The bet was on. It had been over a year since either one of them had taken a challenge. Dean was ready for it. His blood bubbled hot for the game. Greg poured three more shots. Maggie rolled her eyes as Dean hammered the whisky down with a grin and an almost erotic, 'Ahhh'.

"You are both pigs, no, more than pigs. You're swine, that's what you are." Maggie slid her shot glass away.

"Swine," Greg rolled it on his tongue. "Swine. Yes, swine is good."

"I'm out of here." She stood up and two sets of tuxedoed arms reached to pull her back into the chair.

"But you're the witness, Mag. We need you." She shook her head, tossed her silky red hair, the sequined bodice of her evening dress reflecting the anger in her deep blue eyes. She was remembering the last time she witnessed a bet. Greg lost twenty thousand bucks on that one. He couldn't prove that he'd seduced an eighty-four year old snake dancer they'd seen perform in an after-hours club. It started exactly the same way. The three of them were at a fund-raiser, another two-hundred dollar a plate dinner to help raise money to feed inner-city homeless youth. First there was the wine, then the champagne, the shots, the beers and a finally, the wrinkled snake dancer. "I have to quit hanging out with you two. I just can't watch this again."

"Sit." Both men pointed to her chair and she dropped, rather unladylike with a huff.

For twenty years she'd been witnessing the hand shake and watching the lunacy that followed. They were twelve when it all started. Three little rich kids bored to tears. She never took a challenge and never intended to. To be the witness seemed her role in the game and Maggie had always played it well, but they were adults and it was wearing thin. "I'm really sick of this."

"Listen, my pretty Maggie McGoo," Dean, the sweeter of the two swine by a wide margin, whispered teasingly close to her ear. "If you can't deal with it, just stay long enough for the hand shake. It's your job, baby doll."

"Dean, this is evil. We're at a fund-raiser for Christ's sake."

"Yes, a fund -raiser for the National Kidney Foundation. What's so evil about that?"

"This isn't the place for this crap." She sighed and swallowed her whisky, knowing she'd loose the battle.

Greg poured more. "It's the perfect place. We go to, what, four or five of these black tie shindigs a year? Donate at least two-hundred grand between the three of us. It's about as much goodness as we can handle."

"Grow up," she whispered a punch.

"Ouch!" Dean said. "Listen, sweetie . . ."

"No, you listen. Can't you two find some other way to entertain yourselves? You're both young, healthy, good looking, successful . . ."

"Don't forget filthy stinking rich.' Greg's eyes perused the women in the room.

"Greg Holstrum, all you ever did was inherit well. If your daddy hadn't kicked the bucket so early, you'd be working as hard as Dean to earn those six figures you get every year. Everything is so easy for you filthy old-money types."

Dean quietly chuckled. He loved it when she got all fired up because Greg always got the worst of it.

"And you!" She turned that heat on him. "You are just plain too smart for this shit. I swear, neither of you know what you've got, or appreciate it . . . or even deserve it. You have to play stupid dangerous betting games. You are swine."

"Maggie, don't," Dean groaned.

"Swine with too much money for our own good, Maggie. And a truly creative wager is always great fun." Greg's eyes stopped scanning the crowd. "Dean, my man, I found her. Four o-clock, about fifteen feet away, talking to old man Butler."

Dean squinted and shifted in his seat for a better look. "The blond in green?" He smiled thinking he'd gotten a real break, but what would be the challenge?

"No, no, the one in black, the fat brunette." Greg turned to his friend. "You up for it?"

Maggie gasped. "That's Taylor Dunkin. She's the woman who organized this dinner." Her face dropped. "Don't do this, guys."

Greg whistled. "And the stakes go up." He turned to Dean. "You up for it?"

"Give me a few minutes. I just may be." He watched the woman, her brown eyes sparkled with delight and her hands moved gracefully. She turned as someone slid behind her, no doubt congratulating her on the evening's success. Her face was pleasing, her demeanor, humble.

"Too fat for you, hey?" Greg laughed. "That's okay, I'll find something else."

"No, no. I get at least ten minutes to accept, right?"

"Right." Greg checked his watch, then raised his arm and handed the waiter a hundred dollars for another bottle of whiskey.

Maggie's eyes darted from her table companions to the woman in question. "Dean, you're not going to do this. Please, don't do this. I know this woman. She's sweet and a really kind, giving person."

Greg chuckled. "Well, she'll be giving one of us twenty-five grand when she -- "

"I will not be part of this shit any more!"

