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body, from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair. Was it the effect of the cocktail or the provocative woman who had made it for me?
    “Do you think you’d like that—sex in my bedroom?” she added, her voice low.
    Wow, direct wasn’t the word! My heart was racing. I breathed deep, trying to order my thoughts. I had never had such a direct come-on. This was one express lady. What would she be like in bed?
    “I think I’d like to try it,” I replied.
    Martine’s mouth slid into another wide grin. “I’m due my lunch break.”
    I almost dropped the glass on the bar. She means now? I glanced at my watch. I was due back at the office in just over an hour. I had promised to catch Jack, my boss, before he left for a board meeting. Martine toyed with a swizzle stick, eyeing my cleavage. My body thundered out its response.
    “Okay,” I managed. “Let’s do it.”
    She turned to the barman working the other end of the bar and called out some instructions to him in French. He nodded and waved. She turned back to me, her eyes smoldering. God, she was hot. I wanted to find out exactly how hot.
    “Come to room fourteen, lower ground floor, in three minutes.” She pulled a key chain from her hip, put a key into the register, and logged herself off. “I have only forty minutes for lunch break, though,” she added, lifting her eyebrows suggestively.
    Perfect. I could be back at work in time.
    The three minutes seemed to drag, but gave me enough time to consider taking flight. I stayed put. Just a few minutes earlier, I had been reflecting on my business meeting. Now, well, now I was on Martine’s lunch break with her. I glanced at my watch and swore low under my breath. It was time. I threw back the rest of the drink and stood up.
    I clutched my jacket and portfolio against my chest and hurried down the stairs marked “Staff Only.” I couldn’t quite believe I was doing it, lurking in the hidden corridors of a premier London hotel, heading to an illicit meeting with a sex bomb with whom I had exchanged only a handful of words. A deviant thrill fired my veins.
    Perhaps I would wake up.
    And then there it was, room fourteen. From inside I could hear the distinct and powerful drum-and-bass sound of industrial dance music. I took a deep breath.
    “Come on in,” a voice shouted out when I rapped on the door. I turned the handle and pushed open the door. The room was filled with clutter—a metal-framed bed surrounded with stacks of clothes and teetering piles of books; lamps, bric-a-brac, and cushions littering the spaces between. Even the walls were covered with posters, photographs, mirrors, and other paraphernalia. A scarlet sarong was draped across the metal head of the bed, a vivid dash of color in the gloom. Over the bed, a poster of Annie Lennox at her most androgynous grinned cheekily down from the wall. In the center of it all was Martine, sitting on the bed with her legs coiled under her. She chuckled, leapt up, and walked over. She rested one hand on my bare upper arm, stroking me, sending wild threads of electricity between us. I caught a breath of her perfume, something musky and wild.
    “What do they call you, Red?” She nodded up to my hair.
    “Kim,” I replied, smiling.
    “Kim, huh? Well, Kim, I like a woman who goes after what she wants.” Her tone was admiring. Martine growled in her throat, eyeing my body. The atmosphere positively crackled between us.
    “Thank you for your invitation. It made me very…hot.”
    Martine grinned, proudly, and pulled me into the room by one arm, closing in on my mouth for an urgent kiss as the door slammed shut. Her mouth was lush and hot, damp and inviting. My portfolio clattered to the floor. She backed me toward the bed, her eyes sparkling.
    “You have to do it when it happens like this, yes, or you will have a regret, and life, it is too short for regrets, huh?”
    She flickered her eyebrows at me. Before I had a chance to reply, she pushed me and I