Set up for the scene: For months Catherine has groused to her good friend Laura about her abysmal track record with the opposite sex - especially how "sex doesn't live up to its ad campaign." This scene starts in a restaurant the week before Catherine's 40th birthday, when Laura takes Catherine for a celebratory lunch, plies her with vodka martinis and ….

"This goes on your birthday present," Laura said as she pushed back her chair and picked up her handbag. "Don't go away."

"No problem. Now that I've got this new image to maintain, I can't be seen leaving on my hands and knees," she said to Laura's departing back.

Catherine lifted the purple bow, contemplated it with curiosity, shrugged and put it back on the table. She idly raised her martini glass, surprised to find it empty. No wonder she was hearing the trumpet of pink elephants.

A waiter appeared with two fresh martinis. Catherine ignored the drink and asked for bread. Something to absorb the alcohol. "Happy birthday, Catherine."

She looked into the face of the man she'd seen talking to the chef at the front of the restaurant. He smiled at her. She flushed … wondered how he knew her name.

"I'm Stephen Forsster," he said and handed her a lavender envelope. "I'm your birthday present." He settled into Laura's chair and picked up the purple bow, peeled off the backing and stuck it to his lapel.

Catherine stared at him with apprehension.

He lifted Laura's fresh martini and said, "Cheers."

"That drink is taken." Catherine noted that "is" came out with a slight slur.

He smiled and sipped. "I think it's all in there." He nodded toward the card she held in her hand.

Catherine watched him with a growing sense of dismay. She slipped a finger into the folds of the envelope flap, pulled out the card and read:

Dear Catherine, For this, your most significant of birthdays, I've selected a very special gift. Stephen is a fantasy fuck. He'll introduce you to a world you've not yet experienced … but always imagined.

Embarrassment heated her throat. How could Laura know what Catherine had imagined? In her peripheral vision Catherine noted that her "birthday present" was relaxed, watching her thoughtfully. She continued to read.

I didn't get him from Tiffany's or Gump's, so you can't return him or exchange him; you'll just have to take him home and enjoy him. (I promise you'll thank me for this!) Happy Birthday, sweetie! Love, Laura.

Anger and indignation flared Catherine's cheeks. She felt betrayed. She had confided in Laura - trusted Laura with her rawest confessions about failures with members of the opposite sex … and this was how Laura, who had a knack for eliciting more intimate information than she ever shared, had used that knowledge?

She glared at Stephen Forsster. "If I were looking for a mercy fuck, I'd take out an ad in a personals column."

"And no doubt that's what you'd get - a desperate, artless mercy fuck. I, on the other hand, tend to think of myself as a sexual connoisseur."

"Did Laura tell you she feels sorry for me?"

"She didn't tell me anything except I would enjoy your company."

Catherine crossed arms over chest and nurtured a glare - preferable to the irrational tears that threatened.

"And she thought you might enjoy mine." He casually picked up the menu and began to peruse. "Apparently, she was wrong."

"Don't take this personally, but …" Why the hell was she trying to protect his feelings; it was personal. Very personal. She stood and clutched the chair back. "Tell Laura …" she stopped again. She didn't know what to tell Laura.

"Tell her yourself." He laid down the menu and eyed her.

Vodka had pickled her nervous system; she was afraid to release the chair.

He smiled and shrugged. "Ok, so you're not sexually attracted to me," he flicked his fingers across the menu. "Can we at least have lunch?" He raised his eyebrows questioningly, as he'd done when she'd first seen him.

"Did Laura pay for that, too?"

"You think Laura offered financial incentives?" He grinned quizzically. "To the contrary. This celebration is on me."

"Excuse me?" Had she misread the card?

He held out his hand toward the chair. "Please. Be my guest." His eyes were playful and full of innuendo. "For lunch."

The waiter appeared and smiled uncertainly. "Ready to order?"

Stephen watched. Catherine debated whether to ask the waiter to call a taxi, or to make her way to the host stand and take a chance that the maitre 'd would still be there.

"Give us a minute," Stephen said. "But bring some bread right away. We're both famished." Stephen rose and shrugged out of his jacket, exposing a pale blue shirt with white collar and monogrammed French cuffs secured with simple gold links. "It would be my pleasure if you would join me for lunch, Catherine," he said and held his hand toward the seat she'd vacated.

