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  I shake my head. “When a man has every need met, and ones he did not think he had are satisfied, then he is left with a void.” I cock my head, moving my hands to the pockets of my slacks. “You act as though you would talk me out of our arrangement.”

  Zaire shakes his head. “No. You said, and I quote, ʽYour heart beats, but it does not live.ʼ”

  “Yes. I am familiar with contentment, but I am not on intimate terms with contentment's distant cousin, joy.”

  A slow smile spreads across Zaire's face as a flutter of emotion skates across the deepest part of me. Unease.

  I embrace the uncommon feeling. For too long, I have felt nothing besides the slow, rolling river of time's passage. I welcome any emotion that causes my soul to surface through the murky waters of my complacent mediocrity.

  Zaire shakes his head, and a low chuckle breaks the seam of his lips. “You're going to make a fun subject.” He gazes around the room before his eyes land on the wide expanse of glass that flanks the entire wall. From this vantage point, seventy stories aboveground inside the Columbia Center, the clouds appear touchable. The gray Puget Sound churns like angry boulders of water beneath us.

  I walk over to stand beside Zaire. Our heights are similar, though our heritage is different. “Why do you do this?”

  Without turning, Zaire places a forearm on the glass. He gazes over the city, at the raging sea beyond. “I know what it is to be rich. To be so rich you could park an incinerator in the house and burn money twenty-four hours a day.”

  I say nothing, waiting for the point. Zaire Sebastian will have one.

  He rolls his head on his forearm, facing me. “This isn't a game, Paco. Once we start, with the exception of the one-month markers, it's your new life. I have people everywhere. They can get to you anywhere in the world.”

  I nod. I'm counting on it. I travel extensively to oversee the manufacture of my beans. I can be in Costa Rica one day and Brazil the next.

  He straightens from his slouch against the window. “Your preliminary physical came back as outstanding, by the way.” His lips quirk. “My techs were making bets on how much time you spend on that build.”

  “Oh?” My eyebrow hikes.

  “Yeah,” Zaire turns and throws a punch toward me. I stiffen my gut and arch backwards, capturing his wrist and twisting as I dance into him.

  “Shee-it!”

  “And?” I ask. He struggles and I nestle his fist between his shoulder blades, cupping my opposite hand on his elbow.

  I apply pressure.

  Zaire taps my leg.

  I drop his limb and step back, out of arm's reach.

  We stare at each other.

  “They said two hours—every day.” He's breathing hard.

  I'm not at all. “They would be wrong.”

  “How long, Paco? How much time do you devote to physical perfection?”

  I cast my eyes down. Too much.

  When I look up, he's massaging his arm. A wicked grin slashes the solemnness of his face.

  “I don't worship my body; I use it. I have trained it to be used. There is a difference between doing one thousand sit-ups and forcing the body's compliance.”

  “Have you forced it?” Zaire asks.

  “Absolutely.”

  Zaire snorts. “You realize I have you as a level-five risk on the form?”

  For the first time since our meeting began, I get a thrill like an electrical current. Singing tension winds through me, causing my toes and fingers to tingle with anticipation of the unknown. “Yes.”

  “That means you're rating at the highest level for hand-to-hand combat, knife play—”

  My lips twitch. “There is no such thing as playing with knives.”

  He stares at me for a moment before going on, “Stylized weaponry and a variety of martial arts background.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that accurate?”

  A beat of silence presses between us like a bomb before detonation.

  “Yes.”

  “I will personally oversee your submission and handpick the girl.”

  I open my mouth then close it.

  Zaire's wide grin angers me.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  I'm unfamiliar with the idiom, though I speak several languages.

  “You have utterly no say in this fantasy, Paco. This is what you're paying the big bucks for. This is a match-making enterprise of the highest order. We will find your love match.”

  I believe love to be an impossibility for me. However, I remain silent about my skepticism. “You trivialize it,” I say and hear the sullen tone in my own voice. I can't shake it.

