The Algonquin Hotel in Midtown is symbolic, at least when it comes to literary history.

It's where a famous group of writers met for lunch in the early 1900s. Today, the boutique hotel still has the oak-paneled walls in the lounge, and it costs hundreds a night to stay in a room upstairs.

Even though I'm a native New Yorker, I've only been there once, for cocktails, with my old editor. I'd just turned twenty-one and was awe-struck to sit in the plush velvet chairs in the bar.

And at twenty-four, I'm just as awed when I walk in and hesitantly make my way into the bar. There's a hushed atmosphere, one of grace and old-world charm, and yes, sex. In hues of mahogany and gold and scarlet, the lobby lounge looks like the place for a tryst.

An extremely naughty tryst.

My eyes scan the room. Where is he? All around me, gorgeous women in little dresses perch on overstuffed loveseats next to handsome men in perfectly tailored suits.

My mouth becoming increasingly dry by the second, I take a few steps toward the back.

And that's when I see him.

Tristan Black is sitting in a high-backed, ivory chair. He's also in business attire, and makes the other men in the room look like grubby boys on a playground. He sure knows how to match his midnight blue suit to the color of his eyes. Everything about him seems crisp, biting, edgy.

Dangerous.

I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. He hasn't noticed me yet, which is amazing because I'm the only person here wearing red, and I stand out like a stop sign in a field of sharp, stainless steel knives.

Something tells me tonight won't go any better than our first meeting.

I stifle a sigh. Let's get this over.

As if instinctually tuned into my movement, the second I take a step, he turns his head and fixes his eyes on me.

His gaze is so unsettling that I have to remind myself how to put one foot in front of the other because I'm sure I'll trip on this carpet. Somehow, I manage not to, and stand before him twisting my fingers on the handle of my purse.

"Mr. Black, it's a pleasure to see you again," I say primly. Good God. What's gotten into me? Why am I greeting him like we're extras in an episode of Downton Abbey? Maybe it's the formal setting. Or how he's staring at me, his eyes molten, beautiful and haughty.

"Miss Amato. I appreciate that you're," he makes a show of checking his watch, "only five minutes late."

My nostrils twitch. God, he's such a bastard. There's no way I can work for him, and I seriously doubt he'll want me to, anyway. I won't be able to keep my damned mouth shut.

"Anyone who lives in New York knows that public transportation, whether it's a taxi or the subway, is often unreliable."

He gestures to the empty, tall-backed white chair next to him. "I suppose."

His response is so arrogant that I have to laugh. I can't help it. I know already I've blown this interview and the entire job.

"What do you mean? Because you have a hired car, or a helicopter? You're always on time, I imagine. Or early."

He smirks. "Correct."

My earlier nervousness has dissolved into an indignant annoyance. I shoot him a tight-lipped smile.

A waiter magically appears.

"Two gin and tonics, please."

I gape at him. It's not like I have a lot of experience with men, but I didn't think they actually ordered for women without asking. At least, not outside the books I read.

I was thinking of ordering a Cosmopolitan, but okay. Whatever the bossy man wants. I nod and thank the waiter. "That would be wonderful."

When the waiter walks away, I shoot daggers at my would-be-boss.

"Isn't it polite to ask me my drink preference, Mr. Black?"

"Please. Tonight you may call me Tristan." He shrugs. "The gin and tonic's famous here. I thought you'd want to try it."

I let out an annoyed grunt. You may call me Tristan. Pfft.

He clears his throat, and I can't help but notice how he keeps glancing at my mouth. How old is he, anyway? Thirty-five? Forty?

"I'm glad you reconsidered my offer. This will benefit you immensely."

My shoulders lift into a shrug. "I'll be honest. I came here hoping we could talk about putting me in a different position."

He shakes his head. "I know you're the perfect author for this."

I sigh. "Why don't you tell me what you have in mind and I'll let you know if I'm perfect."

I'm not right for anything, but I don't say that. As pessimistic as I am, I'm also not crazy. The man is offering five million bucks so I should listen to his full proposal. That he's so handsome, and that I get to watch him speak for a little while is a bonus, I suppose.

That small, maddening smile plays on his lips. "I've had this idea for a while. I think it's quite alluring and erotic."

"Okay. Let's hear it." This is probably some clichéd steamy romance plot, or something hackneyed. One that only a man would think of. Cheerleaders, or pillow fights. A glorified Penthouse Forum letter. Or, knowing this guy and how stuffy he is, a fantasy about an opera singer and a Shakespeare in the Park actor — exactly what won't sell.

"The story is about a writer."

"How unique."

His eyes narrow. "Are you sassing me?"

"Sassing? Who says that other than a five-year-old?"

That earns me a glare.

"Okay. Fine. Just giving you my opinion."

"Well, save it until I'm finished, please."

"Yes, sir."

"That's better." He clears his throat, and I swear, his gaze drifts to my body. Specifically my legs. Then it snaps back to my eyes. "The story is about a writer who enters into a contract with her publisher. She agrees to live in the publisher's house."

I screw up my face. "Why? Doesn't she have a home? Is she homeless? That makes no sense."

Then it dawns on me. "Ohhh. Is this a maid fantasy? Or slavery? Something taboo? Sorry. I'd never write any of that. I only write consensual stories. Well, wrote."

He blinks twice. "Slavery? What kind of person do you think I am?"

The kind who would propose something like this to a total stranger. "Dunno. But you're not inspiring confidence here."

He chuckles. Low and rumbly. It's a wonderful sound, and I almost dislike myself for enjoying it so much. "You're quite amusing, you know that?"

Why is he suddenly looking at me like that, all tender and sweet? I grunt again.

"What I'm suggesting is completely consensual."

My stomach turns into a brick. What, exactly, is he proposing? I'm not getting what he's saying. I tilt my head, and he continues.

"The writer, in this instance, you," he pauses and smiles wolfishly, "agrees to allow the publisher — in this case, me — to do anything he wants with her. Sexually. This is enthusiastic and consensual on the part of both parties."

My jaw hangs open, but he barrels right on.

"They agree for a set period of time, say, a week. Or a month. Whatever is mutually decided upon. And then she writes about it. Chronicles their sexual journey."

Is this guy for real? Or is this one of those prank reality TV shows? I glance to my left, and then to my right, without moving my head. Where are the hidden cameras?

Then I lick my lips. "Um."

"Don't you love the idea?" He leans forward and I swear this is the first time he's looked anything but bossy or annoyed. He looks... excited?

"Well. I... Hm. It's an interesting concept."

The wicked smile on his face grows larger. Oh, wait a minute. I think he wants me to... have sex and write about it?

This man is insane.

"Yes! It will be like 9 ½ Weeks, the original version. A chronicle of a woman's erotic and emotional descent into the unknown of pleasure."

My hands are shaking, so I rest them on my knees. Then squeeze my knees.

"Well, it's an unusual proposal, Mr. Black," I say weakly.

"Tristan. Call me Tristan. I enjoy hearing my name on your lips."

It's impossible to look into his eyes because of the filthy fantasies running through my brain.

I'll spend time with this man...having sex? Then write about it?

Oh God Oh God Oh God

Just then, the waiter appears with our drinks and a little stainless steel bowl of corn nuts. Relieved, I dive for the nuts, grab two and toss them in my mouth as the waiter walks away.

"Naturally, this will entail you relocating to my home."

____