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don’t want to be greedy.”

6
    â€œT here’s a coffee house about two blocks from here,” Phillip said, helping Zoe to her feet.
    â€œAt this hour?”
    â€œYou weren’t planning on sleeping tonight, were you?”
    She had been, actually. “Uh—” She swallowed, reminding herself to obey him.
    Phillip took her hand. While they walked quietly for a few minutes, Zoe grew increasingly uncomfortable. God, what a scene she’d made. And who were the other people out there? Prostitutes? Junkies?
    â€œHere we are,” Phillip said. He found a table and ordered two mocha lattes with extra whipped cream.
    The waiter walked away and Zoe said, “What if I were a tea drinker? Or what if I hated whipped cream?” Even she was surprised at the anger in her voice.
    He said, calmly. “I see you drinking coffee at every meeting. I know you take both cream and sugar. A lot of sugar. A little cream.”
    She blinked. He was right.
    â€œI watch which funds you buy, which you sell. I notice the colors of your clothes. How come you never wear blue, by the way? It’d look good on you. I know you like working with Thompson but not with Haas, and I know Moore really likes you.”
    â€œI hate whipped cream,” she insisted, not mollified.
    â€œYou hate the idea of whipped cream.” He dipped his finger into his drink and proffered it. “Try it.”
    Sex slave. She had to. She delicately licked the tiniest bit from his fingertip.
    â€œYou need to taste more than that.” His whipped cream-dipped finger remained out.
    This time, she sucked the whole thing off. Ignoring the heat growing in his eyes, she savored it while it melted over her tongue into a creamy mass. Damn him. It was good. So was the texture of his rough fingertip on her tongue.
    â€œThat’s not the point,” Zoe said, stubbornly. “You don’t ask me what I like. I feel like—like—I don’t know . . . a sexual object. Like I’m the leading porn star in some teenaged dream of yours.”
    â€œPorn stars generally get fucked. You have not been fucked.”
    â€œAs Clinton said, ‘It depends on what the definition of “is” is,’ ” she said, bitingly.
    He wore a dark expression. “I won’t fuck you. In either the literal or figurative sense.” She saw him smooth his frown, and he took her hand in his, stroking it. In a softer tone, he said, “I never expected to win the bet.”
    â€œWhat?” She was confused by the apparent change of subject.
    â€œOh, come on. Your funds outperform mine most of the time.”
    â€œUsually not by much. Why’d you do it? Two hundred grand’s a lot of money.”
    â€œI would’ve risked twice that for a night with you.”
    She dismissed that disdainfully. “Hmmf. Your Penthouse visions.”
    â€œOh hell, you don’t make this easy. What I mean is that I’ve been dying to take you out.”
    â€œWell, a normal guy would just ask.”
    â€œYou would have said ‘no’ to a normal guy.”
    â€œThat’s—”
    â€œCompletely true,” he interrupted. “I see how you cope. It can’t be easy being one of four women among a hundred men. You don’t date, so you don’t have to deal with it.”
    â€œI go out with you guys,” she said defensively. “To the happy hours and things.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you get the promotion?”
    Because I’m the Ice Queen. She looked at her mug and didn’t answer.
    â€œIf you had really surprised me and accepted a conventional dinner invitation, you would have kept your distance.”
    â€œHow do you know?” she challenged. “I thought you were attractive. I might have fallen head over heels.” She saw his look and added, “It could happen.” She sounded defensive, even to herself.
    â€œYou would have worn ugly underwear and