"Calm down Maggie." Dean held her hand tight. "I'm not going to hurt her, for Christ's sake. If I loose the bet, I'll give the money to the Kidney Foundation . . . and if I win, Greg will make the donation."

Greg scrunched his face, but noting Maggie's distress agreed. "It's harmless fun, don't be such a stick in the mud . . . no swine pun intended." He turned to Dean. "You taking the bet or not?"

Dean gazed at the woman. She wasn't obese, or even what he'd call fat, but she did carry a good thirty pounds more than the women he usually went for. He watched her move around the room. She was floating, moving as if on air. Her smile glowed and brightened everyone around her. Her hair shined like silk and her make-up was flawless. She was working her way toward them. Dean was reminded of a Botticelli painting. Taylor Dunkin had that ethereal, full-bodied, radiant kind of beauty. He really had gotten off pretty easy after all. Suddenly, bet or not, he wanted very much to know this woman in the biblical sense. She stirred his imagination and heat grew in his middle. She was getting closer. "State the bet."

"Spend the night with her. Tonight. Copulate with her. Bring back a personal possession of hers . . . and a used rubber."

Maggie gasped.

"You do it and I'll give the Kidney Foundation twenty-five thousand dollars. You fail; the donation comes out of your own pocket. Bet?"

"Bet!" They shook hands. Maggie stood abruptly, stomped away from the table and out of the door.

Dean looked after her. "She all right?"

"Don't worry about her, I'll fix it." He looked up with a wicked grin. "Your date has arrived."

Dean turned as Taylor Dunkin reached out her hand to him. He took it, it was soft and warm. "Ms. Dunkin. I'm Dean Pollard, and this is my associate, Greg Michelson."

"Oh, yes, Michelson Investments. Thank you so much for supporting the Foundation."

Greg shook her hand. "You've done a tremendous job here this evening."

"Thanks. I had so much help. It looks like we'll actually meet our goal."

"Well," his eyes twinkled. "Dean and I were just discussing that, and we've decided to pledge twenty-five thousand dollars." He gave a cheeky glance to his friend. Dean ignored him.

"Oh, my God! Twenty-five thousand! That's so generous of you. Thank you so, so much." She beamed.

"No, Ms. Dunkin. Thank you." Greg smiled and stood up. "Please, excuse me. I've got to go find my date. She keeps trying to run away from me." He chuckled and headed for the door.

Dean looked up at her and smiled. "Trouble in paradise, do you think?" She laughed. "Please, have a seat. I haven't seen you sit once since I got here."

She joined him and accepted a glass of wine from the waiter. "It does feel good to sit down. Are you having a good time, Mr. Pollard?"

"Call me Dean. May I call you Taylor?" She nodded, so he continued. "I am having a wonderful time. The food was excellent, and I was very impressed with Nolan Ryan's speech."

She gave a sweet giggle. "Well, I'm a great fan of two things. Really good food, and really good baseball. Put me in charge of anything and you'll eat well and talk major league pitching."

Dean watched her talk. He liked the way her voice moved gently up and down the scale. He even liked what she had to say. They quickly lost themselves in a languished friendly conversation, loosing track of time and her commitments. "Oh, Dean, I have to go! I have so much to do. It was really great to meet you."

He stood up with her. "Does that have to be it?"

She looked confused.

"What if I don't want to stop monopolizing you?" She smiled then looked across the room. "Tell you what, Taylor. Tell me what has to be done, and I'll help. That way you'll get finished quicker, and we can get back to -- "

"Ah, Dean, you don't have to help, you're a guest." The room was clearing out and many of the patrons were calling their farewells to her. She waved.

"I want to," he insisted.

Again, she looked puzzled.

"Then," Dean added smoothly. "I'd like to take you out for coffee . . . if that's all right."

"Sure, but there is so much to do. It's late," she protested.

"So, let's get to work." He took off his jacket, undid his black bow tie and began folding and stacking chairs with the other volunteers.

The work moved efficiently and quickly. Taylor fascinated him with her overwhelming charisma, the way she listened when he spoke, how she thought before responding. Her laugh was like gentle chimes and he liked that. Before he realized it, they were alone in her quiet house, and for a moment he couldn't even remember driving her there. Dean was bewitched and fascinated by that, thrilled that due to the lateness of the hour, Starbucks was closed tight. Besides, coffee wasn't really what he wanted. The buzz was on but he was far from drunk. When Taylor suggested a nice bottle of German Reisling, unopened in her refrigerator, he'd jumped at the idea.

w

As she fussed in the kitchen, Dean explored the lovely living room. It felt warm and inviting, decorated like his great-grandmother's with delicate doilies and pretty bric-a-brac. The room doubled as a home office, the phone, desk and computer tucked neatly in a windowed alcove. The window seat served as additional shelving and a work seat. He fingered stacks of typed papers, then lifted a few sheets and read.

