"I can't believe I let you talk me in to wearing this," I said, plucking at the skintight golden sheath. Cut from bust to knee, it was tasteful yet wickedly sexy in the way it hugged, cupped and molded to every inch like a second, liquid gold skin.

"The plum was cute, babe, but this is stellar," Paul insisted, clinking his fourth vodka martini against mine, a ploy to kill time since we were about an hour early for dinner. So far we were neck in neck and with plans to end the night in absolute drunken glee. Perhaps not the wisest decision in the face of the Board of Directors soon to arrive, but sense often shot out the window when alcohol was involved.

"Where did you even get this?" I asked, swiveling lightly in my seat by the bar. "Or the other dozen you'd yanked out and had me model?"

Paul nibbled delicately on an olive. "Don't ask the question if you don't want to know the answer."

Somewhere in the darkest corner of my vodka hazed brain, the pieces snapped together like Lego forming a fascinating picture I hadn't expected to find. Even in my heels, Paul wasn't too far off in height, all legs and slender hips, narrow shoulders and the baby-faced skin of an altar boy...

"Get out!" I giggled, slapping a hand over his arm. "You?"

"Twice a week," he said with a flounce of his hand. "You're looking at Lola Lix. I perform a select number of songs, the fan favorites being 'Whatever Lola Wants', 'I Want to be Evil' and 'Yes sir, I can Boogie'."

"That accounts for all the makeup." I nodded in reflection, recalling the splendor of his goody stash, as he'd called it. Everything from Yves St. Laurent, Clinque, Bobby Brown and, of course, enough Estee Lauder to open up his own store. Endless palettes of shadows and blushes, creams and powers, lipsticks and liners.

Everything a girl could ever need. Or a Queen.

"It doesn't bother you?" he asked, stirring his drink carefully, a hint of a blush creeping in to his cheeks had nothing to do with the pale pink hue he'd brushed on before we'd left.

"Why should it?"

He shrugged a thin shoulder wrapped in a coral blazer. "I've always been different. I knew that as a child. I can remember being as young as four and knowing, right through to my bones, that I wasn't like other little boys. That I didn't want to be. You can imagine a father's disappointment when his sixteen year-old son comes out of the closet and announces he wants to be a she. Not when your father's one of the most famous Rock drumming icons of the eighties. Talk about a kick to the nut sack."

"Your father is—"

"Was," Paul interrupted. "But once upon a time, yes." Draining the rest of his martini, Paul set down the empty and wiggled a finger at the bartender for another round.

"For a long time I think he hoped I'd...'out grow it', and when I didn't, my father decided enough was enough. And sent me on my way with a pretty little nest egg to buy my own place outright. The only stipulation was that I never, ever contact him or my mother again."

Pity clutched at my heart, but I knew that wasn't want Paul wanted or needed from me, so I clamped down on the urge to offer meaningless platitudes and condolences, offering instead, a willing ear and absolutely no judgment whatsoever as he continued to pour his shattered heart at my feet. 

"How long has it been?"

Fresh martini in hand, Paul sipped long and deep. "Four years tomorrow."

Stunned, my eyes popped wide. "Your birthday? He dumped that on you on your birthday?"

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Paul's lips. "You remembered." He lifted the stir stick laced with a trio of olives, slid one into his mouth. "Hell of a way to celebrate. That's why every year I make it a point to be as big and bold and lavish as I can. I surround myself with as much friends and laughter as possible, so later, when the party ends and the friends leave, I don't give in to that snide, evil little voice that says you're a useless piece of shit, Paul Loduca, kill yourself."

"Jesus, Paul."

"Don't worry," he winked. "I'm a stubborn bitch, and determined to live regardless of what my inner demons may say. So, I dropped his name and went with my mom's maiden. Loduca. Gave me a clean break and a fresh start. At the very least, I have a beautiful apartment, and now, thanks to you, an sexy London hunk who will be staying over next week."

My smile bloomed in light of his. "Michael is divine, isn't he? Such a gem." 

"Yes, he is," Paul sighed, a love struck twinkle in his eyes. "And so fucking pretty."

A chill spread across my skin, warmth hummed in my belly and knew, knew before I plucked my eyes from Paul to glance over my shoulder, that he was here. Tristan walked through the blue doors of Per Se like he owned the venue. The Directors swelled around him, but all I saw, all I cared to see was him.

And when his eyes skimmed—found mine—connected—the jolt of them seared me straight through. At my side, Paul's knee bumped knowingly against mine.

"Here comes Mr. Magic."

"Laura," Tristan said when he reached us, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. "Hello, Paul. Lovely to see you here."

Paul lifted his drink in greeting. "Ms. Pierce insisted, I couldn't refuse."

"Of course. Our table is ready and the Directors have already been escorted," he held out an arm towards me and offered the other to Paul. "Shall we?"   

"We shall!" Paul leapt up and looped his hand through.

And, to my endless fascination, Tristan escorted us both right to the table without so much as a hint or flush of embarrassment about standing arm in arm with another man.

The heart I had thought to keep so carefully tucked away in what was supposed to only be a simple exchange of sex without intimacy gave a rippling little kick.

"Gentlemen," Tristan said, pulling out a seat for Paul next to Jim Verraster, and another for me, at his right. "We have another party joining us this evening. Allow me to introduce Paul Loduca, Laura Pierce's administrative support personnel."