  “It's not about what you can get, Paco. You could have a bevy of the finest tail on the earth. Hell, chicks smell money a mile away, they'd swarm you like bees to honey. That's not what's at stake here.”

  Zaire strides to the door, and I stroll after him.

  He turns and gestures sweepingly, using the arm I didn't leverage behind him. “This is about a wealthy man—or woman—knowing the one who says I do really wants them for who they are, not what they have. This fantasy is engineered to pull out every stop to prove their worth. No one can pretend through the circumstances I provide at Club Alpha.”

  He meets my silence with his own.

  “Three days, Paco. You have three days for dissolution. If I don't hear back, you can assume I've gone through your questionnaire, found it to be sound and withstanding further legalities, your fantasy will begin.”

  “And your failure rate?” I ask, though I know.

  “Zero.”

  Neither one of us mentions some of the candidates have sustained injuries during their unique fantasy trials.

  I've interviewed each one personally. Their answers are the same: they would do it again.

  “I would never guess you were a lawyer in charge of fantasy matchmaking for the wealthy, Zaire.”

  He gives me a hard look. “And I would never guess you were an exotic coffee mogul with a ninth-dan black belt.”

  I wink at him. “I went… how do you say it? Ah yes, easy on you.”

  The look we share is between two men wondering how it would be to give it a go.

  “What art do you practice?” I ask.

  “Jujitsu,” Zaire replies.

  We bow at each other, eyes locked—as it should be. Never take your eyes off your opponent.

  “Now,” Zaire says, straightening, “if you don't have any questions…”

  “I have many questions.”

  Zaire's eyebrow lifts, and the corners of his lips twitch. “Ones I can answer?”

  “No.”

  He opens the door, and I pass through. “Then we're through.”

  I turn as he shuts the door. I halt the swing of the solid Douglas fir with the slap of my hand.

  “I'll see you on Halloween.”

  “Trick or treat.”

  Zaire closes the door. It latches softly behind me.

  In three more days, the games begin.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Greta

  I look up at Gia in disbelief. “Are you freaking kidding me?” I gaze back down at the—I don't know—novel in my hands. I grasp the edge of the paper and let the pages contained between the folder slip through my fingers.

  Gia smirks. With golden eyes like deep whiskey, rimmed with smoky-kohl eyeliner, she blinks at me like a satisfied feline. “You want thorough, don't you?”

  I shake my head, and my hair, fresh from the blowout Gia insisted on paying for, slides over my shoulders.

  I nervously smooth my hands over the tight crimson pencil skirt and look at question number one million:

  Have you ever partaken in illegal drug use?

  I swallow hard. “I don't give a hot damn about thoroughness. I—hell in a handbasket—I don't even know about this.” I tap the papers.

  Gia saunters to where I sit at my desk at Roffe Enterprises. She puts one sculpted butt cheek on the corner of all that antique oa
k. “Listen here, Greta.”

  Oh Jesus, wonderful. “I feel an epic rant coming on, Gia.”

  Her full lips twist. “You better believe it. I've gone through every angle, point by point. My logic is irrefutable.”

  “That's just it—it's your logic.”

  Her lips flatten, and a nail tip taps her chin. “Your logic is working to death, having no life—hell, you have to make an appointment to poo.”

  I roll my eyes, not because she takes practicality to a new level, but because she's right. I almost schedule bathroom time. Everything in my life is a squeezeathon—from the bathroom, to sleep, to the gym. I factor breathing in there somewhere, too.

  I do make time to sigh in frustration at Gia. I love her, but she's such a pushy broad.

  “I know that look,” she says, eyes narrowed at me.

  “What look?” I ask innocently.

  “The look where you're going to back out. I'm paying—I'm sponsoring you, Greta. There's no excuses. You've got—what? A billion vacation days built up.”

  I scrunch my nose. She may be overstating things.

  Or not.

  I scan the paperwork for Club Alpha on my lap. I find what I'm searching for. “It says here my work can continue, that the fantasy incorporates itself.”

  “It's organic in nature,” Gia inserts.

  “Like a disease?” I ask.

