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One of your co-workers could probably help me out. You.’ Ernie turned to Mira. ‘You’re free now, right?’
    ‘Absolutely, Mr Foxton.’ She had a nasal Brooklyn tint to her voice, and she was eager. He imagined Mira was a thrusting, grasping little bitch. The way her colleagues glanced at her suggested to Ernie she wasn’t well liked. But she had a tiny, compact little ass, as flat as a boy’s. Who cared about popularity contests?
    His gushing secretary showed out the other suits, bowing and scraping, and Ernie shut the door behind them, turning to Mira.
    ‘Interesting presentation.’
    ‘I noticed you were gripped,’ Mira said.
    Ernie scowled. He wasn’t used to being sassed by people at work, especially women. He opened his mouth to rebuke her, but she held up one hand with those sharp talons. ‘I think public relations is very complex. I’d feel more comfortable discussing this in a social setting. That is, of course, if you found that acceptable, Mr Foxton.’
    There it was again, that tightening in his groin. As he
    h
    ooked at her, Mira ran the tip of a pink tongue across her glossy red lips. A coffee, Ernie thought. What could that hurt? And he was the boss. Nobody would dare to complain.
    ‘I could probably give you half an hour,’ he said, briskly.
    Mira’s mouth curled up at the corners in a slow, deliberate smile. She knew a mark when she saw one. With some men it was written right across them, all she ever needed to do was lay the bait. If a man didn’t respond, no harm done.
    Ernest Foxton had a fearsome reputation for ruthlessness, but he also had that thin, petty look about him that usually meant only one thing.
    He liked to be treated badly and dominated by women. The gossip was that his wife was a stuck-up, spoiled, ladylike little princess. She would be no threat. The seedy clubs Mira went to were full of high-powered businessmen with a weak streak somewhere deep inside that got off on pain. Only last week she had been forced to finish with her ex-boyfriend, the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, something to do with industrial machinery, or some such. His wife had found out, which was too bad. Mira had definitely been discreet, as long as the gifts kept coming. Most likely the moron had shouted out her name in his sleep. At any rate, the sugar daddy - sugar slave - position was vacant. And if she knew men, Ernie Foxton was a prime candidate to fill it.
    ‘That would be great.’ Mira stared at him coldly. ‘There’s a coffee place not far from here that I like.’
    Without a word, Ernie gathered up his notes and followed Mira out of his office. Through the opulently decorated lobby, she kept up a loud stream of chatter about brand management and focus groups and Internet presence. Ernie told his assistant they were stepping out for a meeting. He wasn’t listening to what the woman
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    was saying. His gaze kept trickling down her hard legs to the spiked metal stilettos. He found his throat was dry.
    She kept up the talking until they were a block away from the coffee house. Ernie sprang to open the door for her. She didn’t thank him. She indicated a banquette away from the window and he sat there, quietly. The place was gloomy, although it was noon outside. Looking up, Ernie saw that there were erotic prints set against the black walls, x93os maybe, ink etchings of women - semi-nude - with whips, restraining men. Homoerotic pictures, too. The ambience was dark and, as he looked around, he saw the patrons were well dressed, but furtive. It felt secret and forbidden and terribly exciting.
    A waiter materialised into view from nowhere and turned to Mira.
    ‘I’ll have herbal tea. He’ll take black coffee,’ she said, shortly.
    As the man sidled off, Ernie looked at Mira. The expression in her eyes was such that he didn’t say a word. He swallowed, dryly.
    ‘I don’t take my coffee black,’ he muttered, after a while. She looked him over with contempt and reached under the table. Ernie