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tap, tap went his long fingers.
    Sex. It flashed and buzzed in her mind like the neon letters luring tired motorists to a seedy motel. Right above the "vacancy" sign.
    Twenty minutes later they were walking out of the private elevator into his penthouse apartment. It was everything she expected—sleek, modern, masculine. Luxurious. The press of a remote achieved instant life. Five blue and gold flames shot out of large pebbles in a center fire pit, and muted, recessed lighting glimmered into action, stroking the lush curves of large, spotless white couches. On the exposed brick wall, an enormous flat screen TV blipped awake, while a coffee maker in the kitchen purred in unison. All this from one micro-chip command. Like his women, she mused darkly, his appliances came in coordinated colors and worked obediently on the push of a button.
    "Espresso?"
    "At this time of night?" Bry kicked off her shoes, afraid to mark his wide plank floors and expensive-looking area rugs.
    "Vodka? Brandy?"
    "No. Thanks." Anyone else would offer tea next, or water. He went straight to the liquor. But Bryony was too fidgety, too interested in his apartment to sit still just then. Didn't want to risk spilling anything else. Not here in this pristine show room.
    Tonight she had a rare opportunity to pry into his life and find what the real Ben Petruska did when no one watched. How did he relax? Maybe he didn't. It wasn't the sort of home she could imagine anyone flopping around in. Those white couches wouldn't withstand five minutes with her and a bag of Doritos. Her tatty bunny slippers would be distinctly out of place, for sure.
    No personal photos, she realized. In fact, the decor was quite sparse, certainly not cozy or lived-in. Probably had a professional designer pick everything out for him. A vodka bar had more cozy warmth.
    While he poured his coffee, she found the guest bathroom and slipped inside. Her heart was racing quite a bit, just because she was there with him. Well, not just because of him, for heaven's sake! She was in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, standing in a glitzy bathroom that probably cost more to decorate than her entire apartment. It was about the same size too. The hand towels were neatly aligned and no gunk jammed the soap dispenser.
    This was the last place she'd expected to end up when she set out that evening. Then he went and put his hands on her—on her waist, her shoulders, her arm. 
    You're coming home with me.
    Bossy. Gave her goosebumps. Made her panties moist.
    But it wasn't as if she was a clueless, slack-jawed, virginal co-ed who had never seen a pecker before and had no idea why she was there. This was real life and the only shades of grey were in his dull, fucking decor. So why was she perspiring under her dress and standing in his bathroom trying to catch her breath? Sheer lunacy.
    Stop it, Bryony Mulligan. Get a hold of yourself. You are a new woman now. At least have the presence of mind to act as if this apartment isn't on another planet, or you just rode there with the Beverly Hillbillies in their jalopy.
    Having cooled off for a moment and completed what she went there to do, Bry checked her face in the big mirror over the sink. Chanel Rouge Allure lipstick was still in place. Good. Mascara not yet melting. Looking good, Mulligan. It must be a special, flattering mirror. How much did one like that cost, she wondered.
    Ready. Fully charged.
    He wouldn't know what hit him.
    As she closed her purse, her gaze drifted downward to the marble counter space beside the sink. A straightening iron perched there in a professional holder. Her heart skipped a beat.
    Petruska certainly didn't use that.
    She took it out of the holder and found one long blonde hair stuck to the cold heating plate.
    Maybe he kept that in his guest bathroom for the use of any random woman who stayed the night? It was an amusing thought for ten seconds, but she knew even he wasn't that much of a ladies man. If he was