“You have no romance,” Peggy said.

We had just made love on the bungalow’s Axminster broadloom carpet in the glow of the marble fireplace.

Nuzzling her neck, I said, “If that’s what you think, you haven’t been paying attention.”

“That’s not what I mean… Can we talk?”

I had not been married long enough to recognize the three deadliest words in the English language, known by husbands everywhere.

“Aren’t we?” I asked innocently. “Talking?”

Now she nuzzled my neck. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Ask me something?” I ran a hand along the smooth side of her, following the sensuous sweep down to her waist and up the swell of her swell hip. “Sure. Ask me anything.”

“Could we stay longer?”

“Where? California? Why?”

The violet eyes were wide and seemingly guileless. “Never mind why. Could we?”

I leaned on an elbow, watching the flames of the fireplace lick her, burnishing her supple curves. “Well, not at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I think we can squeeze a month, maybe a month and a half out of ’em. You got any idea what these bungalows go for, a night?”

“I know that. I just thought maybe we could rent a little place.”

“… You don’t mean you’d like me to work out of the L.A. office? Peggy, you can’t be serious…”

She was studying me, affectionately, a hand fiddling with my hair. “Why don’t we throw something on and go to the lounge?”

Polo Lounge, she meant.

Soon we were sharing one of the private booths overlooking the garden patio, the trees of which were festooned with twinkling lights. This was a week night, around eleven, and the place wasn’t all that busy. The only celebrity couple was Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, who-like us-were married and seemed deeply, hopelessly in love.

Peggy-in a pink pantsuit with shoulder pads that would have done Joan Crawford proud-sipped her stinger, cherry-lipsticked lips kissing the red plastic straw, and I worked on my rum cooler, wondering what was on her mind.