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sexually?”
    Again, the blood began to pump through my heart at an alarming rate. “A little,” I said.
    “How so?”
    “Well, the women looked… they were enjoying themselves. It was… “ I searched for the word. “It was a sensual scene.  But unusual.  It made me wonder…” I trailed off. “Wonder what?” This man left nothing unsaid.
    “It made me wonder what it was like to enjoy that… what they were…” I took a deep breath. “It made me curious about pain, about pain being sexy.” Is that enough info for you, Oliver?
    He nodded , as if in answer to my unspoken question. “Do you typically associate pain with pleasure?”
    I thought of the long hours in the dance studio, feet aching, bleeding, but the warm feeling of pure satisfaction coursing through my veins. I knew it existed, but sexually, it hadn’t occurred to me. “Not sexually… I can imagine how it’s possible, but it hasn’t been something I fantasized… I haven’t thought of it while masturbating,” I replied, determined to be as thorough and honest as possible. Don’t avoid answering the questions, he’d said. Fine.
    “Tell me, Ms. Clarke, what are your greatest assets?” The way he emphasized assets made me blush, and I felt color rush into my face.
    “Well,” I began, racking my brain for an answer that wouldn’t make me sound entirely naïve, “I’m loyal. And I work hard at everything I do. My friends say—”
    “I think I’ve heard all I need to, Ms. Clarke.”
    That was it? It was over? I was sure I had come off as an inexperienced child, a bit on the slow side, exasperating.
    “I’ll walk you out. If Mr. Chambers is pleased, I’ll be in touch shortly.”
    I nodded numbly; sure I’d never hear from him again. When we reached the front of the building, he shook my hand again, skin cool against mine.
    “Thank you, Mr. Du Cheval,” I said quietly, hoping for a sign—anything—to indicate even a fraction of warmth, cordiality, but there was none. His blue eyes remained impassive, and I wondered if he interviewed all of Mr. Chamber’s… love interests? And I wondered how many he casually dismissed.
     
    ***
     
    When I got back to my hotel room, I groaned, leaning against the solid wood door. Well, there went that. Why couldn’t I have seemed more poised and elegant? Oliver hated me; that had been clear enough. I could picture him and Mr. Chambers over lunch.
    “So, how was she?” he’d repeat, with a graceful shrug.  “Mediocre, really.” Chambers would nod, and they’d order another martini, or whatever men like that drank at lunch.
    Now what? Would I have to head back to Dallas? On to the next highest bidder if that was even an option? That process was so humiliating that as much as I wanted it to be a declaration of my freedom and independence, I couldn’t help but wonder if I made a terrible mistake. I felt exhausted, empty, and alone. Dropping my purse on the floor, I sank to my knees.
    From the bedside table, the phone began to ring, and I wondered whether it was the front desk asking me to check out. That was fast, I thought, bitterly.
    “This is Sabrina,” I answered, wary.
    “Ms. Clarke, it’s Oliver Du Cheval,” I recognized the precise diction immediately.
    “Mr. Chambers will be sending a car at 9:00 AM for your second interview.”
    A sigh of relief rushed from my lungs. “Great,” I stammered. Suddenly I remembered what Oliver had said during the interview. Had that interview been recorded?
    “I’ll be ready,” I replied. This time I’ll do my ironing the night before, I thought to myself.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 3
     
    His house was less surprising than his office, I decided, as I stepped out of the Mercedes the next morning—at least from the outside. It was gargantuan, yes, sprawled on a lush, rolling estate about forty minutes northeast of Manhattan, but it struck me as traditional, with tall white pillars and a long brick driveway