what I meant to do with the contents. The wood slipped

against my fingers as I carried it to the cash register. I

didn't want to let it go long enough for Miriam to ring it up

and put it in a Speckled Toad bag, but I did.

I was sweating a little, my stomach and throat buzzing with

anticipation. Colors seemed a bit too bright and sounds

too loud. I was already thinking of a quiet room and

candlelight, and the scritch-scratch of a pen on the paper.

I already knew what I was going to write.

Miriam rang up my purchase and wrapped the satin box

liberaly in tissue paper, then slid it into a bag. She peered

at me over her half glasses, her mouth pursed, and tapped

the countertop with her crimson nails. "You need

something else."

I was already spending too much. "I don't think so."

Miriam ignored me and turned to the glass-topped display

case next to the counter. She leaned over to look at the

Cross and Mont Blanc pens inside, each snuggled in its

own cradle of velvet. She ran her finger over the glass,

drawing my attention to each of the pens I'd lusted over

since discovering her shop. There was a Starwalker

rolerbal pen in black and one in blue. There was a

Meisterstuck Classique Platinum rolerbal in classic black

with silver accents. She even had one of the special

limited-edition Marlene Dietrich pens I'd seen online that

cost the earth.

"Mont Blanc doesn't cal them pens, you know," she said

in the reverent voice of an archeologist unearthing

something precious. She didn't look at me as she unlocked

the back of the case and ran her fingertips over the velvet.

the back of the case and ran her fingertips over the velvet.

"They're referred to as writing instruments."

Her fingers closed on one, a slim black piece with the

signature six-pointed star in the cap. She drew it out and

laid it flat on her palm the way the jeweler had done with

the diamond ring Austin had bought me. The pen in

Miriam's palm wasn't quite as expensive as that ring, which

I stil had locked away in my jewelry box…but it wasn't

much less, either.

I itched to take it, but shoved my hands in my pockets

instead. "Yes, I know. I've been to their Web site."

Now her gaze, cool and amused, flicked to me. "I'm sure

you have. You look at these pens every time you come in,

Paige."

"They're beautiful pens."

Miriam puled out a smal square of velvet and laid the pen

—the writing instrument—on it. Then she folded her hands

and tilted her head to look at me over her glasses again.

"Let me ask you something, my dear. Would a plastic

surgeon operate on someone's face with a rusty butter

knife?"

knife?"

"I sure hope not." I grimaced.

Miriam smiled indulgently. "Would an artist try to paint a

masterpiece with a box of watercolors from the dolar

store?"

"If that's al the artist had, why not?"

"My point is, my dear, that in order to create real, true

things of beauty, a person needs the right tools." She

waved a hand over the Mont Blanc.

My soul strained toward it. "I'm not an artist."

"No?" Her perfectly plucked brows lifted in unison. "That paper says otherwise. Tel me you intend to use it for a

grocery list, and I'l cal you a liar. What's more, I won't

sel it to you. It would be a sin not to use that paper for

something special."

"I plan to use it for something special." My mouth curved

into a smile on the words.

"Good. But what about the instrument? Don't tel me you

plan to use a half-chewed pencil stub with no eraser."

plan to use a half-chewed pencil stub with no eraser."

I tore my gaze away from the Mont Blanc to look at her.

"I have a nice fountain pen my dad bought for me for my

colege graduation."

I didn't tel her it tended to stain my fingers in addition to

blotting the paper with ink. Miriam sniffed. Her fingernails

ticktocked on the counter, timing the seconds before her

response.

"It's not a Mont Blanc. Or even a Cross. Is it?"

"No. But it's what I have."

Miriam sighed and shook her head. "Paige, Paige, Paige.

Pick up that pen and hold it."

I didn't want to—putting it down would be so much

harder. But when Miriam puled a piece of cream-colored

paper from beneath the counter and slid it toward me, I

did what she'd said. If you've never held a realy good pen,

you don't understand how the weight distributes itself so

evenly in your palm. Or how the fit of it in your fingers

makes writing even the longest documents easy. How the

ink slides from the tip without effort.

I wrote my name.

"Oh…" I breathed and with reluctance, set down the pen.

"It's so nice."

I'd put it down at once so I wouldn't be tempted to run

away with it, but Miriam lifted it and held it toward me.

"Buy it."

"I can't afford it." I hadn't even looked at the tiny, hand-lettered price tag attached to the pen's box stil in the

display case. I didn't have to see the numbers to know I

couldn't buy it.

"Are you sure?" Miriam asked calmly. "You might be

surprised."

"I doubt it, Miriam. I know what those pens cost."

"My dear," she said. "Aren't you worth it?"

Chapter 21

This is what I wrote on that expensive paper with my

exquisite writing instrument.

The time has come to reevaluate our relationship.

You will send me your exact schedule, work and

pleasure, for the next ten days. In addition, you will

write ten things that excite you. You will send them in

an e-mail to me at switch1971@gmail.com no later

than 6:00 p.m. the day you get this letter. You will

include your cell phone number so I can text-message

you my approval. Or not.

