After I take a quick shower, I dry my hair and slip into something that Travis already purchased for me—a white batiste polka dot fabric nightie with bows at the bottom of the straps to accentuate the gown’s innocence. In spite of that, when I look at myself in the mirror, I can see the outline of my bare body beneath the material.

Deciding to play it a little dangerous, I fluff my hair and make sure that the light pink lipstick I’ve put on isn’t too much, then go back into the living room.

The music is off, the sound of the TV at a low, chattering volume. The room is dark except for the flash of the wide plasma screen over the leather couch where Travis has moved.

He has a cocktail glass with ice and amber liquid balanced on the armrest, and his trousers are done up. But he’s taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. His expression is indecipherable while light from the screen plays over that heart-stoppingly gorgeous face. Yet when I look a little longer, I see something in his eyes.

Shadows.

I don’t think he sees me as I linger in the entrance, listening to the news report he’s watching. The announcer is talking about a robbery of a jewelry store in London, and I know he owns shops all over the world—Milan, Paris, New York, LA, Tokyo, just to name a few. And London is on that list.

Quickly, it dawns on me that out of all the jewelry stores in that one city, Travis’s place was the one that was robbed. Why else would he have walked into this apartment in such a mood? Why else would he have that dark look in his eyes now?

“The criminals got away with hundreds of thousands in jewels,” the reporter says, “and they are still at large.”

The words seep into my perception. Hundreds of thousands in jewels. My god, no wonder Travis walked through the door tonight distracted. No wonder he’s gone dark.

I walk into the room quietly, not wanting him to know that I’m hearing the report, which is still going on as the newscaster goes into detail about Travis’s meteoric rise to riches. I fully expect him to aim the remote at the TV to change the channel or to turn the screen off altogether, but maybe he’s so lost in his brooding that he doesn’t know or care that I’m here.

But I have the feeling he does. And I think that he doesn’t mind that I’m hearing this. I also have the feeling that perhaps this is his way of opening up to me.

For such a private man, allowing me to know about this robbery seems like an indication that his trust for me is growing…

Wishful thinking? Or am I like his massage therapist or any other employee—here but not here, on the payroll only to serve a purpose?

I’m pretty sure what my purpose is.

“How’re you doing on that drink?” I ask, ready to serve.

He slowly blinks but doesn’t turn away from the TV. “Slowly but surely finishing it.”

“Brandy?”

“Yes.”

I take the cut-crystal glass from his armrest and bring it to a table with an ice bucket that he’s apparently filled. I unstop the decanter of brandy and refresh his cocktail. I make one for myself, too, and then hand his over to him.

He tilts it toward me in a thank you, although he doesn’t take his eyes from the screen.

I stay standing, waiting for him to ask me to strip again, or for him to reach over and slide his hand under my nightie to stroke my thigh. I quiver at the possibilities.

But he does neither.

I almost ask him about the robbery, but even if he’s indirectly letting me know what went down—and that’s a big if—I wonder if he’s ready to actually discuss the incident with me in any direct way.

Still, I want to ask: are hundreds of thousands of dollars just petty cash to someone as rich as Travis? Is he only pissed off that that the criminals targeted him and got away with it?

The shadows in his eyes tell me he takes this personally…and that there’s a lot more going on with Travis Star than I ever expected.

No matter what the truth really is, I can’t stand seeing him like this—a big, strong man who’s put up all these walls around himself—and I set down my drink.

When he doesn’t make any move toward me, I decide to take a chance. I move behind the couch, my pulse fluttering right before I rest my hands on his wide shoulders. He tenses, as if resisting me, and I almost pull back.

But when he doesn’t tell me to stop, I ease my fingers down his shoulders, just like the massage therapist did to me yesterday. Then I begin to rub his tight muscles.

“You’re very tense, Mr. Star,” I say, testing him.

“So I’ve been told.”

He hasn’t demanded that I leave him alone yet, so I continue massaging him. When he starts to relax, a warm gush of emotion rises in my chest.

This is working. I’m not dumb enough to believe that I have some kind of magical touch that’s going to change his world, but for now, this is enough to make me happy.

As I use my thumbs on the back of his neck and his shoulders, he keeps holding his cocktail. He’s not drinking it, but it seems to be there if he needs a hit. I’m determined to be enough of a relaxing tonic for him, and his shoulders are loosening up, giving me more confidence in my abilities. I hold my breath and slide my hands to the front of him, tugging on his loosened tie, beginning to undo it further.

