CHAPTER ONE

      WHEN SHE HEARD THE BELL RING, Julia’s first instinct was to come out of her corner swinging. Which was a perfectly appropriate response. Because seated as she was in a bar full of people, wearing her favorite dress fashioned of black lace over pink charmeuse, armed with an appletini (and not afraid to use it), she was here to meet men. And lots of them.

      Speed-dating. The words echoed in her head—though it was Tess’s voice saying them—as Julia awaited the arrival of her first victim…ah, date, she meant, of course. Who had come up with such a concept, anyway? Maybe she should explore the genesis and history of the phenomenon, too, as she researched her article for Tess magazine. See if she could find out just where the whole idea of dating en masse for four-minute increments had originated.

      Then again, speed-dating was a good description for Julia’s own alleged love life. In the five years since she’d graduated from college, she hadn’t dated anyone for more than a few months. Usually, the guys she went out with disappeared after a few dates. And there had been one or two she wished hadn’t lasted more than a few minutes.

      Even her college boyfriend, whom she’d dated for more than a year, had been surprisingly easy to get over after he’d dumped her for the captain of the gymnastics team, telling Julia that the whole double-jointed thing was going to be such a boon to his sex life. The joke had been on him, though. It had been sweater-weather at the time, so it had taken a couple of weeks for him to discover that gymnasts have no breasts, and by that point, Julia was so over him.

      Since then, however, even her breasts hadn’t been enough to keep guys around. Or maybe the scarcity of a long-term relationship had been more due to her demand that she be treated with respect and dignity. Hard to tell. Men never seemed able to distinguish between honoring the breasts and honoring the woman.

      She shoved a handful of shoulder-length, medium brown hair over one spaghetti-strapped shoulder—thankfully, the September evening had cooperated with her wardrobe by being balmy and dry—fluffed up her overly long bangs, and hoped she hadn’t applied her glittery eye shadow and lip gloss too heavily. She wasn’t normally one to wear a lot of makeup, but something about tonight’s event had made her drop into a Sephora store on the way home from work last night and spend more than she should have on stuff she’d probably never use again.

      Or maybe she’d just wanted to adopt a disguise of sorts. The prospect of meeting so many men in one sitting had generated a desire in her to never be recognized on the street. It didn’t matter that eight million other people lived in New York, or that one rarely even saw one’s next door neighbors in this city. With her luck, every man she met tonight would be standing in line in front of her at Starbucks in the morning. Treating this like a masquerade had seemed like a good idea.

      The first man on her list, Julia saw as she glanced down at her roster of prospective mates for the evening, was Randy 6. Well, now. That sounded promising. It had been a while since Julia had had any six…uh, sex. The way she was starting to feel, the randier Randy 6 was, the better.

      According to the rules of the game—which the hostess had handed to Julia as she registered for the event, and which Julia had researched even before she arrived—she would have the opportunity to meet twenty-five men tonight. Each “date” would last approximately four minutes, starting and ending at the sound of a bell, with another minute in between for people to move from one table to the next. For the first half of the event—which was being held in the Starlight Roof of the Waldorf-Astoria—the women would be seated at tables and the men would flit from place to place. Then there would be a short intermission for “mingling,” followed by another round of “dating,” this time with the men seated and the women flitting. It would either be a lot of fun or phenomenally irritating. Julia had yet to decide which.

      But she got her first clue—not to mention a jolt of disappointment—when Randy 6 sat down. He looked more like Somethingthecat 8. And then deposited in the litter box. Somehow, Julia managed to curb the urge to strike a line through his name in his presence.

      “So. Randy,” she began after they’d introduced themselves, already mentally counting the seconds. Just how many were there in four minutes, anyway? She did some quick math. Two hundred and forty? That many? She’d never survive. “Tell me a little bit about yourself.”

      There. That ought to kill a few dozen seconds at least.

      “I don’t get out much,” Randy 6 said, thereby killing roughly two. Not to mention Julia’s appetite. On the up side, her desire for a drink was skyrocketing.

      “Well,” she tried again, her fingers inching toward her appletini, “you’re here now, aren’t you?”

      “My mother made me come,” Randy 6 said. “She’s over there.”

      Then, to Julia’s amazement, he turned in his chair and waved at a middle-aged woman on the other side of the room, who, like Julia, was sitting at a table speed-dating. The woman waved back, then made a spinning motion with her hand and mouthed something that even Julia could read as, Turn back around and talk to her, you big jerk.

      Wow. Speed-dating with one’s mother. That gave new meaning to the term “Keeping it in the family.” A really icky meaning, too.

      “I see,” Julia said.

      Hard as it was to believe, the conversation only deteriorated after that, and she worried that her session with Randy 6 was going to set a precedent for the entire evening. Sure enough, her next three dates—Ryan 4, Ernesto 18 and Jack 24—were only marginally more scintillating than Randy 6. But the next two, Armand 13 and Michael 19, were relatively interesting. Unfortunately, it was relative to Randy 6. In spite of that, Julia made a quick, surreptitious notation in her notebook about each of the men between rings of the bell, as she awaited the arrival of her next victim…ah, date, she meant, of course. For the two allegedly interesting candidates, she wrote, respectively:

      If he were the last man on earth, there might at least be hope, if not an actual likelihood, that the human race could continue.

      Says Angelina Jolie is too good-looking, but I’m pretty sure he’s lying. Still, could just be being ironic, so might be worth a second look.

      She took a second to flip through her notes. If Armand 13 was as good as it got tonight,