My first week at Collins Bangham & Goode was certainly an interesting one, to say the least. After Sam’s invitation to dinner at The Harvard Club on Tuesday morning, I barely saw him again until Friday afternoon, when he stuck his head in the tiny office I shared with three other associates to tell me that he would be around to pick me up for dinner at seven-thirty.

“I’ll be ready,” I said, forcing a smile, even though my stomach was churning, threatening to send back up the Caesar Salad I’d had for lunch.

This seemed to be the effect Sam had on me. The few times we’d seen each other over the last few days were in quick meetings or passing each other in the hall. He always looked at me warmly and once or twice, managed to brush his hand against mine or touch my arm as we passed.

Each time he touched me it was as if little bottle rockets fired off inside me, sending sparks flying through my body, making my heart race and my breath catch in my throat.

I’d also continued having the dirty dreams about him. I woke up every morning exhausted with my pajama bottoms soaked at the crotch. If Sam Collins was half the lover in person that he was in my dreams… wow, was I in for one hell of a ride.

He leaned against the door with his hands in his pockets, smiling. “You’re going to have a great time and meet some very influential people.” He glanced around my desk, which was covered in folders and spreadsheets from the Lilian and Lester Verone’s divorce. “How’s the research coming? Finding anything in the numbers that we might have missed.”

“Anything under the surface you mean?” I gave a heavy sigh and shook my head. “Unfortunately, nothing earth-shattering yet, but I’ll keep digging.”

“Lesson number two,” he said, holding up two fingers. “It’s not the digging of the hole that reveals the gold. It’s the shifting of the dirt.”

I couldn’t hold back the little laugh that came before I could stop it. “Has anyone ever told you that you sound like an old Kung Fu movie?”

He gave me a mock frown for a second, then let it morph into a smile. “What do you know about old Kung Fu movies? I thought the extent of your movie knowledge started and stopped with The Notebook.”

“For your information, Mr. Collins, I am quite the impresario of old Kung Fu movies. My dad was a Bruce Lee fanatic and forced me to watch his old movies until I could almost recite the dialog verbatim.”

“Bullshit,” he said, smirking. “Prove it.”

I leaned back and folded my arms over my chest, then nodded at the stacks on my desk. “If you spend too much time thinking about a thing, you’ll never get it done.”

His smile broke into a wide grin. “That’s an actual Bruce Lee quote.”

“Yes, it is,” I said, jerking my hands up to a Kung Fu stance. “It's not as good as your ‘sifting for gold’ cliché, but it’s pretty good.”

“It’s actually better,” he said, pushing himself off the door frame, but keeping his hands in his pockets. I stole a glance at his crotch. I thought he might be putting his hands in his pocket to hide something he didn’t want me to see. “You quoted Bruce Lee. I quoted some old guy from a show I saw on TV about the Alaskan gold rush.”

“Well, I’m sure you made it sound far more intelligent than he did.”

He narrowed his eyes at me and pursed his lips. “Well played, Miss Walsh. I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”

* * *

Tiffany sat on the bed, watching me wiggle into the little black dress that fit a tad more snugly than it had the last time I’d worn it in college when I was living on dollar beer and Rice-A-Roni.

“Oh god, do I look fat?” I asked, turning in the mirror to see myself at every angle. The dress was snug, but fit perfectly in all the right places. It showed off my big tits without giving away too much cleavage and fit my bubble butt just right. Thank God the dress wasn’t too short. It hit around mid-thigh, which my expert Tiffany said was the perfect length. I slipped my feet into the pair of stiletto heels that belonged to Tiffany, who insisted that I try them on. I wobbled as I turned. I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be able to walk in the damn things.

“Girl, those shoes make your legs and ass look smoking hot,” she said, whistling and wringing her hands. “I swear, if I was a lesbian I’d climb up those long legs of yours and much the shit out of that red rug.”

“Jesus, Tiff,” I said, giggling. I turned to look at my backside in the mirror. She was right. The stilettos made my calves and ankles look toned as hell, and my ass seemed tighter, probably because every muscle back there was clenched in an effort to keep me steady on my feet.

“You look awesome,” she said, clicking her tongue. “Sam Collins is gonna eat you up like a Golden Corral buffet.”

“Would you stop?” I said, brushing my hands over the front of the dress. “It’s just dinner.”

“Just dinner at the motherfucking Harvard Club,” she said. I thought I detected a touch of jealousy in her voice. “Nobody offered to pay my dues to the place. Trust me, he’s gonna eat you up. And if you’re smart, you’ll let him.”

“I’m going to let him take me to a dinner function and bring me straight back home,” I said. “That’s it.”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” she said, climbing off the bed. “If you bring him home to fuck him here make sure you hang your panties on the doorknob so I know not to bust in.” She nodded at the door. “Hey, I need a beer. You want one?”

“No, I’m fine.” I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. I had fifteen minutes before Sam was scheduled to pick me up. I hurried into the bathroom and mussed my hair, leaving it down on my shoulders. I leaned in to check my reflection in the mirror over the sink. I was wearing a pair of fake pearls and matching earrings. I’d done the makeup a little heavier than normal, but it didn’t look troweled on. All in all, I looked pretty damned good, if I did have to say so myself.

I picked my purse up off the bed and clicked off the light. I checked the purse for lipstick and dropped in my cellphone on the way to the living room, where I’d wait on pins and needles until Sam arrived to take me on my grand adventure.