Carefully, very carefully, I put down my wine glass.

"Aren't you?" I asked, daring him to challenge me. To lie. "Surrounded by peers, colleagues and staff, but no one who's close to you? And before you think to interject about your ex-wife, I doubt she really knew you."

His lips quirked but there was a flicker of temper beneath the humour. "She did write those books, didn't she?"

"A memoir is still a degree of fiction, isn't it? A one-sided truth with no one to contest or argue the veracity?"

"Did you read them?" Apprehension? Reservation? I couldn't be sure what I was sensing beneath the words, only that the questions was as loaded as a six-shooter aimed at his soul.

"No," I said honestly. "Not my cup of tea. Regardless of how...gossip worthy."

His eyes danced around me, to the sea of faces, some of who were trying their damndest not to look our way, and only then did I realize the crux of why he had appeared so tense when first arriving. He wasn't uncomfortable being in a crowd, but being in the face of public scrutiny. I felt a little flutter of regret and guilt sour what had otherwise been an incomparable meal.

"They were pretty salacious." Those eyes returned to me and gave no hint of his earlier misgivings.  

"Oh I don't dispute that, otherwise your attorney wouldn't have dragged her through the mud for slander and defamation. Beautifully done, by the way."

That brought the smile back to his features, softened the edges that had gone all hard and rigid. "Her only saving grace was she'd distributed the eBooks through Amazon for free. She wasn't after money so much as my humiliation for ending the marriage. But I learned a valuable lesson from little Ms. Steele. Never trust a person of weak character. A mistake I won't repeat in future."  

"A mistake we both learned." I skimmed my finger around the rim of my glass so that a single, mournful note rang out. "One not easily forgotten."

How much he knew about me, about my loves and losses I couldn't be sure, but now it was his turn to reflect a moment of regret and I gathered he knew enough to understand the subject was a sore one with me.

Lifting a hand, Tristan accepted the tab, tucking in a black AMEX into the billfold.

"I hope I have eased your concerns and sufficiently answered your questions."

"For now." I answered and was pleased to see his brilliant smile flash, transforming the rest of his astounding features.

"Perhaps I can do something to further absolve them. If you're not too tired?" He rose to his feet, notching his top button in his blazer.  "There's something I want to show you."

Curiosity alone accounted for me leaving the restaurant with Tristian back to Shade Enterprises accompanying him in his chauffeured car.

At this late hour, his floor was empty. The lights all dimmed for the evening. He revealed a set of silver keys, unlocked his suite door and held it open for me to enter. At this height, the cityscape lay before me, framed in the length of floor to ceiling windows that ran the entire stretch of his office. Coloured lights from billboards danced and pulsed against blackened concrete, a florescent contrast to the smoky silver glow of the moon.

Full, heavy and dominating in the night sky.

I threaded my clutch between my fingers, laying it against the edge of his coffee table. "Your view is even more impressive at night."

"It is." Tristan strode, unhurried, towards the windows and stood, almost exactly as he had earlier that afternoon, to gaze out at the heart of New York City.

And just as earlier, the sight of him was enough to stagger and stun. He glanced over his shoulder, amusement dancing in his eyes and held out a hand.

"If you would?"

I looked down at his hand, torn between twin urges, one telling me to stay put and the other begging me to fly into his arms. "Why?"

He weighed that hand in the air between us. "Trust me."

I inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly before placing my hand in his. His touch was gentle but firm as he tugged me into the narrowed space between man and glass. Here, tucked into tight, confining proximity, I could almost hear the sound of my heart kicking just a little faster and I made a concerted effort to keep my breathing steady, casual and unaffected.

But his gaze skimmed to the side of my neck where my pulse frantically leapt and I knew my guise of cool, calm and collected had been shot to hell. For what seemed an eternity we stood there, not quite close enough to touch, but still utterly trapped. Connected only by our hands. Finally he spoke, breaking the silence and giving a soft command I hadn't anticipated.

"Turn around."

"Why?"

"Trust me," he echoed, guiding my shoulders until I was face to face with my pale reflection. My breath misted, fogging the clear pane that was so pristine it would have been easy to almost forget it was there at all. Tristan edged in closer until the heat of him radiated against my body; a stark contrast to the chill of the night pressing in against the clear wall in front of me.

Just over my reflected image I could see his indistinct face, and even though his eyes weren't clear, I couldn't bring myself to look straight into them.

"Do you remember the first time we met?"

"Charity auction." My voice was more breath then conviction and I hated the sound. So utterly female and unlike me.

"No. No, it was before that." His hands dropped away from my shoulders and I immediately felt the chill of their absence. "Your father's re-election cocktail reception. Almost five years ago."

I wracked my brain. Working through the faces, the glad-handing and swirling throng of people I had known so well; all of them obscured by what had been a wicked case of martini hangover the next morning. But no where—no where—did I see him.

"I...I don't remember."

"Don't you?" Tristan brushed his hand along the back of my neck and the skin bristled in longing. A single finger skimmed down the naked stretch of my back, tracing the delicate line of my spine, whisper soft, until every sense, every nerve snapped awake, ready to respond to his every whim and command.

But that stroke, that reverent touch...a whisper of memory tingled along my senses, a memory I couldn't place.

"Well, I remember you. So sad, Laura. So...empty, and all of that pain so perfectly hidden behind the brave face you present to the world. But I saw you and I thought, there is a woman who is like me. Who wears a mask and bears the brutal, devastating weight of responsibility. And masters the overburdening shackles of procedure and protocol."

"I don't—"

"Shhh." His mouth grazed my ear and I bit down hard on my lip to keep from groaning. "You asked me what I want from you, but it's what I want to give to you." His hands moved to the glass, just on either side of mine, than lifted so that fingers could trail up the lines of my arms.  And down my back. Slow. So deliciously slow.

"There's something about power, control. Achieving it, holding it, is a level of intoxication like no other. The same can be said of letting it all go. The wild exhilaration of free fall. " My palms grew slick and hot against the smooth, cold glass. And at this perilous height I could only imagine what it would be like should the glass have given way and my body were to plummet—it wasn't fear that gripped me at the notion, but a primitive desire to taste the wind, to feel its weightless caress.

"Freedom. Without restraint. Without reservation." His hands encircled my hips and I felt the heat of his breath against the side of my throat; the subtle scrap of his teeth and my eyes rolled shut. "I could show you the limits of control and the release of pushing beyond them. That's what I am offering you."

He turned me back around and braced me against cool, crisp glass. That traveling hand of his cupped my neck and held there.  

"All you have to say is one word, one little word and I would be devoted to you. A slave to you."

In the glistening moonlight and glow of New York, those crystalline grey eyes of his had me spellbound. My lungs were tight in my chest, my blood was liquid fire and I was thankful for his arms lest my legs gave out from under me. And I wanted, very much, to obey this unspoken need he'd awoken deep inside of me.

You're right. I am tired. So tired of always keeping it all together. So tired of wishing I could walk away, leave it all behind and just be.

One word...

Could I? Dare I?

"Time to go home, Ms. Pierce." He smiled, a little smug and a little too aware of my silent struggle. "You have an early morning tomorrow."