When I emerged from the milky oil bath, an outfit had appeared, laid out on the extravagant silvery bed. My head whipped around the room, making sure the irrationally detested Delilah wasn't lurking in a corner ready to dictate my life, using her boss as her foil.

But the room was empty, I was alone with my trepidation at what this evening held waiting for me. Could I dare hope for a straightforward date where we ate and talked, gradually revealing the snippets or ourselves we thought were most likely to endear.

What a dumbass thought. A man who attended Jay Valentine's private offshore parties was not going to be capable of a simple dinner date. And me? Wasn't that exactly what I claimed to dislike about forming intimate connections – the inauthentic presentation of a mask?

If only I could work out in my own mind what it was I was searching for, maybe I wouldn't continue to find myself in these mind fuck situations. Although why was I even pretending that turbulence was discomfiting when every session I spent playing in Valentine's company elicited increasing levels of exhilaration?

I wanted more, to be pushed to my limits, yearned to reach the outer edges of myself. But those boundaries had always been attained through the perseverance of my master. My nerves were frazzling because my dinner date was a mature maven, who no doubt had decades of experience in playing.

And I had no clue who he was.

This was the ultimate definition of a blind date and I hoped it wouldn't also be a blindfold date. This one I wanted to go into with eyes wide open.

My outfit was a stunning couture full length gown by Thierry Mugler. It fit me like my own skin and was constructed, that being the only word to describe such fabric sculpture, from material I couldn’t name. It was a combination of leather, lycra and silk – an exquisite, luxurious bandage dress with broad warrior shoulders. The back was cut out, allowing access to a gentlemanly supporting hand to graze across bare skin. Thank the masters of the universe I hadn't eaten lunch because every last pucker of my flesh was molded into curvaceous sinuous form.

I fought my hair into a futuristic up-do, going for a Bladerunner look, and prayed inside that my date would be more Ryan Gosling than Deckard. The towering heels made me seem way more svelte and dynamic than I felt in my jittery state, but I had to congratulate myself- and I did.

“Girl, you looking hot,” I told the mirror and wished I could swish past Valentine's office on my way through the main entrance. “Eat your heart out, boyfriend.”

I tried to convince my swollen heart that he’d even notice my absence.

The chopper was waiting for me, rotors whipping through the air, pulsating for lift-off. We rode through the clementine skies skirting the coastline, past San Francisco to land at a beachfront estate further south. Maybe around Monterrey, but I couldn’t be sure.

“You are going to be waiting to take me home?” I inquired skittishly of the pilot who inclined his head with a non-committal smile.

“You’d better be,” I snapped.

Fuck, did everyone at Valentine's estate have to be so damn non-committal?

An oriental butler, if that was a politically correct label for the dark gold, serene man dressed in white, was waiting to lead me up the cliff. To a discreet hidden plateau with a table over the surf.

Oh freaking bugger it, I had hoped for a more public spot. Ideally some swanky resto in downtown Frisco, not some isolated spot, no matter how stunningly situated (My god this planet possesses some incredible beautiful corners for those who can afford them). Movement in the trees and three or four tuxedoed men built like wrestlers emerged.

The security team announced my arrival down the line into their lapels. Oh good goddess, I wasn't eating dinner with the President? Please, no.

Then it came back to me. Valentine had said that Gianni was intending to run for that office in Italy. It made sense that with the mafia and kidnappings there, a billionaire businessman and politician would be surrounded by beefcake.

I was seated in the comfortable throne and grabbed the chance to take a deep breath and enjoy the beautiful expanse of orange and purple ocean before my companion came down the cliff from the low slung white mansion atop it. My heart began thounding ridiculously under the tight gown that pushed my breasts up into the perfect semblance of womanhood.

Cool down. Why on earth was I so spooked, bordering on terrified?

A jolt of recognition quaked my core as the man came closer. I knew him. But from where? Was he famous, from a magazine? I didn't read news or fashion publications, only interiors and architecture. Then he rose up in the annals of my memory – the older guy from Valentine's yacht. He’d been there. And every time my eyes peeled the room searching out my master, Gianni GianCarlo's priapic gaze had swarmed up into view.

He must have wanted me then. I trembled in that constrictive gown, knowing that he’d likely been one who'd stroked my bare naked slit, pulled apart and exposed to view by Valentine's rope bondage. Had he sauntered past my blindfold, trussed up body and tweaked my nipples, tugging an eager bullet in an agonizing twist until I almost cried out?

It required every ounce of strength and pride to maintain my gaze on the approaching figure. My cheeks flushed hot and I almost curled into a ball at the fact he'd already plundered every secret crevice of my body. Recognizing his face as the one that loomed up in front of me repeatedly that night gave me chills all the way down my bare back.

I had no reason for the misgivings. He approached me with a George Clooney style smile on his rough hewn but elegant face. How do men manage to be handsome into older age while women head straight for the flophouse? He took my hand in both his firmly cosseting palms, then reached around to clasp my bare back while he kissed me on both cheeks.

“Thank you for agreeing to join me this evening,” he said in a voice of pure iron ore, with a touch of the erotic Mediterranean that made me think of Marc Chapelle.

European men had an innate charm that would seem scuzzy on Americans. As his firm fingers grazed along my spine, giving a very good indication of the strength in his arms, small tingles erupted in my core. That had to be due to the climax control games of the night on the yacht. I couldn’t be sexually attracted to this older man at first glance, could I?

“Thank you for inviting me,” I said.

“I feel as though I've waited my entire life for this moment,” he replied.

Seriously?

Still it managed to sound sincere from the man. He’d make a great politician.

The dinner passed spectacularly, with a parade of superb dishes, all Italian. Just as I'd come to expect as de rigeur from the professional personal chefs these wealthy guys kept on contract. Gianni listened with genuine interest to my excited ideas about interior design.

“I have an extension in the courtyard of my home in Venice that is about to fall into the canal,” he joked.

He was very classy in not trying too hard to impress me with the fact that his home was a fifteenth century palace right on the Grand Canal. I pictured his extension as some massive gilded ballroom sinking onto the sand pilings that held up the fabulous city I'd longed to see.

“It truly is about to collapse and I'm keen to replace it with a structure that brings the building into the 21^st century- this juxtaposition as you call it.”

“The placement of super modern against ornate old, highlights rather than detracts from the best facets of both,” I said, always animated by talk of design.

“And a turf roof is an ingenious idea in Venice where green spaces are virtually non-existent.”

“I would love to help you if you ever decide to ask for proposals,” I said.

Look at me networking.

“That works out perfectly,” Gianni said, taking my hand in both his once more, as soon as the waiter deposited the flaming sambuca and departed.

“Is everything okay, Andie?” he asked.