Tara watches the moonlight play on the water.  She's scared, but also excited.
      “It’s an adventure,” she reminds herself in a whisper.
      Okay, so I'm a little scared as well, she admits to herself.  Who wouldn’t be?
 This place is authentically medieval and totally cut off from the rest of the world.  She
watches the moonlight slither over the rough sea and then disappear into the dark beach. 
It’s as if the light is moving underground.
      "It's beautiful, is it not?" a voice asks from behind.
      She turns quickly and forces herself to smile.  It's him!  
      "Yes, it is," she replies, speaking slowly with an affected
sophistication.  She extends her hand boldly like a man.  "Tara Farley.  You must be
Mr. Diaz.  I’m so happy to finally meet."
      "Anton Diaz at your service," he answers, bowing.  Instead of the
expected handshake, he raises her fingers to his lips and kisses them lightly.
      No one has ever kissed my hand...
      The ancient gesture instantly puts her worst fear to rest.  
      He's a gentleman!  Strange, she thinks, of all the dreadful things I imagined
about him, the one I feared the most was that he would be crude.  This handsome,
hand-kisser might be many other things, but he certainly isn’t crude.
      He holds her hand a few seconds longer than the custom allows.  Tara is stunned at
the corniness of the gesture, but she doesn't pull away.
      He might have a tendency towards clichéd behaviour, but he’s also rich and
deliciously Latin-handsome, she thinks, this might be more interesting than I imagined. 
Not that his looks matter that much.  This is business.  Still, the next two years are
going to be a lot easier hanging out with someone who looks like him.
      Two years!  It sounds like a lifetime when you say it that way.  I didn’t want to
make a two-year commitment, but high-end contracts are at least that long.  In fact, the
really lucrative deals were for three or more years.  I was lucky to find this two-year
option.  We’ll see how it works out.  I can always leave after all I’m not doing it for
the money.
      "You seemed mesmerized by the ocean," he says, turning toward the
balcony's stone railing.  "I love the sea as well.  For me, it is an
always-beckoning mistress."
      "...Mistress!"  The word rolls easily off his tongue, but Tara takes it
as a slap in the face.
      Did he say that innocently or is he putting me in my place.  Frankly, I don’t care
much for the later.  I’d prefer it if...
      Stay focused, stupid, her mind screams!  This is not a romance.  He’s not some
randy Wall Street bond trader or an oversexed fashion photographer.  This is a serious
player.  He’s not fooling around.  He has enough money to eat a pretty little filly like
me for breakfast every day.  	Focus!
      She feels a cool breeze from the ocean on her back.
      Just look at the clothes he sent me to wear--a black silk dress with a neckline
that plunges to my bellybutton and an open back...talk about feeling naked.  Then, to add
insult to injury, he sends along open-toed high heels, a string thong, and an out-of-style
pearl choker.  There’s absolutely no chance of anyone misinterpreting our purpose.  I
could start a riot on the Champs-Élysées in this outfit.
      Still for all its barefaced sexuality, it isn’t such a terrible choice given the
circumstances.  Vogue doesn’t really have a how-to-dress recommendation for first time
master-mistress encounters.  The truth is that the bare outfit doesn’t bother me half as
much as the way it was delivered.
      "Del Jefe," from the Boss.  That's what the clearly terrified
chambermaid had said when she handed me these clothes.  "Del Jefe," uttered with
reverence as if these were gifts from a God.  But it was the pity in the girl’s eyes that
was really disconcerting.  Pity...  For whom, me?  	Why?  It was as if she knew some
horrible secret!
      Tara takes another sip of her wine, refusing to blink under his unwavering stare.
      Some men like to impress girls with the intensity of their stares.  Are you that
way, Jefe?
      She parries the stare with a question.  “Is that what you expect from me, Mr.
Diaz--to be your always beckoning mistress?"
      Her tone is light with an implied intimacy, but the question is out of place, rude
in this idyllic setting.
      His face darkens and Tara realizes her mistake immediately.
      ...Too direct.  It’s obvious that he wants this to be a romance.  That’s why I’m
wearing this dress, that why we’re drinking two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle wine, that why
we’re having drinks on the balcony under the moonlight with the surf crashing below...  He
wants me to feed his fantasy, to play along.  He’s buying the illusion of love, not just
time in the sack.
      Tara remembers the last two days, waiting in her room.  Playing this part would be
a lot easier if you hadn't kept me waiting for two days, Anton.  Keeping your new
squeeze on ice for that long isn’t very romantic.  I'd say you need to take a few
more relationship-building lessons, especially if you want to keep an A-list girlfriend
sweet and compliant.  A romance even the ersatz kind needs to be cultivated.
