The Master's Exploits: Night One by Jessi Bond Page A

test,” he said, in his smooth baritone. The voice of a man who could convince a woman to do anything . That would be a good line for one of the stories. I scribbled it quickly on my notepad.
    “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think it was a test. I was just deciding if...” I cleared my throat, lightly. “I was just deciding if it was a good idea.”
    “A glass of wine is always a good idea,” he said, pouring as he spoke. He actually doled out the correct amount, leaving room for it to breathe, swirling the glass as he walked it over to me. His gait was smooth and self-assured, and he had the posture of a dancer.  
    Or a soldier .
    When I drank wine at home, it tended to come out of a box, and it tended to end up in a tumbler rather than one of the dusty wine stems in the back of my cabinet. Already, I was out of my depth.
    “Thank you,” I said, studiously ignoring the way our fingers brushed when I took the glass from him. The wine was thick and red, almost the same shade as the overstuffed leather chair in the corner.  
    The whole room was permeated with the faintly sweet, vanilla smell of old books. It was the kind of office I’d dreamed of having when I was a girl. Old-world elegance mixed with functionality. It had atmosphere, and as I was quickly learning, Mr. Alexander (his real name, apparently) was all about atmosphere.
    I took a sip of the wine.
    My eyebrows raised slightly as it slid across my tongue. It was rich, but sweeter than I expected.  
    “Well?” Mr. Alexander said.
    “It’s nice,” I said. “It’s just not what I thought it would be.”
    He smiled. “You struck me as someone who appreciates the sweeter things in life.”
    Laughing, I crossed my legs carefully. My pencil skirt was tight around my thighs, but I couldn’t sit with both feet down for very long - not in these heels. “Do you always talk like that?”
    “No,” he said, his smile fading a little. “But the characters in these stories often do.”
    “Well,” I said, smiling brightly, putting my pen to paper. “You’re not a character in one of these stories. Not yet, anyway.”
    He seemed to consider this for a moment, worrying his lips between his teeth just slightly. Finally, he looked up. “I understand you’re anxious to get to work. But don’t worry - I’m paying you for your time, from the moment you walk in the door. That goes for tonight and every night. Understood?”
    I nodded. An anxious tendril was making its way through my chest.  
    His smile returned. “Don’t look so nervous,” he said. “Please. I just want to get to know you a little. How long have you been ghostwriting?”
    Oh. An interview. Well, that made sense, though people generally conducted them before they hired someone.
    “Six years,” I said. “Seven, almost.”
    He nodded, taking some notes of his own. “It took me a long time to find someone willing to work on this project,” he said, glancing up at me. “Why do you think that is?”
    That one, I had to ponder for a moment. When my former boss came to me with the lead, I’d had the same reaction most other people had - ugh, no . Eventually my need to pay my bills prevailed, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on why it seemed like a bad idea.
    I took another sip of wine.
    “It’s very personal,” I said. “And very, uh...” I took a deep breath. “Intimate.”
    Mr. Alexander considered this. “Surely this job is often intimate, isn’t it?” he asked, interlacing his fingers and resting his hands on the polished desk. “Don’t you often hear about the details of people’s lives, and their feelings, and the stories that are near and dear to their hearts? How is sex any different?”
    I raised my eyebrows a little. “I don’t know,” I said. “But it is different, isn’t it?”
    “ Is it?”
    My mouth quirked. “I think you’re messing with me, Mr. Alexander.”
    He chuckled. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “It’s different. There’s