  She pouts.

  “Okay!” I shove the papers away. “You know I'm grateful. I understand this is like—I don't know—an intervention.”

  Her face becomes solemn.

  “God, I'm not that bad!” I say, folding my arms.

  Gia goes uncharacteristically silent.

  “Am I?”

  She nods. “You're twenty-four years old, for shit's sake.” Her probing eyes capture mine in a gaze I've held countless times on the psych bench.

  I grip the folder full of the stats of my life. Greta Dahlem, exposed. “But why do we have to go to this extreme? I can find a guy the old-fashioned way.”

  Gia stands and walks away from the desk to pace in front of the bank of windows overlooking the Space Needle grounds.

  I admire her sharp figure, not with envy but a sense of pride. Gia is her own thing. And I'm more because of our friendship, and what she has done for me.

  I blow strands of my pale-blond hair out of my face.

  She whirls, pointing a pen at me. “You—no. You couldn't find a man the old-fashioned way if your life depended on it.”

  Probably right. I sulk, spinning in my chair.

  My phone buzzes through. “Miss Dahlem.”

  Gia meets my eyes. Her expression says, “See?”

  I depress the button, giving Gia an eye roll. “Yes, Ashley?”

  “Mr. Aros, line one.”

  “Thank you, Ashley.”

  I hold up a finger to Gia and she gives me the middle one in return. I suppress a giggle over her spontaneous lewdness.

  “Hallo,” I say.

  “English is fine, Ms. Dahlem,” Aros says.

  “Fint, ja,” I reply and switch to English from my native Norwegian.

  Gia waits through my upcoming travel plans. They revolve around the latest swatches of material for wind, water and temperature repellent outerwear for the extreme skier. Another foreign client would be so good for my resume, and maybe Mr. Aros will be he. We briefly confer about our upcoming meeting. The conversation winds to a succinct close.

  “Thank you, Mr. Aros,” I say.

  “Farvel,” he says and the humming international connection abruptly ceases.

  “Are you done playing Swedish twinkle toes with clients?”

  I snort. “It's so insulting for you to mistake me for a Swede. Really? I am Norwegian—there's a difference, you know.”

  Gia shrugs. “It's all just broad for me, baby. Scandinavian. All you blond, blue-eyed perfect folk. Skinny. Tall. Whatever. It's simple to lump you all together.”

  I remember when that was a bad thing.

  Gia's face falls. “No, I'm sorry, Greta. I wasn't thinking.”

  I say nothing, holding my chin to stop the quivering. I don't stop my other hand from stroking the scar at my wrist. Plastic surgery, another gift from Greta, made it a fine line instead of the twisted mess it was.

  “It's okay. I've moved on.” My eyes meet hers to push truth into the lie. My jaw tightens. “I will move on,” I repeat decisively.

  A Mona Lisa smile ghosts Gia's lips, and we leave the past behind us for the moment. “Say yes, Greta. Don't let what's happened rule you, overwork you. It's like—” She pauses, and I watch the uncertainty cloud her normally Zen features. “It's like you run from introspection. This might help your healing, Greta.”

  Nothing will. My work is safe, but exploring the boundaries of my fragile psyche? Not so much.

  I stare at all those intimidating words on the form for Club Alpha, so they can make my life an atom among the spinning chaos of a new reality.

  “I've already filled it out,” I admit softly, trailing my finger over flat words that say so much, and so little, about me.

  Gia squeals, clapping her hands. Her eyebrows arch. “Then it's only the physical left?”

  I nod.

  “Excellent,” she grabs her handbag and shoulders it before jerking a thumb at the door. “Tell Ashley to cover for you.”

  I roll my lip into my mouth, mauling the tender flesh with my teeth. I do it so much that I'm surprised I have any lip left. “You're so bossy,” I finally grumble, hitting the intercom with a finger.

  “And you need it,” she quips.

  Maybe.

  I tell Ashley then let Gia drag me to Club Alpha.

  *

  I find it very difficult to let this man, whom I don't know at all, circle me like a cow on the auction block.

