Chapter One

"Have a drink with me," he smiled. It wasn't a question or a request. I knew very well that it was a demand.

I shook my head. "No, I can't. It's unprofessional," I was surprised that I was able to hold my own around him; he was so charismatic, so charming. I was sure no one had resisted his wishes. I knew my strength was only temporary, and the thought of alcohol made me dizzy.

"But you're not in an interview," he said, leaning in closer toward me. His right index finger was tracing circles around his martini glass, the other one stretched out toward my own. All I had to do was move a fraction of an inch and our hands would be touching.

The thought was tempting; it was hard to ignore the electricity sparking off of him.

I raised my eyebrow and smirked at him. His dazzling smile diminished, and he sat back again.

I scoffed. "Great."

"What?" He asked, taking a sip of his martini, his dark eyes never leaving my own.

"You don't trust me, do you?" I asked. "Because I'm a reporter."

He smiled as he set his drink down. He didn't say anything; he just sat there and stared. I sighed, nervous, and looked away, focusing my attention on my hands. I folded them together, pulling them away from the heat I could feel radiating from him. What was he thinking? I tried to force his mind to open up, but to no avail. I continued to look at my hands, feeling the heat of his gaze on me. The blood rushed to my cheeks, making my face hot.

"Do you write other things besides articles? Do you write novels?"

"I've been trying to write one," I said shyly, never lifting my eyes from my folded hands. "But it's not going well."

"I'm sure that's not true," he said with a chuckle, taking a sip of his drink. "So," he said, inching toward me again. I began to wonder if he was doing that unconsciously or on purpose. Whatever the reason, I didn't care at the moment, just as long as he was near. "What types of novel are you trying to write?"

I didn't answer right away. After a few long moments that seemed like half an eternity, I looked back up. He was closer to me than I would have expected, his face so close to mine that I could feel his breath on my face; his eyes were a burning, liquid onyx. My breath caught in my throat and my head swam. I had to force myself to form a coherent thought.

I couldn't think of anything clever to say, so in a hoarse voice, I said, "Guess."

He liked that. The smile that broke across his face seemed to light up the room. It was too dazzling. It stunned me even more; I was paralyzed, in shock. I couldn't move, I couldn't think, I couldn't breathe. All I could see was that beautiful smile.

"Hm," he said, narrowing his eyes and looking off into space. The fingers of his left hand slowly traced the contours of his chin and jaw. "Please tell me you're not the type of writer whose characters always have burning loins."

His joke was almost lost on me; I was so focused on his smile. I realized what he had said in time, though, and managed an appreciative chuckle.

"Bodice-rippers?" I smiled and laughed again, shifting my gaze to the alcohol stocked behind the bar. "Hardly."

He laughed. "Good. You're too sophisticated for that genre, anyway."

The compliment was unexpected, and I wasn't sure how to accept it. I immediately felt when his gaze had shifted from me. My face was suddenly cooler; it was both a good and a bad feeling. I was sure my face was beet red, and the coolness felt wholesome on my cheek. But I still wanted him to look at me.

I turned my head the slightest bit toward him so that I could get a better look. I tried to stop my heart from beating so hard against my ribs, but I couldn't.

He was beautiful, a Greek Adonis in a sea of people who all looked the same after a while. For the first time, I really noticed his outfit. It was expensive clothing, I knew that much when I had first seen him, but I never had the chance to see it up close: he was wearing a black, button-up collared shirt with dark brown slacks and a belt. Over the shirt he wore a tan blazer with horizontal brown stripes decorating it, complete with black patented dress shoes and an expensive silver watch on his right wrist.

I let my eyes wander to his face. His skin was so smooth, so soft, a stunning light bronze color; there was scruff along his jaw line and his chin. His lips were full and a shade pinker than his skin, and his hair was a chocolate brown, falling a little bit past the ears. It was straight, but there were natural waves around the crown. I had an overwhelming desire to reach out and touch it.

Just as I was in the middle of a battle of wills, he chose the moment to turn back to me and speak again.

I dropped my gaze down to the countertop so that I wouldn't have to look at him; he was too handsome. If I looked at him while he spoke, I wouldn't hear him. To my surprise, the countertop was glass, and reflective. My efforts not to see him were useless; I saw him anyway, and he was staring at me, toying with the Spanish olive in his glass. His eyebrows were raised, looking at me expectantly. I continued to watch him, and saw that a small smile formed on his lips. He never took his eyes off me.

He cleared his throat, and I looked up at him before I could convince or force myself not to. "What is it that you write? You never told me."

"Well," I cleared my own throat, trying to gather my wits, "as a reporter, I write stories I'm assigned during staff meetings. I'm always carrying around a pen, a pad of paper, a camera, and a recorder. As for novels, sometimes I just don't have the patience."

He leaned in again and I caught the smell of him.

