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"I'm sure we can work out mutually satisfying terms."
"I'm sure we could, but..." Miranda shot a desperate look at the man who'd just joined them. "But—"
"But Miss Beckman is with me," her savior said. He slipped his arm lightly around her waist and smiled pleasantly. "And I'm afraid I have no intention of sharing her. Now, Miranda, let me get you some champagne and then we'll find ourselves a quiet corner."
Brian Stone looked wounded but not defeated. Miranda offered an apology, tucked his business card into the tiny silver purse that hung from her shoulder and let herself be led through the crowd. Champagne flute in hand, she smiled up at her rescuer.
"I can't thank you enough for saving me, Mr....? I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name."
"Moratelli. Vincent Moratelli. Call me Vincent, please. And it was my pleasure."
"Well, thank you again, Vincent. I was desperate."
Moratelli chuckled. "I could see that you were."
"Really?" She blushed. "Oh, that's awful. I didn't mean it to show. It's just that I hate when people corner me and insist on talking shop."
"I agree. On a night like this, matters of a more intimate nature should be the only topics for discussion."
Miranda's smile flickered. Moratelli spoke politely and what he'd said wasn't even much of a come-on, not in this crowd, but a whisper of unease drifted over her skin as she looked into his overly handsome face.
"Well," she said, "if I can ever return the favor—"
"Ah, darling, such a quick brush-off. I'm disappointed."
"It's not a brush-off at all. I just—"
His hand closed around her wrist. His fingers were firm and cool and reminded her of marble.
"I lied for you, Miranda."
"Let go of me, please."
"Aren't you the least bit curious? About my turning up here tonight, I mean."
"No. Why should I be? I just assumed—"
"I came to see you."
"Me? But why?"
Moratelli smiled slyly. "Well," he said, "I thought we could take up where we left off the other evening."
"We didn't leave off anywhere, Mr. Moratelli. Please let go of my wrist."
"Didn't you like my little present, Miranda?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm disappointed. I went to such trouble, finding just the right picture and then adding my own special touches to it."
"What picture? You didn't send me any..." An image of the magazine ad flashed into her head, and she felt the blood drain from her face. "Oh God," she whispered, and Moratelli laughed. His hand tightened on hers and he pulled her close against him. His breath washed over her face.
"Did it excite you, darling? I hoped it might. I want you to be hot and wet and ready for me when I fuck you."
The champagne glass slipped from her hand and shattered against the floor.
"Darling, what's wrong? Didn't you like your champagne? I can get you something else. Campari, perhaps. Or would you prefer some chocolate? I know all your favorite things, Miranda."
