It had been a few years since the last one, and Richard had assumed after the dissolution of that acquaintanceship that there probably wouldn't be another. But then there was Paris. Rory's friend Paris, he reminded himself. Yes, Rory's friend, and not only that, Rory's classmate. Still, there was something different about her, something that set her apart from Rory and those other friends of hers he'd met. He tried not to think of his attraction as primarily physical; it was almost completely intellectual. She was obviously brilliant, or at least had the potential to be. More than that, during the time they had spent together, she had proven herself to be fiercely dedicated to any task at hand, and she was cunning, with an unfailing instinct to go for the jugular in any situation and to fight until her opponent bled and surrendered. He felt those were particularly admirable qualities in a young girl, and rare among today's youth, at least those he had been unfortunate enough to encounter--Rory excepted, of course.

He knew what had attracted him to those girls searching for approval. Beneath his austere demeanor, Richard secretly believed himself to be the sort of man who himself craved validation. He would return each night to a wife, bless her, who was cold as ice and an only daughter who rejected him and everything he stood for at every opportunity she was given to do so. Often all it would take for him to become utterly infatuated with a woman was the mere hint that she might reciprocate his affections if they were offered. It was pathetic, this weakness, this hidden softness, and he strove to eradicate all evidence of its existence in his business interactions and at home.

He had worked closely with Paris on that project, more than with any of the others, and he recognized the look in her eyes when they strategized: admiration, respect, trust. He craved that much more than sex, maybe even instead of it. He needed more of it. He needed to see her again, to teach her, to learn from her, to see that look just one more time, to feel admired, respected, trusted. She and Rory had returned from Washington in late July, and Rory had barely mentioned her when she discussed her trip. He wondered if the conspicuous absence of Paris from Rory's narrative was intentional, if perhaps Rory was hiding something. But he didn't let his thoughts dwell on that; it was a ridiculous assumption, and even if it wasn't, it had no bearing on his own association with either of them. He only wanted to see her again, talk to her, be talked to by her.

He'd been through a string of secretaries since the new office opened. None of them were able to appropriately anticipate his needs, they were always playing catch-up, which Richard despised. It was the perfect opportunity to help the girl. She would be exactly what he needed in a secretary and he would be exactly what she needed in a mentor. And if their friendship developed into something more physical, well, he couldn't deny an attraction, but it wasn't the entire basis of his professional interest. He knew how to play this game. Subtlety was key. A brief touch, his hand covering hers, an accidental brush against her knee, and she would reject or she would not. It made no difference. He only wanted to be what she wanted him to be. He needed what she could give him, and he only hoped that she wanted what he could provide for her.

And no one would suspect a thing. No one ever did. It wouldn't lead to marriage, or children, or an apartment for her in the city. It wouldn't become an obsession for him, or for her. It would be a partnership. At night he would come home to his wife and she would go home to her own probably absent father, but for those hours they were together each day, it would be perfect.

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