Catherine stood her ground, clinging unsteadily to the proffered chair.

Forsster shrugged, resettled in his own chair and picked up the menu again. "I recommend the bouillabaisse. The only person who makes it better than Maxim is my wife."

Catherine's eyes widened. "Your wife?" She sank to the edge of the cushy seat. "You're married? I thought you were some kind of … of male prostitute."

"I've been called worse," he grinned devilishly. "I'm in the brokerage business."

She stared. Incredulous. Certain the vodka had caused her to misunderstand all that had transpired.

"And I'm very interested in you and your company. That recent Systems House article left no doubt that ETC is ahead of the market on data security and internet privacy issues. Are you going to take the company - "

"Wait a minute," she said and held up her hand. "What's going on here?"

"As I understand it, we're both hungry; I've suggested we have lunch. I generally find dining more pleasurable when the participants converse about a topic of common interest. It so happens I deal with a lot of technology companies."

"But I …"

He waved her off. "Forget the sex thing. Bad idea. Let's just talk business."

She drooped against her chair back and observed him. The waiter came again. Stephen ordered for both of them - looked to Catherine for approval. She shrugged. Whatever.

He asked questions about a software product ETC had recently taken to market; she answered haltingly. He'd recently read an article about state-of-the-art strategies for securing corporate data - asked her opinion.

"Maybe it's because of the Y2K emphasis, but companies are just beginning to understand that 'corporate data' is their biggest asset,"

Stephen said. "For years, there have been inventory management systems and all kinds of checks and balances to make sure no one absconds with a company's ballpoint pens or their copy machines; but no one was looking at what walked out on little floppy disks."

"Exactly!" Catherine launched into some of her own pet theories. She relaxed. Was relieved to be back on familiar turf.

Stephen drank vodka; Catherine drank water and ate bread. Stephen described a new security product that had just come out of one of Silicon Valley's hottest software houses. When he outlined how it created a security architecture for multiple networking protocols, it became apparent to Catherine that he was not only extremely intelligent, but also well informed.

Still confused by the enigma he - and the situation - presented, she studied him as he switched subjects and animatedly described a recent sailing trip.

His eyes were blue and danced with energy and playfulness as he spoke. His voice was velvety. It sounded trained. Like a radio announcer. Or an actor. And she was fascinated by his pouty mouth. She toyed with Laura's birthday card where it lay on the lavender envelope. She lifted the front and glimpsed the message.

...fantasy fuck ... take him home and enjoy him ...

Stephen covered her hand with his own. She jerked away as if a spider had just crawled onto the white cloth.

"You're obviously not a sailor." His smile was boyish.

"I get seasick." She cleared her throat and sat silently while the waiter delivered plates of steaming food. When he had gone, she held up the card. "How did this come about?"

"I had a drink with Laura a couple of weeks ago." Nonchalant. "She saw the Systems House issue in my briefcase - your picture on the cover, and mentioned she knew you. She hatched this plan to introduce us."

"Why?" Catherine blew steam from a fish-laden fork.

"Because she knows I enjoy making love to intelligent, sexy women," he answered. Casual. As he speared a prawn.

Color rose up Catherine's throat. Irritation bloomed anew. Sexy woman - yeah, right. Was he making fun of her? Fork on plate, arms crossed over chest, she said, "My bullshit detector just shattered like a thermometer dropped in boiling water."

"Oh, I suspect you carry a spare in your handbag."

"I can't imagine why Laura would do this. Don't take it personally, but I could never be attracted to a man like you."

"Who are you kidding," he said between bites. "I'm the perfect man for you."

"Is it your arrogance or your deceptive nature that's supposed to beguile me?"

"How about that I'm equally proficient with my penis and my brain - and I can give you exactly what you want with no extraneous complications."

"You presume to know what I want?" She raised her eyebrows haughtily.

"I know more about you than you can possibly imagine."

She gritted her teeth. "I hate when people talk about me. Especially when they're betraying a confidence."

"You're the only one who's betrayed anything. What I know about you, you've told me yourself."

"Then you know virtually nothing." Arms tightened protectively over her chest.

"Wrong. You've given me a complete autobiography."

