The maître d’ smiles – a little too knowingly – and disappears into the dining room.

Good one, Kris! Why not just grab a bullhorn and scream out, MISTRESS ALERT! MISTRESS ALERT!

I continue berating myself while I wait for Michael. All I can hope is that he’ll be more surprised than angry and not the other way around.

But it’s not Michael who appears from the dining room a few moments later.

It’s the maître d’ again.

“HEWHAT? ”

“Mr. Turnbull asked that you join him at his table,” repeats the maître d’.

I look at the guy so sideways I nearly lose my balance. “Are you sure about that?”

“Very.”

The next thing I know I’m being led to the back of the dining room. It dawns on me. This is sooo Michael.

So confident. So in control.

So much why I love him.

It’s no surprise he runs such a successful hedge fund. He never met a risk he couldn’t minimize.

“Ah, there she is!” he says.

It’s a large round table and yet there’s little doubt as to who’s sitting at the head. Michael stands up from his chair, flashing his killer smile. As he walks over to me, wineglass in hand, he throws the maître d’ a quick wink as if to say, I’ll take it from here.

He certainly does.

“Kristin, come meet my friends from the Royal Queen Bank of Sweden.” Michael turns to the table and actually puts his arm around me. “Gentlemen!” he announces. “Jag vill att ni alla möter min sekreterare, Kristin.”

I blush slightly as the entire group – all men and each blonder than the next – proceeds to raise wineglasses and smile. They don’t look like bankers; they look like a rowing team.

An inebriated one at that.

I wait for the guys to resume their revelry before leaning toward Michael and whispering, “What did you say to them?”

“I told them you were my love slave.”

“Ouch. A little too close to the truth, don’t you think?”

“I’m kidding,” he says. “I introduced you as my secretary. It is what you told the maître d’, after all.”

“Sorry about that. Not too believable, huh? I said ‘assistant,’ by the way.”

“Better than claiming to be my niece, I suppose.”

“Funny, the thought did cross my mind.”

Michael shakes his head, amused. “Hey, kiddo, I’m forty-two, not sixty-two.”

“Thank God for that,” I say.

I watch him calmly take a sip of his red wine, his hand steady as a rock. Amazing. Not only doesn’t he flinch when I unexpectedly appear at his business dinner, he invites me back and introduces me to his clients, all nine of them.

That’s balls.

That’s Michael.

“So, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure, Madame Secretary?” he asks.

“I needed to see you,” I say. I don’t elaborate, of course. I can’t get into it right here. I wouldn’t even know where to start.

“You know I was going to call you later, right?”

“Yes.” I half smile. “I guess I couldn’t wait.” I pant a little against his ear.

“Ooh, I like the sound of that. Check, please. ”

Before I can say anything more, Michael turns back to the table and shows off some more of his Swedish. Again, I have no idea what he’s saying.

But when he finishes, everyone reaches for a pen.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY to them this time?” I ask.

I’m following Michael out of the dining room. He answers over his shoulder, “I’ll tell you in the limo.”

We 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.

“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 Vincent to have him come back and drive me home. Putting down his BlackBerry, he begins to fidget with his tie.

“Here,” I say. “Let me do that.”

As I flip up his collar and straighten the knot – always a double Windsor – he gently caresses my cheek.

“I love you. I adore you. You know that, right?” he asks.

“Do I?”

“You better.”

I give him “the Look,” the same look I’ve been giving him for months now. He knows what’s coming next and playfully rolls his eyes.