The surrounding sea of lined faces and white heads bobbed politely, expect for Jim, I noticed, draping a napkin across my lap.

"How thoughtful," Jim said with a hint of snide creeping in around the edges of his voice.

"It's my party," I reminded him, setting my elbows to the table.

"That it is," Tristan agreed, setting himself neatly between us. Still standing, he raised his glass of champagne, already poured around the table. "And in light of that, I'd like to make a toast."

In the wake of what was truly a glowing speech, glasses were raised, and praised dolled out in wave after wave; I drank it all in, absorbing the incredible food and lavish conversation. Tonight was a night of triumph. For the first time since the merger with Shade Enterprises, I truly felt in control again. In my element. Landing the Nishizawa account, heading the redirection of the Malaysian airline disaster were two major coups my badly bruised soul needed to say, 'Yes. I've still got it'.  

And there was nothing like a bit of glad-handing and backslapping from my male peers to tip the scales in a complete landslide of success. Head reeling from booze and elation, I slipped away to the little girl's room to freshen up. Besides the obvious glaze of alcohol in my eyes, I was holding together pretty well. Thanks in a large part to the perfectly tender wagyu steak I'd scarfed down for dinner.

Freshening up my lipstick, tousling my length of auburn curls, pinned away from my face, I decided the package was a rather impressive one. I remembered the hot and sweaty tussle from this afternoon and my blood thickened with each delicious pulse of my heart.

I'm sure Paul wouldn't mind if I let Tristan unwrap me from this little beauty later. With my thoughts already tangled up in all the ways I was going to bring that golden haired God to his knees, I didn't realize Jim was hot on my heels after I exited the bathroom until his clammy hand locked around my upper arm. His fingers cinched down with bruising force, yanking me around so we were almost nose-to-nose.

"Hey," he snarled. "I'm talking to you."

"For your information," I answered, jerking my arm out of his grasp. "I didn't hear you, so—"

"Well, let me say it again." He sidled closer, temper—no, hate—oozing from every pore in his blotched face. His teeth, bearing a slight yellowed tinge I'd never noticed between, off-center and crooked on the bottom, set on edge.

"Congratulations." The vicious undercurrent of his tone revealed the word to be anything but.

"What is your deal?" I demanded, eyes scanning quickly around us. Here in the dark corridor, a few paces away from where the restaurant bloomed into tables and rolling conversation of diners, we were alone and entirely out of reach of being discovered lest someone veered this way in search of the bathrooms.

I intended to make considerable use of this opportunity to rip out the knife Jim seemed intent on burying in my back once and for all.

"My deal," he seethed, "is that I can't abide a woman who makes her career from a horizontal playing field. Didn't take you long, did it? To play Tristan's little slut."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Laughter split his face, a face that wasn't without it's own attractive merit and made it ugly. "So easy for you, women, isn't it, spread your legs," he said, spreading his hands in symmetry, "and voila, there you have it. You shoot your way up like a meteor. Get whatever the f-ck you want where the rest of us," he jerked a thumb at his chest, "have to scrape our knees, bowing down and taking sh!t for years before we're tossed a crumb. Why? Because we don't look good dangling from the arms of powerful men. Because we can't slip into our bosses office and," he captured my face in his hands, his thumbs smearing my lipstick across my face, "suck his brains out through his c0ck."

I bit down on that invasive, perverse thumb. Jim let out a furious yelp, yanking it away, releasing me.

"F-ck you," I spat, both the words and the taste of him from my mouth, and left him there cursing a streak behind my back. His words stabbing and piercing and shredding what remained of my glowing mood. He was an idiot. A jealous moron. Not worthy of a moment's thought or consideration.

But his words sank deep and latched on the deepest, darkest part of my emotional insecurities and rapidly spread like a festering zombie plague.

He wasn't the first asshole to make those sort of snide and callous remarks. Being a woman in a position of power, that sort of b-llish!t came with the territory as I'd climbed my way to the top. But I'd been stupid enough, naïve enough, to believe I'd finally risen too high to be touched by that sort of filth anymore. And, for once, after the turnaround I'd pulled this week—there wasn't a man on my level, or lower, who could look at me without hard-earned respect. Or so I'd thought.

F-cking stupid little girl, my inner voice mocked. You'll always be a walking vag!na and a pair of tits, unworthy of recognition in the eyes of men.               

I shot through the dining room like a blazing missile bent on destruction. The air was stifling, the walls—constricting around me like a python squeezing so tight my bones were breaking. If I didn't get out of there I was bound to pass out or shatter. Either of which were entirely too clichéd for my liking.

"Ah there you—what's wrong?" Paul's sloppy grin shifted into all business the moment he saw my face. I could only imagine the way I looked, every muscle in my face was rigid and twisted and tight with repressed fury.

"I need to leave. Now."

"Alright," setting down his drink, Paul dusted his hands. "Go. I'll handle the directors. Here's a cab chit," he pulled a booklet of cab receipts from his back pocket, ripped out a slip for me to take. We used them for corporate events so that employees and guests could drink themselves under the table without worrying about how they were going to make it home in the evenings. All fares were documents and later billed to the company in a monthly statement.

"I'll call the company. Car should be here in less then ten. Go." He waved a hand at me. "Go, go, go."

Grateful, I leaned in, kissed his cheek, and took off.