Things are going to change for us both.

I'd stepped it up, but unlike my last interlude with Austin, I

didn't wonder if it had been too much. I wondered,

instead, if perhaps it hadn't been enough. There were

several messages in my Inbox when I got home from

work. One of them was from a friend from colege,

another from my mom. And the last was from an e-mail

address I didn't recognize. Eric.

He detailed his schedule as I'd requested. Working

twelve-hour shifts in a three-on, four-off pattern. I hadn't

asked him what hospital he worked at, but he'd included

varying drive times, so I thought he might fil in at several.

His attention to detail pleased me. Clearly he'd done

something like this before…but then, I was guessing he

was more used to this sort of thing than I was. I liked his

list of things that excited him even more.

• 1. Standing in the rain

• 2. Roller coasters

• 3. Knowing I'm being watched while I make myself

come

• 4. Serving a woman on my knees while she ignores

me

• 5. Tacos!

• 6. Lingerie (on a woman, not me wearing it)

• 7. Being told exactly how to please the woman I'm

with so I don't have to guess

• 8. Clean sheets

• 9. Monty Python on DVD

• 10. Lists

Lists excited me, too. I loved that he had a sense of humor

about it and was self-confident enough to show it. I also

appreciated that he'd responded in time—5:55, by the

time on the message. I didn't know if I'd have had it in me

to punish him for failure.

I never wore leather and I'd never cracked a whip. I liked

high heels, but the thought of using them to step on a

person squicked me out big-time. I'd always thought of

men who got off on "serving" women as pussies, though

Eric had impressed me as anything but.

I didn't know how much of a mistress I was going to be,

or how long I could get away with the impersonation. I

could have pretended I'd taken this on for his sake—the

thought of losing those daily lists had sent me into a mind-

spin, after al. But I knew it was realy for me. Those lists

had given me something I hadn't known I needed.

Writing them, I discovered, fulfiled me even more.

Writing them, I discovered, fulfiled me even more.

This is what I left in his mailbox.

Tonight when you get home from work, you will eat

your dinner. Then you'll shower. After that, you'll go to

your bedroom and leave your curtain open.

When you jerk your cock, know that I'l be watching you.

"Cute shoes." The woman whose name I didn't know but

whom I always seemed to bump into at the mailboxes

sounded as if she meant it. "Enzo Angiolini?"

I looked down at the chunk-heeled pumps in classic black,

tied across the top with a tasseled leather strap. I'd picked

them up at the thrift store for three bucks. But yes, they

were brand name and nearly brand-new. "Yes."

"Nice. I have a pair almost like it but in navy. I never wear

them, though. I couldn't ever find anything to go with

them." She gave the rest of my outf it a critical look. "I'd never have thought to put them together with a flared skirt

and tapered top like that."

For months I'd agonized over what to wear to work each

day and she'd looked at me as though I were something

she'd scraped off the bottom of her enviably fashionable

shoes. Today, caught up in thoughts of slipping Eric's note

into the mail and what it would lead to, later, I'd thrown on

the first outfit I'd grabbed. I looked at my shoes and

swirled slightly to flare my skirt around my knees. My

smile had nothing to do with her compliment, and I didn't

thank her for it. Okay, so I can be a bit of a vindictive

bitch. I never pretended otherwise.

I looked her up and down from the chiffon scarf she'd tied

at her throat to her feet in the same pair of Kate Spades

I'd seen several times already. "Realy?"

One word. So many layers of meaning. She blinked

rapidly, and then her mouth quirked into a grudging smile.

We understood each other the way women do and men

never wil.

"They're having a great sale at Neiman Marcus next week.

I'm on their preferred buyers mailing list and got a

postcard about it," she offered.

"Thanks. I'l check it out." I waited until she'd gone before putting my letter in Eric's mailbox.

When I had, I leaned for a moment against the wal, my

breath whistling through parted lips. Beneath the skirt she'd

so admired, I wore lacy, silky lingerie. Sexy things to make

me feel pretty al day, and to remind me of what I intended

to happen later. As if I could forget, I thought with a secret

smile I kept with me al day.

Paul noticed it. The smile, not the panties, which rubbed

me deliciously each time I crossed or uncrossed my legs.

He stood over my desk with a sheaf of files in his hands,

but he waited until I looked up to acknowledge him rather

than simply addressing me the way he had in the past.

Oh, how so much had changed in so short a time!

"You look nice today," he said.

In this era of sexual-harassment suits, in a time where I'm

an executive assistant and not a secretary because of some

misbegotten notion that a title means more than the job

itself, his compliment wasn't realy appropriate. I leaned

back in my chair to give him a nice long look at my legs as

I crossed them high at the knee. And he looked, Paul did,

without pretending he didn't.

"What do you need, Paul?"

He offered the files. "These have to go out today."

I didn't take them. Power thriled through me as he set

them on the desk but didn't go. Was this a dangerous

game? I didn't think it was so risky. I didn't even count it

as flirtation, realy. I had no intention of fucking my boss.