Mr. Million Meets His Match [A 50 Shades of Grey spinoff]

1. A mysterious date

I PEER NERVOUSLY outside the window and follow the fall of a solitary leaf. It twirls and dances and somersaults in the cool breeze, until it lands on the hood of a black Bentley three stories below. It's his car. It's here for me. I'm on the verge of plunging into the unknown. Should I go ahead and do it? I shiver. It's autumn in Paris, and as the temperature drops, a veil of mist gleams in the light. Down on the street, the shiny Bentley stretches a long shadow under the diffuse light of a lamppost.

I'm not used to having impromptu rendezvous with virtual strangers, and I barely know this man. He attracts me like a magnet but also unsettles me like no one else. He mentioned a mysterious contract, which filled my head with a parade of flouncing red flags. I'm a bit paranoid. Just a tiny itsy-bitsy. If I'm meeting the guy, I'd rather be prepared.

I'll take the knife.

As I move away from the window, I try to make sense of what just happened today.

I was at a vintage bookstore in Le Marais earlier this afternoon. Surrounded by the soothing smell of chestnut wood and old paper, I was leafing through Les Misérables when I raised my head from the yellowed pages.

I found myself before the most mesmerizing pair of eyes. Cool blue. Like a glacier reflecting the skies. Their intensity scorched me with unexpected heat.

"I take it you enjoy the classics," the owner of those perfect eyes said in perfect French.

"I... oui." I muttered, unable to suppress a quiver.

"I'm looking for a good novel. Maybe you could help me choose an antique edition." He paused. "I like leather bound."

Such a simple, short sentence—and yet it felt as if he wasn't talking of books at all. I nodded and caught myself gaping as he closed the distance between us.

I could tell he had a lean build under his gray coat, and at such close range he appeared even taller. It was hard to concentrate on anything besides his blue eyes and Adonis face framed by dark brown hair.

I made an effort and asked: "What are you looking for?"

"Something exciting."

One rare copy of The Brothers Karamazov later, he invited me for coffee in a small cafe around the corner. We switched to English and talked for about a half hour, until he excused himself to attend a business meeting. He wanted, however, to discuss a contract with me this evening. He didn't provide any details, only a spellbinding smirk. As I gave him my address so his driver could pick me up, I wondered what had possessed me to agree to that.

Adrian Million is his name, which is kind of interesting—he appears to be quite wealthy, judging by his impeccable attire and platinum watch that flickers at each millimetric gesture. He's an American entrepreneur with some French blood from a distant past, hence his French surname. Thirty-something, divorced, likes classic books and strong coffee. And his scent, masculine and fresh, reminds me of spring water streaming in the forest.

What bugs me is he seems too good to be true. Gorgeous, intelligent, successful... So what's the catch? I sense something else behind his irreproachable façade. He intrigues me. I should have googled him, but between errands and getting ready I didn't have time. Not that Wikipedia's gonna tell me if he is a pervert or serial killer.

I hope Adrian Million doesn't turn out to be a psychopath. I'm an editor specializing in crime novels and I read a lot about the subject. Psychopaths weave their web of illusion to charm you and then attack. Some even win dating contests on TV, like Rodney Alcala. Others may rule companies or have you for dinner—or both. Reality can be stranger than fiction, and fictional characters carry traits of reality in them. I think of Dexter. He only punishes the bad guys. Hannibal, on the other hand...

What if the elusive Mr. Million enjoys dead girls for dessert?

That would present a terrible conflict of interests.

So before leaving for my cryptic date, I swing by the kitchen to grab a respectable-sized stainless steel knife I've sharpened earlier at lunchtime. I slip it into my purse and head for the coat rack. I wrap myself in a burgundy velvet cape and let my hair hang free—a brown mane with slippery tendencies that could use some styling, but I've given up trying to teach new tricks to an old dog. When I check my reflection in the mirror, my dark eyes stare back at me suspiciously with a last thread of doubt. I cut it loose and depart.

I live in an old four-story building in the 9ème Arrondissement, which carries a smell of nostalgia and no elevator. The wooden stairs creak as I begin a slow descent, cautious not to trip with my stiletto boots. While gripping the banister, I reason the health hazard they pose is more than compensated by their fabulous, dramatic black gloss. This evening, however, their clic-clac sounds ominous.

Once I step onto the sidewalk, Mr. Million's driver rushes to open the Bentley door for me. Under his cap I see a pair of Arabian eyes. Dark and tall, dressed in a black uniform, he doesn't utter a word and limits his communication to a curt nod as I take the back seat. In a minute, the car is rolling swiftly along the streets, passing by monuments and parks and fountains, pausing at traffic lights that hover above closed stores and old-fashioned restaurants.

Then we leave the city.

At one junction we steer away from the main road, winding down a narrow path escorted by the silhouettes of pine trees against a gloomy sky. No moon or stars, just the car headlights sweeping the pavement. I'm growing really nervous and butterflies swarm in my stomach. I double-check my purse and touch the knife for reassurance.

Mon Dieu. I don't feel reassured at all. Here I am with this sinister driver in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by darkness like in some horror film. But it's too late to turn back. A security guard is already opening tall iron gates to the manicured landscape ahead.

At the end of a tunnel of oak trees, I see it. My destination.

It's an 18th-century mansion featuring two stories, pale walls and flame-shaped windows panned with stained glass. It looms in the distance sprinkling stardust of glowing colors into the night. The silent driver follows the tree-lined path, skirts a circular hedge in front of the mansion and pulls up to the curb. He opens the door for me and offers another nod while gesturing toward the building. Then he drives away.

Now I'm alone with the vanishing sound of wheels and the icy hum of wind in the trees.

If I scream in this desolate place, no one will hear me.

I think seductive strangers with pieces of cloth and chloroform. I think drugs in cups of coffee. Sex slaves locked up in basements. Corpses in bathtubs, suitcases and freezers. Women in white gowns strangled in the woods. Ravens croaking nevermore, nevermore, nevermore.

Mon Dieu. I'm so doomed.