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interest. She hit Send and took a deep breath. She would see what he wrote back. If he even wrote back.
    * * *
    Jackson looked at the smiling woman sitting across from him as he signaled the waiter for the check. He hoped the parting wouldn’t be too awkward, although he didn’t really know a nonawkward way of telling someone you had no intention of seeing them again. The submissive he’d met through his personal ad had fudged a little on the “fit” descriptor. She’d fudged a little on the age too. She was in her midfifties, he guessed. She actually looked similar to some of his mom’s friends back home, except that his mom’s friends didn’t call him Master and outline all the ways they’d provide service to him.
    He suppressed a shudder. He just wanted to get out of this situation with minimum damage to her psyche—and his. He waved off her offer to split the check and threw down some bills, anxious to leave the restaurant before she asked for his number, or worse, volunteered to come back to his place.
    “Can I get you a cab?” he asked, trying to infuse his voice with an unmistakable, but gentle, finality.
    “I drove.” Her gaze showed the humiliation she felt, even though her words were loud and cheerful. “It was certainly nice to chat with you.”
    He tried to summon up a true smile. It was the least he could do for her in the face of his total rejection. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Myra. I just think I’m not it.”
    She nodded. “I suppose. I hope you find what you’re looking for too.”
    His mind flew to Prosper, to movement and shyness and mystery. “I hope so too.” They shared a stiff hug. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
    “No. I’d rather you didn’t. Good-bye, George.” She turned her back on him and walked away. After a moment he turned in the other direction toward his house, trying to shake off pangs of guilt. Why should he feel like the villain? She was the one who had answered his ad, purporting to be something she was not. She wasn’t fit; she wasn’t anywhere near the age range he’d specified. Her hair was salt-and-pepper, not red. She was too slavey, too spineless to interest him anyway. Too desperate.
    But then he was desperate too. Why else would he even be trying this? Did he really expect to meet a decent woman this way? What kind of woman would look for a partner in the personal ads? Then again, he was looking for a partner in the personal ads, and he was basically normal. Mostly normal, apart from all the kink stuff he liked to do. But it wasn’t worth it, not if he was going to end up in situations like this, meeting with people who were completely wrong for him and then feeling guilty for blowing them off. He wasn’t even going to be in New York for very long. Better to just delete the ad and rely on porn for the few months he’d be here. Porn and fantasies of Prosper. No one else would live up to her anyway, so what was the point?
    He bounded up the stoop and into his house, determined to delete his ad before he changed his mind. He logged on to the Web site and found another message in his box from someone named Julie. He moved the mouse, the pointer hovering over the Delete button, but then curiosity got the best of him, and he opened it.
    George,
    My name is Julie. Fit, red hair too.
    I’ve never answered an ad before,
    but your pitch sounds appealing.
    He stared at the message. Short and abrupt, nothing like Myra’s meandering essay. He tapped his finger on the mouse, considering. Yesterday he would have been thrilled about the possibilities, but now he was skeptical. Was she worth the risk of another awkward meeting? But she met his criteria—or claimed to—and obviously wanted to know more. Fit, red hair too . He thought of Prosper, of all the things he dreamed of doing to her. If he could find someone like her, perhaps it would ease the ache just enough to make it bearable. His resolve began to ebb, and he clicked the