He doesn’t stop me.

My mouth is dry, and I lick my lips, getting his tie untangled then leaving it around his neck. I run my hands over his chest and, god, he’s just as hard and muscular as I fantasized. I wish I could unbutton his shirt and slip my hands inside to feel his skin, but I keep massaging him, soothing him…and myself, really. That warmth inside of me has balled up, making me feel light and fizzy, like thick, golden champagne with bubbles popping to the top of a bottle.

Travis leans his head back, and he’s so relaxed that I realize he’s finally giving in to the demands of his day.

He’s falling asleep.

Before he can drop his drink, I bend over the couch and delicately take it from him, then move it to the table. Then I sit on the cushion next to him, watching his face.

In sleep, he looks so peaceful. The warm ball inside my chest grows, making something itch in my throat, and even knowing that this might be a bad idea I reach out, wanting to touch him for only a second, to feel the slight stubble on his face, to feel closer to him.

With my heart hopping, I lightly run my fingertips over his cheek, just this once…

He opens his eyes, and I lift my hand away.

Shockingly, he wraps his arms around me, pulling me against his chest.

At first, I can only rest my hands on him, feeling this unfamiliar rhythm and closeness. His chest rises and falls with his even breathing, and so does my world as I lean on him. I hear his heart beating in my ear, and the vibration travels through me, synching us in some kind of way that I can’t explain. Then, as the TV plays on, I give in and relax against him.

I’ve never experienced anything so intimate. The warmth in me has spread across my body like the glow of a campfire. With his arms around me, I actually feel taken care of. This is the first time that I’ve ever felt truly safe in my life up until now, and I close my eyes…

I don’t remember opening them again until morning, when I’m lying on the couch, alone.

The only sign of Travis is a chenille blanket that’s been tucked around me, taking the place of his arms.

* * *

I’m eating a ready-made yogurt parfait for breakfast when the doorbell chimes. At the same time, my phone rings, Travis’s number flashes on my screen.

I gather my robe around me and pad to the front door while excitement tumbles through me. Even the thought of hearing his voice on the phone is enough to get me going.

“Hello?”

“Good morning,” he says. “How did you sleep?”

“On a couch with a lovely blanket around me.”

“I thought about carrying you to your bed, but you looked so sweet lying there.”

Sweet? I smile. Funny how I’m still “sweet” in his eyes, even after that lap dance.

His tone changes, bringing our business arrangement back into the equation. “There’s something for you at the door.”

“Are you a mind reader? The bell just rang.” I access the security screen to see a woman dressed in a business suit holding a wardrobe bag. A cart filled with ribbon-wrapped boutique boxes stands next to her.

“It’s one of my assistants, Clarice,” he says, “and she just texted me to let me know that she’s arrived. She’s delivering a special gown, as well as matching shoes and jewelry.”

Before I let the woman in, I pause. “A special gown? Is it another peignoir?” And is he going to dress me in his jewels in preparation for some kind of kinky fantasy fulfillment tonight?

“As much as I’d like to see you right now in a nightie,” he says, “that’s not it.”

“Then what’s the occasion?”

I open the door and smile at the woman as Travis answers.

“I’m taking you to a benefit dinner this evening, so be ready at seven. Clarice will be there to assist you all day.”

His employee walks in with an efficient nod and her own smile. She clearly knows the route into the apartment because I’m not her first rent-a-virgin.

I watch her disappear down the gallery and then through the door of my bedroom. “You’re taking me out tonight?” I say to Travis.

“I said I would be discreet,” he murmurs, “not that I would hide you away.”

The usual nerves attack me. People are going to see me with Travis? I’m going someplace that requires a special gown and jewelry? Just how fancy is this event?

“But I’ve never been to a nice dinner before,” I say.

“There’s a first time for everything,” he says, with charged meaning.

I feel my face flush at the innuendo. “Well, I’ll do my best to be a good dinner date,” I reply lamely.

“You’ll be visited by a manicurist, a stylist, and hair and makeup experts today.”

“All right. I…I can’t wait.”

“You sound anxious.”

“I am.”

“You’ll be well taken care of—I’ll see to it. The limo will arrive at seven.”

Then he disconnects. But why should I be surprised when there’s always some kind of disconnect in the end with Travis?

Clutching my robe around me, I head down the gallery of my temporary luxury apartment, buzzing with nerves and hoping I can fulfill his wishes tonight.