts, small waist, slim hips, long slender legs. There wasn’t an ounce of extra body fat on her, and yet he couldn’t say she was skinny, at least not unhealthily so. Marc ordinarily went for fuller-figured women and yet suddenly, improbably, he found himself fantasizing about what it would be like to settle his hands on her buttocks and bring her gently but firmly against