Mr. Million Meets His Match [A 50 Shades of Grey spinoff]

2. Ravel's Bolero

Me and my butterflies. They're my only company and keep proliferating by the minute.

I stand indecisive at the entrance and for the tenth time glance over my shoulder at the moving shadows behind me. My heart pounds in my ears. Swallowing hard, I raise my hand to the brass lion knocker. Before I even touch it, the door opens to reveal a warm stream of light.

First I startle. Then all the horrific images haunting me are dispelled.

"Good evening, Miss Genet."

"Bonsoir, Mr. Million."

His eyes linger on mine and mesmerize me again... I have a weakness for barefoot men in ripped jeans and a white shirt. Well, I actually don't. At least, not until now. But this... but him. Mr. Million, stripped of his businesslike appearance, boasts an irresistible casualness. The jeans hang low around his narrow hips, and the shirt has only the three middle buttons done, hinting at his muscular torso.

"I thought I heard the car a while ago and began to worry about you."

"I was admiring the garden," I reply quickly.

His forehead creases for a moment as he glimpses at the darkness outside before closing the door.

"I'm glad you came. Welcome to my pied-à-terre in France."

A disconcerting smirk buds on his lips as he envelops my hand in the warmth of his for one second too long. The touch is subtle yet leaves me instantly shaky.

I smile back, and my heart's speed-dial goes up a notch. Sternly I remind myself I'm here to address work. Or whatever it is we'll be discussing.

We cross the foyer adorned with antique furniture and Persian rugs, pass by a curved stairway and enter a study filled with the mellow notes of Ravel's La Valse. The setting makes me feel in an old movie: French doors draped in heavy green curtains, a vast bookcase, a black-lacquered piano and a fireplace. Above the mantel, the rectangular mirror reflects twin crystal chandeliers and abstract paintings. The coffee table faces a crackling fire, surrounded by a cream leather sofa and two rococo chaise lounges. It bears an impressive bronze statuette of a faun and a bottle of wine sided by a pair of glasses, an elaborate corkscrew and two black linen napkins. The Brothers Karamazov lies on it next to a manila folder.

"I figured we would be warmer here than in the living area. I dismissed the servants to ensure our privacy," Million clarifies. "Allow me..."

He moves behind me and rests his hands on my shoulders to take my cape. His fingers become a whisper of silk on my bare skin. Then he's standing in front of me. His gaze covers the distance from the narrow straps of my black dress to the hemline below my knees. Following the route of his crystalline eyes, a long shiver trails my body.

I didn't want to show up overdressed, so I went for sparse makeup and a simple, light wool pencil dress, matching it with ruby stud earrings and nothing else—a nonchalant effect that cost me one hour of indecision and a Mount Everest of discarded clothes. Now I wish I had gone for baggy pants and an oversized sweater.

I feel so exposed under his scrutiny. Servants dismissed. Oh dear. All alarms go off in my head and I clutch the handle of my purse. Mr. Million gently lifts my fingers one by one, taking it from me. I moisten my dried-out lips when he steps away to leave my belongings on the chaise lounge next to the fireplace.

"Are you thirsty, Miss Genet? Would you care for some wine?"

"Yes, please." I fake confidence and spill out before I can deter my big mouth: "And you can call me Annabelle."