Too much. It's too much.

He nodded. "So that's how it works?"

I was confused. My face showed it.

He laughed; it was a sweet, melodic, deep laugh. It was incredibly sexy. "What I meant was the articles. I never knew that you were assigned stories."

I nodded, too afraid to speak.

"So…" He took another Spanish olive off of a toothpick, eating it slowly, seductively.

"So you're here right now with me, because you're trying to get information?" He had a strained look about him now that I didn't like. He was suspicious, careful. I knew he would think that. I shook my head.

"No?" He asked, his eyes searching mine. He must have found something there, something that let him know that I was telling half the truth. His expression relaxed.

I swallowed hard. "No. I'm not here trying to do behind-the-scenes work. I was joking before. Poorly, I might add. I…I just…" My voice cut off. I couldn't tell him why I was really here: that I left with him from where we last met in his office simply because he asked me to. Even if he hadn't, I'm sure I would have followed him here anyway.

He cocked an eyebrow, waiting for me to finish my explanation.

"I didn't want to be rude. You invited me, so I came. No interviews, though, remember? I wouldn't do that to you, to anyone. I wouldn't blackmail someone like that. Contrary to popular belief, there are journalists who actually care about the people in their stories," I had found my voice a little easier this time.

He smiled, a hint of sarcasm in this one. "So I'm just a person in one of your stories?"

"No, I mean, yes, but I didn't mean it that way. I meant to say that---"

He smiled again, the grin spreading slowly across his face. "I know. I'm pulling your leg. Lighten up. Please, have a drink."

I opened my mouth to speak, but I words didn't come out. Finally, they came.

"You…you must be used to reporters. I mean, I've seen you in the papers all the time."

He nodded and looked down at the glass bar top, toying with the olive in his glass. "Yes, I'm used to the interview process and the like. But I have to admit that I'm always a little bit afraid of being stalked. I mean, that sounds so pretentious," he laughed, taking the last swig of his martini.

"No, I understand what you mean," I said.

"I don't mean to say that I think I'm that important, but…there's a certain level of privacy that I like to maintain in my life. I'm always worried that someone is going to take that away from me."

He was looking at me now, really looking at me. The smile on his face was gone, and I could tell that whatever he was thinking, it was probably along the lines of me and whether or not I would be the one to expose his personal life.

"I wouldn't do that to you," I reassured him again, wanting so badly to take his hands into my own. "I promise. I consider myself to be extremely professional, and I would never use anything you tell me to blackmail you."

He didn't say anything, his eyes grazing over my face.

My head was swimming with different thoughts and emotions. It was hard to sort them all out, one by one, to differentiate between what was real and what I hoped was real. I realized that my gaze had slipped to his lips. I tried to look back at his eyes, but he had noticed where my attention had momentarily shifted to.

"You want to kiss me," he stated. A simple fact, but it was true. I was surprised by how well he already knew my intentions, no matter how little he actually knew about me as a person. Maybe I was wrong to be startled, maybe I should have seen it coming, but I hadn't. I stumbled over my words, trying to amend my embarrassment.

"No, I was---you have a little bit of, of something…" I scratched at the middle of my bottom lip to indicate that this was the spot on his lips where some piece of stray food had sat. He humored me and licked the imaginary food off of his lip.

My heart went into overdrive. The way his tongue snaked across his own mouth made me want to feel it on mine. The desire was almost unbearable at this point.

He laughed and ordered another martini for him, a cosmopolitan for me.

"I told you I can't drink."

"You're on my time now, not your boss's. It's perfectly fine."

"Yes, but I'm still with a…a client, I can't just---"

"Ssh," he hushed. "Don't worry; I won't let this leak to your superiors. My lips are sealed," he made a mocking notion of locking his lips and throwing away the key.

I decided to give up my fight with him. Maybe I needed to have a little in me. Perhaps it would calm me down.

Or maybe you'll be saying things you shouldn't be.

Shut up.

The bartender handed us our drinks and there was a bit of an awkward silence between the two of us. I wondered if this guy was also psychic, because Cosmos were my preferred beverage.

"So, Mr. Hurst," I began.

"No, no, this is not an interview. How many times do I have to remind you of that? Call me Ben. And no questioning me, you get to do that enough already, so stop being polite. I'll do the questioning."

I was stunned into silence. I didn't even try to fight back. Chuckling, I swallowed a large gulp of my drink, feeling the burning sensation of the alcohol as it traveled down my throat and settled in my belly.

"So you write whatever your boss tells you to write? Isn't that a bit, I don't know, elitist? I figured writers would choose what they wanted to write. I've never known any writer to be that passive. What would be the fun in reporting something you're not even interested in?"

