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over her that led to me marching her out of that damned place. And now I’ve got myself into one hell of a mess. Because I think about her every waking minute. I’ve never felt this way about a woman before and I’m miserable.
    I toss my paperback copy of The Killer Angels onto the coffee table and stand up and stretch. I’ve been reading for two hours but I’ve only gotten through 30 pages. I’m a slow reader, but I’m not that slow. I thought the book would take my mind off of her. I should have known better. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since the one I spent with her wrapped in my arms.
    So, why am I fighting it so damn hard? She’s not the kind of woman I pictured myself with, I know that. I always imagined I’d end up with an intelligent, hard working woman who clawed her way up from the bottom like I did. Not a fresh college graduate who only has to wish for something in order for it to magically appear.
    I imagine taking Caroline out to dinner with clients and I cringe. Not because she isn’t intelligent and hard working, because I know she is. But at some point someone would ask how we met. Or someone would put two and two together and realize who her father is. And I could just imagine the looks we’d get when people realized I was her government-funded bodyguard since she was 16. My image needs to be beyond reproach, and I can’t figure out a way for that to happen with her on my arm.
    I walk to the kitchen and grab a beer out of the fridge. I twist the cap off and throw some pasta into the microwave to reheat.
    There’s something else that troubles me. Something darker that I don’t want to confront in myself. I never meant to sleep with her. And nobody bends me to their will. Ever. But when she was standing in front of me in heels and that little scrap of a thong, something snapped inside me. I needed her body like I’ve never needed anyone before. I thought fucking her once would get her out of my system, but it’s only made things worse. Every time I close my eyes I see those long legs, perfect tits, and slim waist. And it’s not just her body. It’s that warm laugh that rumbles in her throat. The way she listens intently when I talk. The way she holds me tightly when I wrap my arms around her.
    “You’re such an idiot.” I’m alone, but it still feels good to say it out loud. I’m sitting here, pining for a woman who has made it clear she wants me. She’s smart, funny, engaging, and we had the most intense sexual experience of our lives together. All I have to do is pick up the phone and call her. By tomorrow I could be enjoying a fancy steak dinner in a local hotspot, instead of overcooked pasta in my lonesome palace.
    My phone is on the counter top. Fully charged. Her number is programmed. I could be talking to her in thirty seconds. So why can’t I go over there and pick it up and dial? What’s stopping me from being happy.
    You don’t trust yourself, that’s why. It’s true. I never meant to make love to her the other night, but she bewitched me. And I know she would do it again. I’d be helpless and completely unable to resist her once I pick up the phone. I’m a rational man who likes being in control and I just can’t risk it. Unless. . .
    I take a long draw from the cold bottle in my hand. My thoughts stir. Maybe there is a way to make this work. We’ll start slow and keep things under wraps until we know if this is just a physical attraction, or if there’s more to it. She won’t like it, but she’ll agree. I just need to be strong enough to hold up my end of the bargain and be willing to resist her. A smile passes over my face. Hell, it might even be fun.
    I pick up the phone and I dial.

I stare at myself in the mirror, and I’m finally satisfied. It’s taken hours of painstaking preparation, but I can say, without a hint of ego, that this is the best I’ve ever looked.
    The cocktail dress I selected for dinner isn’t completely demure, but it’s