  I stifle the urge to moo.

  “I have a copy of your questionnaire, Ms. Dahlem.”

  He butchers the pronunciation.

  “It's Dahl-em. Like doll then em.”

  Rich hazel eyes scrutinize me, and I curse under my breath as my fair complexion springs to life in a blush I don't have to see to know that bright pink color has flooded my cheeks.

  “You betcha, darlinʼ,” Zaire Sebastian replies in a droll voice.

  “Cut the cute, Zaire. I told you Greta's a little shy.”

  Zaire winks at her, tipping his huge cowboy hat, which hides curls of moppy dark-blond hair. His gaze moves back to me, appraising me. “Not that shy. I'd say detail-oriented is more Greta's style.”

  I kick my chin up a little at his assessment. “Have you seen my paperwork?”

  His eyes are shadowed as they meet mine. “I've skimmed it. But soon I'll practically know it by heart.” He crosses his fingers over his muscular chest and puts two fingers up, mimicking a Boy Scout pledge. “Promise.”

  Zaire's eyebrows plunge, his expression instantly morphing to seriousness. He looks at an image of me as I was when I first arrived. I was wearing a silk shell blouse in a soft pearl so lustrous and light it resembled a cup of cream instead of white, a deep red pencil skirt, and four-inch heels in nude, which matched my stockings to perfection. I buy only Italian-made hosiery. They have the sizes someone of my height needs for a true fit.

  I'm a sweaty mess now, though. Yoga pants and a sheer T-shirt cling to every crevice of me. I swipe a strand of hair out of my face. The tight dutch braid that sinks into a low knot at my nape never quite holds all of it.

  “What did you say you do for conditioning?”

  His eyes boldly rove my body. I feel the blush swim back to healthy life.

  Damn.

  Gia grins.

  I scowl back.

  “I ski during the colder months…”

  His eyebrows jerk up. “You're…” He appears to think about it, then says, “Twenty-four?”

  I nod, puzzling over his bewilderment.

  “It's not typical for someone your age to be a skier; snowboarding's more like it.”


  I shrug. “I'm Norwegian. They toss us out the front door as toddlers with skis instead of shoes.”

  “Yes,” he says with a thoughtful small smile, “I read that in your nationality breakdown.” He gives me steady eyes. “Pure, yes?”

  My heart thuds, and fresh sweat dampens my palms. I feel Gia at my back.

  I push images of fair flesh on hands, pale eyes in shades of blues and greens far away. My attackers are Caucasian.

  I lick my lips. “Yes, one hundred percent.”

  Zaire turns toward his desk and picks something up. “That's a rare thing in America nowadays. Melting pot and all.”

  I nod. I know. I so know.

  “Dual citizen?” he asks, turning with a tape measure in his hand.

  I shake my head. “No, orphan.”

  Zaire says nothing while taking the measurements of my waist, hips, and bust.

  I blush again when he tightens the tape around my breasts.

  “Don't breathe,” he says, winking. “You're five-ten?” His eyes rise to mine.

  I nod.

  He writes nothing down.

  “A few things off the bat we should straighten out before yʼall get started down this path.” He looks at me expectantly.

  “Okay,” I say, cupping my elbows and retreating a step.

  “There are a few candidates who have a very narrow idea of what they find attractive.”

  Gia makes a disbelieving noise in the background. “She's so perfect it's sick, Zaire—you know this.”

  I think I'm going up in flames at this point.

  Zaire raises his palm while I study my feet. God, Gia.

  “She is a wonderful specimen of the female form, yes. A regular Eve. However…” He pauses, and my head snaps up from admiring the lush carpet of his office. “She is tall, very blond, and thin. Not every man wants to be with an Amazon who looks like a Nordic goddess.”

  I suddenly feel as inept as I did when Gia first coerced me into trying Club Alpha. Of course, the fee of fifty million dollars made participation unlikely for me to ever be a part of it.

  But Gia is old money. That’s nothing for her. She makes Paris Hilton look like a pauper.