      "I just want to know where I stand," she says warmly, reaching out to
touch his arm in a conciliatory gesture.
      Tara is no virgin, but she has no experience as a courtesan.  Her only advice is
from romance novels and girlfriends, both of which, she knows, are dubious references
sources.  
      I may not have much experience, but I know how to play a role.  I’ve seduced
thousands maybe millions of men through a camera lens.  I can certainly handle you, Mr.
Diaz.
      She moves inside his personal space.  Surprisingly, Diaz doesn't back away. 
Most men instinctually pull back a defensive step or two.  He just raises his glass,
innocently brushing her silk-covered nipple with the back of his hand.
      "Yes, you are my mistress," he says softly, looking at her with an honest
stare.  "But I don't need you to be ‘always beckoning.’  We both know that that
would be a lie, and there will be no lies between us, Tara.  I forbid it."
      “I forbid it.”  She rolls the words around in her mind.  “I forbid it.”   She
smiles alluringly and drops her eyes, unsure of how to respond.  No one has ever forbidden
me to do anything.  	She steps back and turns to the sea, watching the waves crash against
the black rocks.  
      “I forbid it!”  
      He takes her hand again and holds it gently.  Tara up at him and nods tentatively
as if agreeing with him.  What else can I do right now?  ...Argue the point?  I can see
that I’m going to need to watch my temper around this guy.
      "There will be no insincerity between us, only truth," he says.  "I
know this will be difficult for you after living in New York for so long, but I will help.
 Put yourself in my hands.  I take full responsibility for the success of our
relationship.  You don't need to do or say anything."
      She looks at him mystified.  He puts his glass down on the rail and begins to
speak.
      "The terms of the CELT contract we've signed give me enormous power over
you," he says, emphasizing each word.  "I intend to use this power wisely for a
larger, much more important purpose than sex.  You were very brave to come here,
adventurous.  I know that you were successful in your profession despite some detours. 
Not everyone can pull themselves away from success, from such a seductive life.  Not
everyone can face their inner demons so directly.  Such courage can only live in a strong
heart, one free of petty lies and deceptions, one deserving of the truth."
      She stays silent, not understanding anything he's saying, but knowing
instinctually that this is not the time to ask questions.
      More importantly, his monologue seems to be touching on the idea of subjugation, a
subject she wants to avoid for as long as possible.  Back in her attorney's plush New
York office, the contract’s bondage and discipline provisions seemed exciting, even
daring.  Here, on this isolated Caribbean island, in the middle of the ocean, in the
middle of the night, they are scary realities, better to avoid that area altogether.
      She takes half a step back from him.  All I need to remember is that he has to stop
when I say stop.  That's the law...
      She raises her glass and flashes her eyes seductively.
      What the Hell...  I’ve always preferred strong men, those who know what they want
and take it.  Isn't this really why I'm here?  This guy is just a little more
direct and aggressive than most.  It’s going to work out.  I just need to stay cool, to
stay in control.
      I wonder how he’ll be in bed.  He's certainly bold enough, but that
doesn't necessarily mean he'll be a good lover.  More often than not, confident
handsome men are duds in the sack.  Not that it matters now, I'm committed.  Whatever
he's like, I'm stuck with him for two years.  	...Two years!  
      I can’t worry about that now.  I’m committed.  Anyway, this guy is richer than
Midas.  Living with his money in this incredibly beautiful place isn't going to be
hard to take no matter what he’s like...not at all.  It will be a paid vacation, a long
stay at a spa with sex and a little spanking folded into the mix.
      Sidling up even closer to him, Tara rubs up against his arm, pushing the loose
fabric off her shoulder.  One side of the dress falls to her waist, revealing a luscious
breast.
      Ninety-nine out of a hundred men would have looked down.  Diaz doesn't even
blink as he stares into her eyes.  After a moment, he lifts the strap over her shoulder,
half turns, and formally holds out his arm to lead her off the balcony.
      Tara smiles.  Score: Anton one, Tara zero.  Nicely played, Mr. Diaz.
      She usually sets the pace in a relationship, but this is going to be different.  He
wants her.  She can feel it, but there’s also...a kind of coolness, an indifference. 
That’s different, very different.  There’s a “je ne se qua” quality about him that is
both attractive and repelling.  She’s not used to such mystery in her men.
      They walk together down a short hallway to another room.  It's a dining area
decorated in a Seventeenth-Century Spanish style--dark, heavy-wood furniture, finely woven
rugs, exquisite tapestries on the walls, and a huge cast iron chandelier hanging from the
ceiling.  Strangely, scattered around the room are also objects of very different styles
from very different periods.  They are massively out of place.  The effect is jarring and
Tara is momentarily confused until she realizes that the incongruous décor is
intentional.