Dean blinked then glanced toward the kitchen. He felt strange, like a voyeur, but what he was reading was one of the best short stories he'd ever seen; a short adventure in the Himalayas that immediately captured his imagination.

Taylor entered with two glasses and the wine. "This is great," he announced, holding out the sheets. "You tell me that you're a writer."

"Well I might have, if I thought I was a good writer. It's kind of a hobby." She smiled shyly and handed him a glass.

"You're kidding, right?" He accepted the wine then set it down, holding the pages in both hands. "This is good, Taylor. Really good."

"You like that one?"

"Well, it's the only one I've read. Are all of these short stories?"

She nodded, sipping her wine and shuffling the stacks.

"Are any of them published?"

"Nope," she sighed. "Never attempted such a thing."

"Well, this one certainly should be." She turned away and he gently took one of her arms and turned her to face him. "I think you should be published. You obviously love to write and you can tell a terrific story. If they're all as good as this one, you probably have an entire collection here; your first book is already written!" He handed her the sheets.

She put her hands over his. "You can keep this one."

Dean was deeply touched by the gift, realizing that it may be the most sincere and beautiful one he'd ever received. He carefully rolled the sheets and tucked them in to his jacket pocket.

It was late, the wine long gone and nearly three when she stood looking up into his eyes. He slowly tilted his head down and their lips met. Her mouth was soft and the scent of her drove him to want more. He wanted her wrapped around him like a blanket. His hands moved over her round shoulders to the place where her dress buttoned down the back. He wanted to know the shape of her, to feel her skin where he couldn't see it. He slowly undid three of the buttons and she moved away from his grasp, her eyes expressive.

"Dean, why me?" She asked then as if afraid to watch the answer, Taylor lowered her face, leaning her forehead against his chest, her hands resting on his ribs.

His heart thumped under her head. He looked down and smiled, thinking carefully about the words he would give her. As the answer formed, he gently released them like a soft cloud of confetti on to her soft hair. "Because Taylor, you are beautiful, and challenging, and intriguing." Then he thought for a moment and took her shoulders in his hands to push her to arms length. "Taylor," he asked, his eyebrows curled. "Why me?"

"Because," she spoke so softly that he had to lean close to hear. "I am lonely and it hurts . . . and I need to believe you."

He wrapped her in his arms protectively, his heart pounding, his body demanding, his mind racing. His mouth sought hers and his shaking fingers undid the remaining buttons. Taylor led him to her bedroom and for the first time in Dean's life, he didn't look around. He didn't care what kind of furniture she had or if she was neat. He only saw Taylor. Pretty. Shy. Sweet. Special.

It was nothing like he expected. He'd thought that screwing a woman was his specialty. Dean seldom spend a night alone, had toyed with a relationship now and again, even with Maggie. He didn't have commitment issues, he'd just never come across a woman he'd ever thought of committing to. His circle was filled with debutants and career climbers, shallow women-children who matched his own immaturity. For the first time in his life, Maggie's comment about growing up made sense. And Dean wanted to grow up; he had a woman in his arms worth growing up for.

Soft and willing in his hands, Taylor was extraordinarily responsive, subtly enticing and so endearing it made him smile. It made him want to bring her to her heights over and over and Dean found himself holding off his own satisfaction for what seemed like an eternity. When had that ever happened?

When he was finally received into her warmth, welcomed inch by inch, her arms and legs tender around him, Dean felt well beyond gratified. He was completely fulfilled. And he wondered, just before his ejaculation stole every once of his mind, what had he found inside Taylor Dunkin?

w

Dean pulled his jacket on in the soft early morning light. He sat gently on the edge of the bed and brushed a wisp of hair from Taylor's face. She glowed, her left breast pink and full just above the flowered sheet. Her eyes fluttered open and she pulled the sheet to her neck.

"Good morning, beautiful." Dean leaned down and kissed her fully, his hand wondering beneath the sheet to cup and caress that breast. He sighed. "I have to run, sweetheart. I have an eight o-clock tee off with Mr. Butler and his associates."

She stretched then leaned up on her elbows, her face unreadable.

"I'll call later. We'll go to dinner; DePalio's sound good to you?"

"You'll never get a table," she smiled.

"I'll get a table. Just watch me."

