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sure what that entailed, but she was guessing that whips and chains and leather clothing with holes cut out in various places weren't too far off the mark.
    She shivered. She should be horrified at the thought of Ty being into S and M. So why was she helplessly titillated by the thought of putting leather on for him? Of being tied to a bedpost while he watched?
    Ty flicked the lights on, and Julie gasped in shock.
    Warm, dark wood shelves surrounded the room and the thick leather-bound volumes seemed to be well-worn, their spines creased as if they'd been read time and time again. The walls held stunning artwork by Impressionist masters—Matisse, Degas, Renoir. She knew the difference between a print and an original canvas, and Ty's paintings were the real thing. She couldn't contain her wonder.
    "Is that really a Rodin?"
    He nodded and she somehow managed to pull her eyes away from the stunning treasures to look at
    Ty. No one had ever surprised her so much before. She didn't know what to think, what to say.
    "This sculpture is my most prized possession," he said, reverently running his fingertips over one ballet slipper of the two-foot-tall bronze sculpture of a ballerina. Where Julie had expected to see smug satisfaction was something else entirely: awe. Her traitorous heart leaped within her chest and it took everything Julie had to quell the beast inside her that wanted to love Ty again.
    No, no, no!
    Just because she was impressed with the things he possessed didn't mean she was impressed with him. How could he have possibly collected so many amazing things? Or had a designer told him that great artwork would impress his guests?
    She shook her head. If that had been the case, he wouldn't have so many amazing modern works in the large room as well. His den bore the stamp of a man who knew exactly what he liked. She didn't like feeling as if she'd just found a piece that couldn't possibly fit the puzzle she had already completed. She didn't like to think that Ty could have another side or, God forbid, depth. She moved through the room, lingering over the books, the paintings, the other sculptures.
    "Aren't you afraid your friends will ruin these during one of your parties?" She winced at her tone. She hadn't meant to sound so uptight, so prissy, but Ty had been throwing her off balance all day.
    "What I mean is, everything in here is priceless. Amazing. I'd want to keep it all to myself." He remained standing in front of the Rodin. She was dying to look at the beautiful piece up close, which meant she had to stand next to him—a highly inadvisable move.
    Ty waited to respond until she was merely inches away. "My friends have never been down here. No one else has ever been down here."
    She frowned. "What are you talking about? You brought me." He smiled, and her breath whooshed right out of her body.
    "I know," he said, and she swore to God that her knees went weak. Pathetic. She took a step back and then another, until she backed up into the lushest, softest crimson sofa in all creation. Even the furniture in this room beckoned to her, which was saying something, considering she'd always liked clean, contemporary lines. She sat down and closed her eyes in appreciation. No seat had ever felt this good, had ever cradled her better. Lord, things were far worse than she'd thought— she wasn't just falling for his art, she was getting a thing for his couch too!
    "Comfortable, isn't it?" he asked, leaning against the bookshelves, his muscular, tanned arms crossed across his chest.
    He looked like a lion in the heart of his lair, surveying all that was his with deep, unmitigated pleasure. Would he stroke her as reverently as he had the Rodin? Would he look at her with the same kind of wonder that he did his Monet?
    Thankfully, the voice of self-preservation told her to reach into her briefcase for her "serious businesswoman" glasses so that they could work up the plan for his image reversal. Thereby getting her the hell out of