Misinterpreted--An Exclusive Taj Jackson Erotica

I'm sure that this has happened each and everyone one of you reading this: that at some point in time, something you've said or done has been misconstrued to have a completely different and alternate meaning from whatever was intended in the first place. Such mistakes can be easily rectified with a simple gesture or explanation. But for the young woman in this story....it's a bit more complicated than that.

"Misinterpreted" 

A Taj Jackson Erotic Fan Fiction Story By: 

MJsLoveSlave 

(Non Sexual Cameo Featuring Michael Jackson) 

Chez Printemps

Golden Valley, California

Spring, 2004

By half-past two in the afternoon, the sprawling, elegant dining room of the premiere eatery in all of the city, once bustling and packed elbow to elbow with the upper echelon of Golden Valley society, now found itself as something of a veritable ghost town.

A hall, constructed to seat over four hundred diners, when filled to capacity, boasted only a handful of patrons, sprinkled here and yonder, beneath the green, stained glass canopy, lit by glittery, heavy crystal chandeliers that had hung since the turn of the last century.

All of the tables, occupied or not, sat draped in the very best linen, topped by services of fine china and silverware.

In the center of each hand-carved, oak table, an ornate kerosene lamp stood lit, its warm, dancing flame casting a soft, yellow glow, adding to the ambiance of a room that seemed out of step with the fast-paced modern times.

Indeed, the room with its painted murals, and antiqued bronze accents harkened back to the Edwardian era, strongly influenced by the Art Nouveau movement.

Fanciful swirls of vines and various other flora and fauna lent the room a whimsical, idealistic air of nature.

One which did not readily exist, but in the most imaginative of minds.

One such mind occupied a table, somewhat hidden by shadow, close to the rear of the room.

A lone man sat quietly, his hands folded atop the table, gaze staunchly across the room, fixated on the curving and winding grand staircase that led down into the room.

In a room of warm, muted shades of green, gold, pinks and burnt oranges, the man stood out by how sharply his complexion and clothing contrasted one another.

He was remarkably slim, perhaps too slim to some people, his body clad in a bespoke black alligator suit over a dully sheened black silk shirt.

The black offsetting his pale, milky skin.

Skin which stretched so smoothly over fine, whittled bones it was hard to determine his age right off. He could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty but in actuality was closer to forty-five.

His features were chiseled; high cheekbones, an upturned impish nose, a dimpled chin.

There was no spare fat to be found on him.

His hair, long, silken, jet, parted along the middle and flicking back from such an arresting, androgynous, yet alluring face, swished softly as a long, spindly hand picked up a glass, partially filled with a rare, aged merlot and he swished it, nose in the glass, taking in the bouquet, but did not drink.

The menu sat closed at his side...he knew what he wanted, but was waiting to order.

Waiting on her...he refused to order anything without her being present.

His eyes, wide and dark as an abyss,remained on the stairs.

She was taking too long...she was late.

She'd agreed to meet him promptly at two-thirty.

A quick glance at the large, diamond-rimmed bezel of his white gold watch showed the time as a quarter to three.

She was late.

His hand hovered over the Blackberry device laying beside the menu.

Should he try calling her again?

He'd already called her three times to no reply.

Against his will, he was growing antsy, worried.

Where was she--

Arched brows rose, nostrils flaring with a sigh...as finally, finally he spied her coming down the steps.

It was impossible to miss her.

No one could miss that red hair.

Though usually worn straight, her hair, a deep, fiery shade of auburn, was always teased and volumized, floating around her shoulders just so with each step she took.

She was young, aged only in her mid-twenties, but with a minimal application of cosmetics on a smooth and unblemished face, could have fooled a general onlooker into believing she was still in her late teens.

Her face gave that impression anyway...her body, was a different story altogether.

Standing at an average height of five-feet-five-inches, she bore a stunning, proportioned hourglass figure, one that seemed a mite out of touch with the stick-thin, more boyish modes of the day, but one which she carried with pride.

A figure, today, was covered by a rich plum blouse, tucked into a pencil skirt with a wild mixed pattern of plum, black, white and red.

Small feet in plum stilettos were silenced by the plush carpeting of the steps as she drew down closer, a matching clutch gripped in one hand.

Light bounced off the single, trillion-cut diamond ring on her right middle finger as she approached the table, her eyes, the color of a fallen autumn leaf, a chestnut red at the center and going amber-gold at the edges, swelled with remorse beneath her thin, curving brows as the man stood to greet her.

“Michael...” Her voice was soft and low, a mix of a native Southern and adopted West coast accents battling with one another as she spoke in apology,

“I'm so sorry...it took much longer than I expected...”

He was rounding the table, pulling out the opposite chair for her.

As she was seated, he questioned, his voice many octaves higher than her own, coming across as a meek falsetto.

“But did you get it done, Talia?”

The redhead bobbed and hand going up, she lifted the hair covering her right ear.

Revealing an industrial piecing and what appeared to be a curving snake, of white gold, tiny ruby eyes staring back from the upper portion of her earlobe.

“Oh...that's nice! You did get the serpent like I suggested.” Michael commented, enchanted, fingertips brushing the new addition, causing Talia to draw back wincing,

“Please! It's still sore!”

“Did...did it hurt very much?” He wondered returning to his seat, gazing with concern.

He was always concerned for her well-being.

“Well, it wasn't pleasant!” Talia snickered, hand out to claim one of the complimentary clover-leaf rolls heaped in a basket beneath the gas lamp. “You should have seen the needle or should I say spear--”

She trailed off as her smaller, tawny hand was gripped in the larger alabaster one.