"I bet you can, but I can't go tonight. I have a dinner meeting with my staff tonight, well actually starting around four. Tie up all the loose ends, you know."

He blinked back his disappointment. "All right. I'll call you late tonight, around ten or eleven. Is that okay? I'd really like to see you again, Taylor."

She sat up and beamed. The sheet dropped, his lips moved to her breasts. He'd be late for his tee time, but it was well worth it.

Taylor sound asleep, satiated and snuggled deep in the bed, Dean gathered the used rubbers from the floor and sealed them in a zip-lock baggie he found in a kitchen drawer, then stowed them in his pocket before he left.

w

Sunday brunch at the country club was always an interesting event, but Dean was especially enjoying it that sunny afternoon. He looked around the dining room; all the usual peacocks were there. The entire Roderich troop was present and accounted for. He'd never seen a family so identical, even the women. Eight faces with the same large, polished front teeth, the same sandy gold hair, the same preference in gaudy golf attire. Amazing. Then there was old man Butler. It wasn't enough to have to spend three polite hours on the course with the old fart, but he had to watch Butler load his plate at the buffet and scold the waitress. Dean rolled his eyes and pushed his food around his plate with a fork. Where was Greg anyway?

"Dean, my dear financial wizard and very handsome friend!"

Dean looked up directly in to the turquoise eyes of flaming Freddy Benson. Fred had joined the country club fifteen years earlier disguised as a very straight up-and-coming businessman. Dean had handled several investments for Fred before discovering the secret. Fred came out of the closet only last year. He was wealthy, a heavy-hitting philanthropist and just what the club needed, a rich token gay.

"Hey, Fred. How are you doing this fine morning?"

"Delightful! Absolutely delightful. Oh, look, Spenser is here. Oh, Spenser." Freddy drifted off, not quite blending, his plaids brighter then the others'.

Dean looked at his watch. Two-thirty. Greg was a half-hour late. He'd give him another fifteen minutes then go home for some sleep he seriously needed. A smile played on his lips remembering why he was so tired.

"Bet you thought I'd let you off the hook." Greg thumped into the chair. He was still in his tuxedo; his shirt was wrinkled, stained with a spot of blood at his chest. His right eye was an ugly purple bruise.

"No, I knew you'd show."

"So, did you do it with the fat lady?"

Dean winced and sipped coffee. "Did you find Maggie?"

"Don't change the subject." The waiter took Greg's order. Coffee. Black. He drank deeply then turned his attention back to his friend. "Did you do her? Or was she just too much woman for you?" His laugh was an evil hiss.

"What about Maggie, did you find her?" Dean didn't look up.

"You didn't, did you?' He took another gulp of the strong coffee.

"Did you find Maggie, Greg?"

"Where the hell do you think I got the shiner? Oh, yeah, she's pissed. She'll get over it. Now tell me, did you do it? The bet was on."

Dean was silent, concentrating on the spoon in his coffee.

Greg chuckled. "Well, well. It's okay, my man. Just the thought of finding my way around all that human acreage turns my hung-over stomach. It's no big deal. Just twenty-five grand. And that . . . makes us even!" Greg was smiling like a mad man.

Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out the zip-lock baggie. He tossed it across the table, then unrolled the short story and slid the cover sheet across the table.

Greg rubbed his eyes and examined the proof. He sighed, slid the items back to Dean and took out his check book. He wrote the check and tucked it into Dean's empty cup.

"I'm out, Greg, this was the last bet." He tucked the check into his pocket.

Greg shook his head in disbelief. "No way. Damn it, Dean, I get a chance to break even."

Dean was silent, his face blank.

"One more bet, fifty-grand! You call it. Make it tough; after all, I deserve it."

Dean stood up.

"Dean, come on, man. You have to give me one chance, double or nothing. What ever you call, I'll take it!" He stood up and moved close to Dean. "Man," he whispered. "I know you must be really pissed off at me. She was a cow, but it was a bet, that's how the game goes."

"Greg, I quit," Dean hissed, controlling his growing irritation.

"No, damn it, you call it, I'll take it." Greg was agitated, his eyes glowing. "You call it!"

Dean wanted out, he wanted to run away, to bury himself in Taylor's arms and forget there ever was a game. Something caught his eye across the dining room. Purple plaid. He looked directly into Greg's face. "Freddy."

Greg swallowed hard and turned to see the gaudy gay man. Dean watched his friend, wondering what it would take to end the game, wondering if he'd in fact taken it as far as possible with the challenge. Sweat beaded on Greg's forehead and his eyes darted from his own hands to Freddy. He chewed his lip. "State the bet."