I shook my head, downing another gulp. Liquid courage would be helping me tonight. "Elitist? Hah. Not exactly. As a staff writer for the News section of the paper, sometimes I'm assigned a story, but only when I don't pick a story of my own to write. I'll call a story that I'm really interested in. There's no fun in writing about something you couldn't care less about, believe me. You've got to suck it up, though. It's a means to an end. As for side-work, yes, I have been trying to write a novel, but it's going horribly and if I can get it done, rest assured there will be no burning loins," I laughed and was glad when I heard his laughter intertwine with mine: it was melodic, beautiful even. We were baritone and alto.

"Can I read it sometime, this novel of yours?" He asked, suddenly very interested.

"You mean, if I finish it?" I grimaced. "I don't think so. Spare yourself the mental harm, really."

"C'mon," he nudged my right forearm lightly with the elbow of his left, "it's not like I'm a professional critic. And I'm sure you're too hard on yourself. I've read one or two of your articles and thought they were very well written."

"Thank you," I blushed, sure that he was lying, "but an article and a novel are two very different things."

He nodded, swallowing. I watched as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his throat.

What would it feel like to kiss his neck?

Oh, for crying out loud, cut it out!

"Okay. But if you ever want some feedback from a regular person, you can always ask me. I'll stop with the antagonizing. You're not on a job interview, I'm sure you don't want me asking about your job."

I smiled and looked down at my hands, which had busied themselves by grasping the edges of my glass.

"I don't know you well enough really to ask you personal questions, so small talk will have to do, if you're up for it."

I smiled and looked back at him for a fleeting second, my brain in scatters again. I nodded that I was up and ready for it. He sighed and shifted in his seat, turning his body toward me. He placed his hands flat on the countertop and looked at me with a new fire in his eyes.

"Lightening round: answer as fast as you can. Ready?"

Why did I agree to this?

I nodded again.

"Name?"

I rolled my eyes. "You know that."

He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. "Name," he repeated.

I sighed. "Natalie Griffin."

"That's better. Now no more stalling. Age?"

"A lady never tells her age."

Again the look with the narrowed eyes.

I sighed. "Fine. Twenty three."

"Birthplace?"

"San Diego, California."

We went on like that for almost an hour. I answered as fast as I could, not understanding why he liked to play this game. I wasn't at all interesting. He was too polite, despite the sense of power and intimidation that seemed to emit from his very essence.

He was a different person than the strict business man I had met earlier today. He was kind and he had a wonderful sense of humor. He was more open, but not too open. After all, I was still a reporter---a potential enemy. And yet, all at the same time, he was charismatic and dominant…in a very good way. After we both had another drink, he decided it was time to go on home.

"You left your car at my office. I'll have to call you a cab. You can't be driving if you've been drinking."

I smirked sardonically at him. "You're the one who made me drink."

"You still had free will," he joked with mocking patronization.

"Ha!" I snorted. I liked this playful, teasing side of him.

He stood up gracefully and held his hand out for me to hold as leverage. Not quite expecting the gesture and not sure what to do, I stared at his open palm.

"It's okay," he assured, his eyes that blazing, liquid onyx color again. "I don't bite."

I tried to smile but couldn't. I placed my hand in his and was almost overcome with the sensation of heat and electricity that ran through my fingertips, to the rest of my hand, up my arm, and throughout my body. I was on fire.

It took all the concentration I had to step down off that bar stool. I was clumsy with my head and heart in shambles, and my foot got caught in the ringed bar at the bottom of the stool. I lunged forward and he caught me.

I found my cheek against the hardness of his chest, felt my right hand gripping his tightly for support, and my left arm hooked around his slim hips. My right foot was still caught in the steel bar, and I forgot about it until I felt him reach down and gently untangle it himself.

"Thank you," I said, clearing my throat and trying to stand up straight.

He chuckled. "One too many drinks? Or are you intoxicated by my presence?"

"Too many drinks," I answered quickly.

He laughed and his tone was ironic. "Let's get you home. I don't understand how you're so woozy after only two drinks."

He stood me up straight, pulled my left arm over his shoulder, and placed his right hand around my waist for support. I really didn't need the help, but I wasn't about to protest. Wherever he touched me, there was a fire; it was so hot that it actually felt ice cold. I loved the sensation.

"I'm a lightweight," I muttered, trying to stifle the giggles that were bubbling in my throat. He was actually touching me---holding me, even---and the awareness of it was almost too much to bear. I wondered for a brief second if he could feel the vibrations of my heart as it beat furiously upon the barrier my ribcage provided.

As we stood there waiting for the cab he had called for me to arrive, I was busy entertaining thoughts of gathering up the courage to ask him back to my place. I knew I couldn't---wouldn't---actually ever work up the courage to ask, but somehow I had gathered up a small glimmer of hope.

When my cab arrived, my heart shattered when he looked at me with those glistening, onyx eyes and whispered, "I'll see you on Monday. Enjoy your weekend, Miss Griffin."