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The motion of the limo was smooth and swift. Its interior was cool, semi-dark, smelling of luxury and leather. Its seats were wide, long, almost obscenely comfortable. And I, ensconced inside, could hear my heart hammering in my ears.

I stared at the man across from me, wondering what indulgent guardian angel had sent his manager to my photography studio, booking me to shoot the CD cover of a European singer's first upcoming American CD. Wondering what mischievous devil had possessed me to suggest the admittedly scenic but slightly far-off shooting location, and then to agree to accept his ride back to the city. Wondering what kind of benevolent (and probably female) God had seen fit to put together bright blue eyes, a full mouth with a tendency to smile big and laugh loud, extremely large hands that looked so graceful moving across a guitar that a dozen fantasies could take flight in the space of a single song, enormous shoulders and six feet five inches of pure, unadulterated (but oh so adult) masculinity, topping it off with complete approachability, an intelligent sense of humor, a slightly accented voice that was the aural equivalent of excellent Turkish coffee, and that could give my ears multiple orgasms within the first few bars of a good blues number - and then to put the confection within a few feet of me. Wondering what cat I had kicked in a past life that we suddenly got into one of those cat-and-mouse man-woman-thing conversations I'd never been good at.

...

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