She teased Mr. Woolworth unmercifully until the man cracked and begged her to meet him at a hotel after school. Christa liked it when men begged. In the plain hotel room, her teacher surprised her with a silver necklace from Tiffany. He placed the delicate links around her neck and kissed her flesh softly. In exchange, Christa let him explore her body for hours until he fell asleep, exhausted and sated.

He was not as attractive as Brent, but he was far more experienced. For every subsequent gift, she would allow him to touch her in old and new ways. By the time their affair ended and Christa moved to Quebec to attend Bishop’s University, she’d amassed an enormous amount of jewelry and an extensive knowledge of sexual relations. Moreover, Christa had become one of few women who viewed the role of the man-eating seductress as something to emulate.

When Christa completed her master’s degree in Renaissance Studies at the Università degli Studi di Firenze, her pattern of relationships was fixed. She preferred older men, men in positions of power. She was excited by forbidden affairs—the more remote, the more improbable, the better.

She tried for two years to seduce a priest who was assigned to the Duomo in Florence, and right before graduation, she succeeded. He took her in the single bed of his tiny apartment, but before he touched her, he wrapped her long, warm fingers around a tiny icon that had been painted by Giotto. It was priceless. But so, she reasoned, was she. Christa would allow men to have her, but only at a price. And she’d always bedded the men she wanted—eventually.

Until her first year of PhD coursework at the University of Toronto when she met Professor Gabriel O. Emerson. He was by far the most attractive and sensual of all the men she’d ever met. And he appeared very sexual. His raw, smoldering carnality oozed from every pore. She could almost smell it.

She watched him hunt at his favorite bar. She noted his stealthy, seductive approach and the way women reacted to him. She studied him the way she studied Italian, and she put her knowledge to good use.

But he spurned her. He never looked at her body. He would gaze into her eyes coldly, as if she wasn’t even female.

She began to dress more provocatively. He never glanced below her neck.

She tried to be sweet and self-deprecating. He was impatient.

She baked him cookies and took to leaving anonymous culinary treats in his mail box at the department. The treats would remain untouched for weeks until Mrs. Jenkins, the departmental secretary, threw them into the garbage, worried about a potential infestation of vermin.

The more Professor Emerson rejected her, the more she wanted him. The more she became obsessed with having him, the less she cared about receiving gifts in trade. She would give herself to him freely if he would only look at her with desire.

But he didn’t.

So in the fall of 2009, when she had the opportunity to meet him at Starbucks and discuss her dissertation, she was eager to see if their meeting could turn into dinner and possibly a visit to Lobby. She would be on her best behavior, but she would be alluring. Hopefully, he would stop resisting her.

In preparation for her meeting, she spent six hundred dollars on a black Bordelle chemise, along with garters and black silk stockings. She disdained the matching panties. Every time the garters pulled across the surface of her skin, she felt inflamed. She wondered how it would feel when Professor Emerson released her stockings from their bonds, preferably with his teeth.

Unfortunately for Christa, Paul and Julia had chosen to inhabit the same Starbucks at the same time. Christa knew without doubt that any impropriety on her part would be eagerly watched and noted by her fellow students. The Professor would know this too, and thus be far more professional than usual.

So when Christa confronted Paul and Julia, she was beyond pissed. She wanted to insult the two of them so they would leave before the Professor arrived. She did her damnedest to make sure that happened. Nevertheless, her attempt at intimidating her fellow graduate students went horribly awry. Professor Emerson arrived earlier than expected and overheard her.

“Miss Peterson.” Gabriel pointed toward an empty table far away from Paul and Julia and indicated that Christa should follow him.

“Professor Emerson, I bought you a venti latté with skim milk.” She tried to hand it to him, but he waved it aside.

“Only barbarians drink coffee with milk after breakfast. Haven’t you ever been to Italy? And by the way, Miss Peterson, skim milk is for wankers. Or fat girls.”

He spun on his heel and walked over to the counter to order his own coffee while Christa tried valiantly to hide her rage.

Damn you, Julianne. This is all your fault. You and the monk.

Christa sat in the chair that Professor Emerson had pointed out, feeling almost defeated. Almost, for from her vantage point, she had a lovely view of Professor Emerson’s ass in his gray flannel trousers. Rounded like two apples. Two ripe, delicious apples.

She wanted to take a bite out of them.

At length, the professor returned with his own damn coffee. He sat as far away from her as possible, while still technically sitting at the same table, and gazed at her harshly.

“I need to speak to you about your behavior. But before I do, let me make one thing clear. I agreed to meet you here today because I desired a coffee. In the future, we will meet in the department as we normally do. Your transparent attempts at engineering social engagements between the two of us will be unsuccessful. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“One word from me and you’ll be finding yourself a new dissertation director.” He cleared his throat. “In the future you will address me as Professor Emerson, even when speaking of me in the third person. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Professor Emerson.” Ohhhh, Professor. You have no idea how much I want to scream your name. Professor, Professor, Professor…

“Moreover, you will refrain from making personal remarks about my other students, especially Miss Mitchell. Is that clear?”