Dean was thrown! His blood pounded, the challenge was on. If Greg wanted to play one last round, he'd go along with it. It would be over, win or loose. He dropped a ten dollar tip on the table then looked at Greg. "Fifty grand. Win or loose, this is the last bet. Ever. You have twenty-four hours. You fuck Freddy, bring back a personal possession of his . . . and a used rubber." He glared, awaiting Greg's refusal.

"His or mine?" Greg put out his hand. Dean took it, shook, then left the club, sure that would be the end of it.

He didn't call Taylor that night. He fell asleep at nine and awoke in time for work the next morning. He went to his office with a plan, Taylor's story tucked carefully in a new manila folder. His first call for the day was to an old friend, Katherine Millicent, an editor at Random House Publishing.

"Kathy, just give it ten minutes. If you don't like it, tell me and I'll never ask you to read another thing again as long as I live."

"You never asked me to read someone's work before. Who's the author?" The sultry voice rolled off the receiver. He hadn't seen Kathy since college, but they'd spoken several times over the years. He remembered her as a lovely woman, but her voice was by far the most powerful feature of her personality.

"Just a friend. Well a new friend, maybe more than a friend. But she's a talented writer. Let me fax this to you. It's only ten pages, you can read it over your morning cappuccino, or on the can, or the elevator."

"All right, all right, Dean. I'll read it. Fax it. I'll call you."

"Yes!" He leapt from his chair and faxed the story, careful to withhold the cover sheet containing Taylor's name.

The morning moved slowly. He called Taylor's house twice but when her machine answered, he didn't leave a message. He'd rather hear her voice, not the recording. He'd rather have a conversation, one that would lead them back to her bed. He ached for her but his day just droned on and on. He ordered Chinese for lunch and just as he opened the box to dig out his first bite, the phone rang.

"Has anyone else seen this?" It was Katherine.

"You like it?" Dean dropped his chop sticks.

"Has anyone else seen it?"

"No."

"I need to talk to the author now, Dean, before anyone else gets to her. Does she have more work?"

"Tons of it," he was fidgeting in his seat. "I'll have her call you."

Katherine chuckled her low gurgling laugh. "Always the agent. Dean, she can probably take care of this deal without her financial adviser."

"No, no," he laughed. "Kathy, it's just that I'd like to tell her myself. I'll fax you her name and number, but just don't call her until tomorrow."

"Deal," Katherine sighed. "But I won't wait more than twenty-four hours on this."

"It's that good?"

"Uh-huh."

"I knew it!" Dean hung up and couldn't sit still. He dialed Taylor's number, but again the machine answered. He decided to just go and wait on her door step.

But as he opened his office door to leave, he was blocked. Greg stood still as a stone. His face was pale, dark rings around his eyes, the injured one had gone deep purple and green. Dean blinked, unable to speak. Greg reached into his right pocket and pulled out a used rubber. He dropped it near Dean's foot.

"That one's mine," Greg hissed and pulled another from of his right pocket and dropped it too. It landed directly on Dean's shoe; he shook it off as if it would burn him. "And, that one's his." He stepped dangerously close to Dean. "Oh, and do you like my new tie clip." Diamonds sparkled out the letters FB. Greg looked broken and violent at the same time.

Dean went to his desk, wrote out the fifty-thousand dollar check then tucked it into the diamond tie clip. He brushed past Greg and left the office. The game was over.

Driving to Taylor's house Dean was fighting a residue wave of nausea over the final bet. As he parked, he squeezed his eyes closed to eliminate any image of Greg and flamboyant Freddy. When he opened his eyes, they fell on the front bumper of Taylor's car. She was home. His heart thumped. He grabbed the folder, and the bunch of fresh white tulips he'd bought for her then climbed out of his car with a huge smile. He wondered how she'd react to the news about her story, how she would pour herself into his arms and . . .

Taylor's front door opened.

Dean blinked.

Maggie walked out of the house and directly up to him. All the blood seemed to drain from his body. Color faded from his vision. Maggie stood directly in front of him. He waited for her to speak, to explain her presence. Fear gripped him and his knees actually shook. But Dean's heart didn't crack until his life long friend gave him a hateful glare and spat on him then walked away.

Dean forced his legs to move, one step in front of another. He placed the manuscript and tulips at the foot of Taylor's door before he walked out of her life forever. Some things he just didn't deserve.

Eight months later, Dean purchased the first book by an exciting new author. It was a collection of short stories by Taylor Dunkin. At the very heart of the book was a bitter-sweet story entitled, 'The Bet'.