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bolt from the restaurant and Michael takes my hand. Then he lets go right away — and starts to yell.
    Not at me, though. He’s screaming at a street person urinating against the side of the building. “You piece of shit, you moron, you walking obscenity!”
    He pushes the man, and his face hits the brick wall. I look away. This is the thing about Michael that I don’t like at all — his temper. It doesn’t show itself often, but when it does,
look out.
    I walk on ahead and he catches up, takes my hand again. “Sorry, Kris, sorry,” he whispers. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
    A little way down the street, his driver, Vincent, is already out of the company limousine and he opens the rear door for us. I didn’t even notice he was parked there when I arrived.
    “Here, Vin,” says Michael, handing him a folded hundred-dollar bill. “Can you buy me a pack of Luckies, please?” Michael doesn’t smoke.
    Vincent, a large man who looks as if he just walked off the set of
The Sopranos,
gives a quick and firm nod. Enough said. He closes the door behind us and promptly gets lost.
    Michael and I settle into the plush leather backseat. He dims the lights so they’re just right.
    “Alone at last,” he says, stroking my hair. “I’m
really
sorry about back there.”
    “It’s okay. You’re too protective, that’s all.” I give him a playful poke to the chest. “Okay, so now tell me: why did everyone at the table offer you a pen?”
    “It’s called, God is in the details.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    Michael unbuttons my jacket and begins to kiss my neck. He’s a terrifically good kisser, and massager, and tickler.
    “I told them my secretary had brought some contracts that I’d forgotten to sign earlier today back at the office.”
    He slides his hand underneath my sweater, unhooking my bra.
    “Then, for good measure, I told them I didn’t have a pen on me. Suddenly, they’re all so busy looking for one that they never bother to wonder if I’m actually telling the truth.”
    He cups my left breast, caressing it slowly. He’s a good breast cupper and caresser too. Michael definitely has the touch.
    “That’s what separates the good liars from the bad ones — going the extra mile, adding that little nuance.
Details,
my dear.”
    “You’re crazy, you know that?” I say.
    “Crazy for you, anyway.”
    Then Michael reaches down and begins to unbutton my jeans. I can feel myself getting wet and incredibly hot.
    Wait. Stop. Hold it.
    “Michael, there’s something I have to tell you about —”
    But I only get partway into the sentence before he covers my mouth with his. He kisses me deep and hard, and I get caught up even more in the moment. He feels so good, and I feel so safe in his arms. And, need I say,
sane.
    We fall back against the length of the seat, the leather cool and enticing to the touch. He pulls off my jeans, and I help him out of his trousers. His hand slowly travels up my thighs, over my stomach, around my chest, his fingers barely grazing my skin.
    “God, you’re amazing,” he says. “So soft, so sweet. So
not
Penley.”
    I wrap my legs around Michael tightly as he enters me, and I don’t let go of him until I come.
    I feel dizzy and wonderful and I never want the feeling to end.
    Not ever.
    This
is no dream.

Chapter 17
    “SO, WHAT DID YOU WANT to tell me?” asks Michael, tucking in his shirt. “Did something happen today? Something good, I hope. That gallery called?”
    But somehow I don’t feel like a postsex conversation. Honestly, what happened today seems too crazy to talk about now. I feel embarrassed. I’m also whipped.
    “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” I say. “You’ve got to get back to your dinner.”
    He grasps my hand. “Are you sure?”
    I nod. “Pens or no pens, your guests might be a little suspicious by now.”
    “That, or just more drunk.”
    I laugh and he smiles.
God, I’m still helpless in front of that smile of his.
    Michael pages