      The person who decorated this room wants to disorient the visitor to challenge
their convention sense of aesthetic, to make a statement about...conflict.
      She studies some of the out-of-place detail--Damask linens over a roughly hewn
hardwood table, exquisite stained glass windows set in stainless-steel frames, harsh metal
weapons lit with soft gas flames, a perfect Picasso copy in a monastic frame...
      A Picasso copy...?  Would a man like Anton, a billionaire hang a copy of a well
known painting in his dining room?  Could it possibly be real?
      "How...different," she murmurs, letting her glance linger a long
thoughtful moment on the painting.  Her need to know if it’s real is overwhelming, but she
suppresses the question, knowing instinctually that he expects it.
      After a few moments, Diaz nods and smiles obviously pleased with her reaction.
      How many women have asked “the question?”  Tara wonders.  Scores probably...  It’s
a dumb thing to ask when you think about it.  Anyone who has any sense of this man would
know that it's real!  He prides himself on being brutally honest.  No one this
obsessively direct would have room for a fake, an illusion.
      Still, it’s incredible.  The last Picasso put on auction went for more than ninety
million.  This one would fetch even more.  Not only that, what kind of an ego would keep
such an incredible treasure to himself? 
      A sudden wave of fear passes through her body.  He’s in charge.  He’s controlling
the agenda.  I need to take back some of the initiative here.
      "I assume we will be travelling some of the time," she says, turning
casually from the painting.  There's an air of expectation and an almost imperious
tone in her voice.
      We might as well start establishing some ground rules.
      "I don't have anything decent to wear.  This kind of clothing really
won't do in most places and, no offence, Mr. Diaz, but I like to pick out my own
clothes.   Is there someplace close by where I can do some shopping...maybe San Juan or
Santo Domingo, Rio?  I’m very familiar with all the high-end styles.  As you know, I was
involved with the fashion..."
      Her voice drops off.  She can see that he's not listening.  Smiling, he pulls
out her heavy chair.
      "You are incredibly beautiful, Tara, and quite fit...such perfect, long strong
legs.  My agents have done well, very well."
      She nods and smiles dismissively.
      I don't like being ignored, Anton, she thinks, miffed.  Men hang on my words. 
They don't ignore me.  Frankly, you're going to have to do a lot better if you
want me to be nice to you.
      She takes her napkin out of its silver holder and carefully places it in her lap.
      "Yes, it will be fun for us to travel together...after the race," he
replies lightly.  “But you don't need to worry about shopping while you’re with me. 
Everything will be provided.  You’re too special now to be doing ordinary things."
      ...Too special?  That's a very tired line as well.  Dozens of guys think
I'm "special."  I'm not even sure I know what that means anymore.  As
I said, you've got a lot to learn, Anton.  And what race are you talking about?  I
hope you're not into auto-racing.  I hate all that noise and exhaust stink.
      The corners of her lips turn downward into a pout.
      "But I like shopping, Anton.  I like it a lot.  Do you mind if I call you
Anton?" 
      He smiles again, white teeth flashing.  There's something too perfect, too
confident in his smile, she thinks.  It's as if he has...a secret.  Are you keeping
something from me, Anton?  I thought you said there would be no secrets between us.
      He reaches over with the wine beaker, refilling her glass.
      "The time for what you like is over, Tara."  He says this so pleasantly,
in such a casual matter-of-fact tone that it takes her a moment for her to process the
meaning of his words.
      She looks at him confused.
      That's an incredibly stupid thing to say, she thinks.  Why would you say
something like that?  Of course I'm going to be pampered...if you want to get laid
that is and I assume you want to get laid very much.  Why else would you pay a fortune to
rent a fashion model?  Doing a model is something men dream about.
      "Really?" she replies lightly, appearing to take his comment as a joke. 
"You don't care what I want?"  There's a hint of annoyance in her
voice, just enough to warn him to back off.
      "No," he says bluntly.  "I don't.  As I said, we need to be
absolutely truthful with each other now and the truth is that what you want is no longer
relevant.”
      What I want is not relevant!   The absurd phrase echoes in her mind and her face
darkens with anger.  It's not just the words.  It's the way he says them, his
tone--so damn sure.  So damn arrog...  Forget it.  Calm down.  I knew this would be
different.  I just need to give it some time to play out.
      "Okay," she replies, trying to keep her voice light, but her tone is
brusquer, businesslike.  
      Fuck you, Anton.  No one treats me like this.  I don’t care what you paid for my
contract.
      "Then how exactly will this arrangement work?” she asks.  “Do we do only what
you want?"  
      She is steaming, but trying desperately to hide the anger.
