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, the survival of the human race might be a problem. So far, Julia hadn't met anyone she was eager to check off her list as a potential meet- again. Which was what she was supposed to do at night's end — identify any of the men she'd "dated" this evening as someone she might want to see a second time.

The men had a similar list of the participating women and were supposed to do likewise. Their hostess — in this case, a woman who owned a Manhattan dating service — would then compare the lists and see whose names corresponded with whose, and anyone who showed up on both lists would receive notification that there had been a spark of interest on both sides and given the opportunity to make further contact via e-mail.

So if, at the end of the night, Julia put a check mark on her list of men's names by, say, Armand 13 — as if — and if Armand 13 put a check mark on his list of women's names by Julia 6 — oh, please, God, no — then they'd both be given each other's e-mail addresses so that they might continue with their conversation, and, ideally, a romance. The way things were looking so far, however, Julia was reasonably certain tonight was going to be a bust. Which was okay. Sort of. Because she'd arranged to attend four of these things this month in order to get as full a view as possible for her story.

Gee, had she actually been thinking at first that it might be fun? Julia was beginning to wonder. Had she actually attended the story meeting with their editor in chief, Tess Truesdale, discussing the idea — three writers, three styles of alternative dating, no waiting — she could have won one of the other topics. Or maybe changed Tess's mind. Maybe —

Oh, who was she kidding? Had Julia attended the meeting, the outcome would have been no different. She and Abby Lewis and Samantha Porter — all in-house writers for the magazine — would have ended up with the same assignments. Once Tess decided to go with something, there was no stopping her from getting it. Woe betide anyone who thought she could change Tess's mind. No matter what went down in Tess's office that morning, Julia would still be sitting here, nursing her appletini, perusing her notes about unremarkable men, and wishing she was anywhere but —

"Hi. I'm Daniel 9."

She glanced up from her notes with a glib response on her tongue, but it dried up completely when she got a look at her next date. Mostly because there were better things to put on one's tongue than glibness. Like, for instance, Daniel 9.

His sandy hair was thick and tousled, unruly and long enough to let her know he wasn't obsessed with excessive grooming, but clean and combed enough to make clear his desire to look good. And, baby, did he look good, dressed in slightly faded but form-fitting blue jeans, a white oxford shirt open at the collar and a black blazer. His hazel eyes, an intriguing mix of gray and blue and green, reflected intelligence and good humor, as did the scant smile that curled his lips. Even seated as she was, Julia could tell he easily topped six feet, and that every last inch of him was lean and solid.

Oh, yeah. Continuation of the species was looking better and better. As was the species itself.

She extended her hand and hoped her palm wasn't as sweaty as the rest of her suddenly felt. "Julia 6," she said, introducing herself with her first name and her assigned number, as each of the fifty participants had been instructed to do.

Daniel 9 smiled, something that made Julia want to purr and rub against his leg. "Six and nine," he said as he slipped his hand into hers. "Now, why do I think those numbers would go so well together?"

She was so besotted by his dark, velvety voice, and so agitated by the frisson of heat that charged up her arm when her fingers connected with his, that she didn't even care he'd made such an adolescent remark. In fact, she was starting to suffer from a case of overactive hormones herself.

"Have a seat," she told him as she reluctantly released his hand.

He sat immediately, and she made a mental note of how obedient he was. They were off to a very good start as far as she was concerned.

"So what brings you to tonight's event?" she asked. Daniel 9 smiled again, and Julia did her best not to swoon. "It sounded like fun," he told her.And, to his credit, he actually sounded as though he meant it. "I haven't dated anyone seriously for a while, and I've been missing the companionship." He shrugged as if that weren't a big concern of his, but something in his eyes indicated otherwise. "A buddy of mine heard about this thing tonight," he concluded, "and invited me to tag along."

"And how's your evening been so far?" Julia asked. He pretended to give that some thought. "Actually, I don't think my evening started until I sat down at your table."

Oh, good answer, Julia thought. She was ready to start working on that continuation of the human race right now. She wondered if there was room for both of them under the table.

She smiled, and he smiled back, and suddenly, two hundred and forty seconds wasn't nearly enough. And then she realized she was wasting them by just sitting there ogling him. Oh, wait, no, she wasn't. There was no way a second could be wasted, provided she was within viewing range of Daniel 9.

"So tell me a little bit about yourself," she said.

"Well, I don't like piña coladas," he told her, "or getting caught in the rain."

"Excellent," she concurred. "I'm not much for either myself. So what do you like? Raindrops on roses? Bright copper kettles?"

"I can handle those," he said, "as long as you don't make me go bicycling through the Alps with a bunch of kids wearing lederhosen made out of curtains."

So he was familiar with The Sound of Music, Julia thought, putting another mental gold star by his name.

"What do you like to do in your spare time?" she asked. He lifted a shoulder and let it drop. "I don't know how to say it without sounding really boring," he said.

"Try me."

And, gosh, smart guy that he was, he totally picked up on her double entendre, because his smile this time was a little suggestive. Oh, goody.

"The usual stuff," he told her. "Movies, music, books, eating out."