She glared silently, wondering what she'd said that he'd found so revealing.

"Shall I tell you what I know about you, Catherine?" He angled his chair, pulled it closer. "You're a very sensual woman." He slowly trailed a fingertip from her shoulder around the crook of her elbow, across her forearm and the back of her hand. Propped his left elbow on the table, cupped his chin in palm, studying her. "… but it's possible you've never had an orgasm that wasn't self-induced."

"You audacious asshole," she hissed, cheeks aflame.

"It's not your fault." He shrugged. "Your lovers - how many have you had - two? three? - were men who believe the only requirements for good sex are a stiff dick and an artificially lubricated cunt. And you feel inadequate for not having inspired them to greater passion." "You … are full of shit."

"Maybe. But, I'm not terrified. Like you are." He sipped his martini.

"You're not going to dare me into screwing you."

"What a pity. For both of us."

"Do you try to fuck every woman you meet?"

"Not every woman turns me on."

"Why doesn't your wife divorce you?"

"Because she loves me. And because I'm an excellent husband and father. My family always comes first."

"No pun intended?"

"Say that with a smile and I might begin to suspect you have a sense of humor."

"What kind of woman would fall for your line of crap?"

"A smart woman who always reads the fine print on the contract before she drives a new car off the lot." His gaze pinioned her. "Full warranty. No balloon payments at the end of the lease." He touched her cheek. He drew a finger lightly over her jawbone, down to the hollow of her throat. "Of the two genders, women have the superior ability to experience sexual pleasure." He leaned forward and his fingertips trailed up her skirt, teasing her thigh. His touch singed. "But, as they'll tell you at the track … without the right jockey even a Triple Crown winner is nothing but a nice-looking horse."

Catherine's jaw went slack. Sexual heat - and panic - rippled her spine.

"If you decide to let me make love to you, Catherine, I will explore you." Electric caress punctuated his words. "And I will discover anything and everything that inflames you beyond your wildest imagination."

Goosebumps prickled her skin. No man had touched her like that. Ever.

She squeezed her arms tight to her chest; looked at him with what she hoped was disdain. "The decision is already made. I'm not going to sleep with you."

"Well, that's true: With me, you would not sleep." He leaned back in his chair and studied her. "But actually, that's just as well. You're not the type of woman I usually get involved with."

"That's surprising - considering I have tits and a twat."

"You're divorced. You could be dangerous. You're probably one of those clingy women who want 'love' - or at least the pretense of it - with their sex."

"I don't believe in love."

He leaned in until his face was inches from hers. He smelled of starch and light citrus. "How about a warm, soft mouth on your rigid clit - do you believe in that?"

Catherine froze as heat enveloped her. Stephen's hand scalded her knee.

"A wet tongue in the hollow of your throat …" Fingertips traveled slowly under her skirt, scorching a trail like an out of control prairie fire. "Your back arched … your nipples raw with arousal." Hand traveled the curve of her stockinged hip, smoothed its way back to her knee. "Do you believe in that?"

She swallowed hard. Wanted to tell him to stop.

He kissed her palm, tonguing it lightly. Teasing. "It's very stimulating … fantasizing what I'll do to you …" He closed his eyes. Her imagination flared. " … what you'll do to me."

He guided her hand slowly under the napkin that draped his lap, sliding her fingers up the length of his sizeable erection.

Catherine closed her eyes and a small moan escaped her throat.

"You're feisty. I like that." His hand on top of hers sustained pressure. "You're extraordinarily responsive. When I stroke your thighs, your nipples stiffen. And that rosy flush on your throat isn't embarrassment. Tell me, Catherine, are your panties wet?"

She sat. Motionless. Terrified to move. Terrified to stay.

"What the fuck, Catherine. Give it a test run."

She shoved back her chair, jerked to her feet. Rattled glasses and silverware. Snatched her purse off table. Her chest stung from lack of oxygen.

"I can't," she rasped. Close to tears.

He rose and slowly reached for her hand. As if she might bolt if he moved too fast.

"I'm not after your soul," he said. He kissed her palm, all the while studying her as though reading gauges on a delicate instrument. "I'll be the most caring … sensitive … exciting lover you'll ever have - I promise." Eyes and mouth curved to a benignly mischievous smile. "And the most fun."