“Clear.”

Now Christa was beginning to seethe a little, but she kept her reaction to herself. She placed all the blame on Julia. She wanted to drive Julia out of the program. She simply wasn’t sure how to do that. Yet.

“Finally, anything you hear from me about another student or person connected with the university will be deemed to be confidential, and you will not repeat it or else you will find yourself another dissertation director. Do you think you are intelligent enough to comply with these very simple instructions?”

“Yes, Professor.” She bristled slightly at his condescension, but truth be told, she found his grumpiness sexy. She wanted to tease it out of him. To seduce him into doing unspeakable things to her, to—

“Any more abuse directed toward MA students will be brought to the attention of Professor Martin, the department chair. I believe you are well aware of the regulations governing the behavior of graduate students. I don’t need to remind you about the prohibitions against hazing, do I?”

“But I wasn’t hazing Julia, I was—”

“No sniveling. And I doubt that Miss Mitchell gave you permission to use her first name. You will address her properly or not at all.”

Christa bowed her head. Threats of the sort he was making were not sexy. She’d worked very hard to get into the PhD program at the University of Toronto, and she wasn’t about to let it all slip through her fingers. Not for some pathetic little bitch who had something cooking with the Professor’s research assistant.

Gabriel saw her reaction but said nothing, slowly sipping his espresso. He felt no remorse and was beginning to wonder what else he could do to make her cry.

“I’m confident you are well aware of the university’s policies governing harassment. Those policies work both ways. Professors can file a complaint if they believe they are being harassed by a student. If you cross the line with me, I’ll drag you to the Dean’s Office so quickly your head will spin. Do you understand?”

Christa lifted her chin and gazed at him with wide, frightened eyes. “But we—I thought—”

“But nothing!” Gabriel snapped. “Unless you’re delusional, you’ll realize that there is no we. I won’t repeat myself. You know where you stand.”

He glanced at Julia and Paul one last time. “Now that we have dispensed with today’s pleasantries, I’d like to tell you what I thought about your last dissertation proposal. It was rubbish. In the first place, your thesis is derivative. In the second, you’ve made no attempt to provide a literature review that comes close to being adequate. If you cannot amend your proposal to address these issues, you will need to find another director. If you choose to submit a revised proposal, you will need to do so within two weeks. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting that is actually worth my time. Good afternoon.”

Gabriel departed Starbucks abruptly, leaving a rather shell-shocked Christa staring off into space.

She heard part of his speech, of course, but her mind was focused on other things. First, she was going to do something to get back at Julia. She didn’t know what and she didn’t know when. But she was going to shank that bitch (metaphorically speaking) and cut her (also metaphorically speaking).

Second, she was going to rewrite her dissertation proposal and hopefully win Professor Emerson’s academic approval.

Third, she was going to redouble her efforts at seduction. Now that she had seen Professor Emerson angry, there was nothing she desired more than to see him angry with her—whilenaked. She was going to change his mind. She was going to break through his harsh exterior. She was going to see him kneeling before her, begging for her, and then…

Clearly, the four-inch heels and the Bordelle lingerie weren’t enough. Christa was going to head over to Holt Renfrew, and she was going to buy herself a new dress. Something European. Something sexy. Something by Versace.

Then she was going to Lobby to set her third scheme in motion…

Chapter 4

In the penthouse of a boutique hotel in Florence, clothes had been tossed haphazardly across a sitting room floor, trailing like breadcrumbs from the doorway toward a wall that was no longer blank. Groans and obvious rhythms floated in the air, wafting over a man’s fine handmade shoes, a black bra, a tailored suit tossed wantonly over a coffee table, a taffeta dress puddled into a Santorini-blue pool…

If one were a detective, one would notice that the lady’s panties and shoes were missing.

The air was thick with the smell of orange blossoms and Aramis, mingled with the musk of sweat and naked flesh. The room was dark. Not even the moonlight streaming in from the terrace reached the wall where two nude bodies clung to one another. The man stood upright, supporting the woman, who had her legs wrapped around his hips.

“Open your eyes.” Gabriel’s plea was punctuated by a cacophony of sound—skin sliding over skin, desperate cries muffled by lips and flesh, quick gulps of oxygen, and the slight thud of Julia’s back against the wall.

She could hear him as he groaned with every thrust, but her ability to speak had withdrawn as she focused on a single sensation—pleasure. Every movement of her lover pleased her, even the friction between their chests and the grip of his hands as he held her aloft. She danced on the very edge of satisfaction, breathless with anticipation that the next movement would push her over. Building, building, building, building…