My Valentine phoned early in the evening. She's the most seductive woman I've ever met. Lithe as a vine, supple as a peach, she has a wraparound smile that just makes things happen. What's so disarming about her isn't her soulful beauty, however, it's her soulful music.

As we spoke, in the background, I could hear the smooth riffs of Charles Brown's Someone To Love. Clifford Solomon's smoky sax and Charles' fluid grace on piano are both warm and chilly, like getting splashed with cold water while partially submerged in a warm bath.

Rendezvous
I ripped on over to her house for a Valentine's fun. We jump into my Mercedes 450 SL (Hey, it's my fantasy). She pops into the CD player Cannonball Adderley's funky Mercy, Mercy, Mercy. Cannonball and pianist Joseph Zawinul are laying down a beat like a housecat, fat and happy, and the night's tempo begins to pick up.

Dinner
We're late for our restaurant reservation, but the captain doesn't seem to mind. He's totally cool in his tuxedo as he seats us and the room's sound system plays The Legendary Stockholm Concert by the Miles Davis Quintet with John Coltrane. I order Veuve Cliquot and our champagne glasses clink as we toast to what's ahead. If her aqua colored eyes weren't so intoxicating I might be distracted by how far Coltrane is pushing the usually straight-laced melody of Miles' So What?

Nightclubbing
Holding hands we cruise down the street to her favorite nightclub. She loves a Sazerac cocktail, and since I only picked at my meal, I order the same. The night is starting to find its feet; in fact, her shoes are off and she's rubbing my ankle. Singer Joyce leads the house band and she's catting her way through Ella Fitzgerald's version of Lady is A Tramp before doing a meow with Louis Armstrong's strong classic Too Darn Hot.

The night is alive.

We need to dance.

Dancing
We swing across the street to an old ballroom where a low-key big band is rolling into a Dizzy Gillespie composition, That's Earl, Brother. The fellow on vibes is doing his best Milt Jackson imitation and we're cutting the rug, doing the Cha-Cha and the Foxtrot, and swinging into each other's arms as if there is no tomorrow.

We slow down, toe to toe, when the band finishes out its set with Oscar Peterson's Night Train. It's a blast when they come back for an encore, Ray Charles' When your Lover Has Gone.

My feet are hurting and if I have any more Sazeracs, they'll have to call France for more Pernod. My Valentine suggests we go back to her estate and cool out.

I thought she'd never ask.

Back Home
She lowers the lights, a fire cackles softly, and I listen to the arias of The Very Best of Jackie Wilson.

The world has just gotten very quiet. She's changed from her evening dress into satin pajamas, and she shifts the CD to Dexter Gordon's, Dexter Calling.

Wow, I'm dazed like a sunstroke Legionnaire. The moon's full. No more talking.

We're comfortable on the couch and things start to happen.

We happen to fall asleep, that is. Maybe it was the Sazeracs, or all the dancing, or maybe the bossa nova sounds of Stan Getz's Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars that she put on at the very end.

It's ok.

We've all the time in the world, and sometimes the greatest romance is the part before the kiss.