      You might want to think of me as a whore, but I’m not.  I agreed to this
arrangement for my own reasons, reasons that have very little to do with money.  I don’t
intend to be disrespected and as you’re about to find out, I’m definitely not someone you
can fuck with.  If this weird repartee is some kind of stupid foreplay or macho bullshit,
I'm going to pull the plug on you right now.  I don't care how rich you are,
I'm not wasting my time on a fool.
      "Yes, what I want is all that counts," he answers without hesitation,
continuing to sip at the wine.
      Tara makes her decision.  It's going to be hard to walk away now,
embarrassing, but there's no sense getting settled in with such a jackass.  I need to
be careful how I do it though.  Contracts are funny and it’s obvious that he pulls plenty
of weight around here.
      "I, ah, I guess that's technically your right under our contract,"
she says hesitantly, "but it would be a lot more fun if we shared more.  You
know...if we did things we both liked, together...had fun."  She gives him her cutest
look, the one designed to melt a man's heart.
      He smiles again, but this time there’s no warmth in the gesture.
      "Share more?” he says.  “You mean if I share my money with you, you'll
share your body with me?  ...treat me nicely?"  
      Tara squirms in her seat, but remains quiet.  I just need to get through the next
few days, she reasons.  I just need to let enough time pass so that my quitting looks
thought-out...rationale.  	I’ll be a laughing stock if I go back with my tail between my
legs.
      "I don't need to pay a million dollars to touch a woman's body,
Tara, even one as breathtaking as yours.  And even though I know you've got a
first-class mind, I'm not interested in that either."
      A cool breeze from the sea blows across her face.  The room's windows are all
open.
      Now that her decision is made, she begins to listen more closely to what he’s
saying.
      "What is it you want, Mr. Diaz?" she asks flirtatiously, trying to
conceal her decision.
      "I want you, Tara," he replies slowly.
      He leans in close to her.
      "I want the real Tara, the girl inside, stripped of all her guile, her
selfishness, her unnatural ambition.  I want you totally focused on your own feelings not
what you've been taught to feel by others."
      Tara smiles sweetly.  What the fuck is he talking about?
      "That is a pretty big order, Anton, even for you.  Just how do you intend to
accomplish it?"  There's a coquettish ring in her voice now.
      So that’s it.  You want to change me, she thinks.  I’ve seen that before, many
times.  Lots of men have a pet theory about women, a mission.  The last man who tried to
make me part of his fantasy ended up face-down in a gutter.  I doubt that you’ll fare much
better, Anton.
      He takes a sip of wine before answering.
      "I'm going to remake you into a natural woman, Tara.  Call it a rebirth. 
I’m going to end all the cool talk, the prevaricating, the manipulation, all the silly
primping, all the manly competition...."  He puts down the glass.
      "I have leased your body with my money.  Soon I will own your soul."
      "Own my soul?" she asks, nodding.  She can’t totally hide the look of
amusement in her face.  If he only knew how many men had tried to change her.
      "Yes,” he answers simply.  “You are a product of a flawed society--one that
has no real appreciation of women, one that kills a woman’s true femininity by turning her
into a man.  I’m going to reverse that perversity for you.
      “You will resist of course.  Your personality is already cast and recasting it
won’t be easy.  You think that your life is defined by the nonsense that currently
surrounds you.  That’s why you are so unhappy.  That’s why you can’t cope.  You’re a real
woman trapped in a Twenty-First Century costume.  I will remove all of its irrelevant
banalities.  All that remains will be you and your feelings."
      Tara stares at him dumbfounded.  
      I doubt it, Anton, she thinks, confirming her decision to leave.  This was a
terrible mistake.  I need to do it carefully, but in a few days I’ll be back to New York. 
There’s no way I’m staying here with this freak.
      "Shall we eat?" he asks rhetorically, pushing a silver button built in to
the arm of his chair.
      "Tomorrow, I'll show you around the island and tomorrow night I'll
take you to the lighthouse--an original artefact of the island's Seventeenth Century
settlers.  It's spectacular, especially at night.  Tonight, I am your humble
servant."
      Tara nods sweetly.  She's concerned with his crazy talk, but not overly so. 
It’s mostly male bluster, I’m sure.  I’ve seen plenty of that.  I can deal with it for a
few more days.
      You might get to fuck me once or twice, Mr. Diaz, but don’t for a minute think
you’re going to remake me in your image.  You don't have what it takes.  Men talk a
lot, but they rarely have the goods.
      It will be fun to take you down a peg or two before I leave.  Obsessions are funny
things, Anton.  You'd be surprised at how many men have them.  You'd be even
more amazed to learn how many men have obsessed over me.  Maybe you'll be joining
their ranks soon.  Maybe you will be my little project for a couple of days.