Her hand was pulled across, further, until it met Michael's gentle, warm and puckered lips.

Talia couldn't help smiling as he took the time to kiss each and every knuckle lightly.

His eyes met hers once more and his own pinkish lips curled much like her glossy ones.

Indeed they seemed a couple, much like any other; kind, affectionate, soothing.

And yet...they were not, though they certainly showed the hallmarks thereof.

They were not a couple.

They were not even 'friends with benefits'.

They were employer and employee.

* * *

From the day she first met him, Talia Enfield's relationship with Michael Jackson had always been slightly to the left.

Odd.

Peculiar.

Unorthodox in every sense of the word.

Talia, an accountant by trade, had been hired on by Mr. Jackson to keep an eye on his personal finances, as he possessed a penchant for spending, but often neglected to balance his checkbook after his innumerable and frequent sprees.

Not that Mr. Jackson was in debt, on the contrary, he was far from it.

As far from it as any man could ever hope to be.

The day she was hired, strangely, Talia received a dossier outlining the details of her new boss' life.

(Who received a full-fledged biography on their employer?)

As of Autumn 2002, Mr. Jackson was a forty-four-year-old, twice-divorced real estate mogul worth landed somewhere in the vicinity of close to nine hundred million dollars independently, and heir to much more through his connections to the firm he owed and oversaw with his five brothers and three sisters.

According to the dossier, the Jackson family came from very humble beginnings in a small town in Indiana, and built their entire fortune off of one lucky investment made by family patriarch, Joseph.

From there, a man whom never saw the inside of a college himself , proved to be a shrewd, competent business man, turning over nearly every investment he made to profit and provided a life for his family he had only once dreamt of.

And insisted all nine of his offspring follow in his footsteps—after college.

Somewhere in between graduating from Yale Business school and going to work under his father, Mr. Jackson had two short lived marriages in the eighties, and it was noted he still paid his ex-wives alimony each month.

The now-bachelor divided his time between his California estate, his summer home in Greece and his winter home in England, traveling abroad to buy, sell and invest in land globally.

As a further side venture he was primary backer to a small film-making company run by his nephews.

The next twenty-five pages were an excruciatingly itemized list of Mr. Jackson's worldly possessions, along with the year he acquired them, how much he paid and their current worth.

Among them were pricey pieces of jewelry, custom-made clothing, six vintage luxury vehicles, paintings and tapestries by the likes of Shackleton, Brooking and Hoare.

The paintings alone ran into the millions and Talia hoped she was not in over her head.

The handful of clients she'd assisted prior to Mr. Jackson, at best had been suburban families, just trying to get their finances—usually less than a hundred thousand dollars—under control and try to scrape their way out of debt.

Had Mr. Jackson ever known debt?

Or did he simply just fling a wad of bills and his problems disappeared like morning dew under a rising sun?

On a crisp September morning, Talia found herself driving through the tall, wrought iron gates of Michael Jackson's secluded two-thousand acre estate, named Juenesse Eternelle—French for 'Eternal Youth'.

A half a mile in, the home itself began to appear on the horizon.

At the top of the hill was the lofty, ostentatious three-story manse, a French Colonial of tan and beige masonry, looking very much like a castle separated from the rest of the common world.

Seemed more a home for royalty, than a mere mortal.

Then again, Michael Jackson wasn't a mortal...he was mogul.

Nearer the house, color met her eyes in the form of many decorative flower beds, laden with dozens of types of tulips, lilies and roses, the latter in neatly spherical bushes flanking each side of the front entrance.

Out front, a fountain, bearing a large unclothed angel “poured” bright blue dyed water from a vase in her hands, into the sizable pool at her bare feet.

In the driveway out front, Talia noted the limousine, on the side of which, his name had been inscribed in black on a pearl grey background.

At the front entrance, double doors, appearing more like art work in the form of deepest mahogany, set with lead glass and crisscrossed with bronze, before she could even raise a finger to ring the bell, in the shape of a peacock, one of the doors swung and she was met by an older, stern faced man in a suit with tails, whom informed her in a booming voice,

“Mr. Jackson will receive you in the formal living room.”

People actually still had butlers? Weren't those just in old black ad white films?

Dumbly, Talia had followed this straight-backed, stiff-necked man, not into a home, but a different world.

A world of imported marble, sumptuous antique Louis XIV furniture, watercolor and oil paintings depicting eighteenth century French and English landscapes and hunting scenes, and precariously hanging chandeliers and sconces, glittering chains and chains of faceted crystal beads.

As they passed other rooms, Talia spied a team of maids running hither and to, going about their work

Dusting, polishing, vacuuming.

There were so many rooms. Why did one man need so many rooms?

What did he do in all of them?

The hall was so cavernous Talia and the butler's footsteps echoed.

And it was so quiet—there were cemeteries that made more noise.

The formal living room, dressed in subdued shades of green and burgundy, featured a chaise lounge, arm chairs and divans with floral upholstery.

Vases, statues, urns and portraits of what Talia took for members of the Jackson family were scattered about.

Everyone did look so rich and sophisticated: men in somber, tailored suits, impeccably made up women in designer gowns.

Over the unlit hearth, was a larger than life-sized rendering of Michael Jackson.

He stood at attention in a black and red hussar's coat, trimmed in intricate bright gold braiding, black trousers and gold toed boots.

His features, the milky cast to his dermis, hair long and sweeping his shoulders, sharp facial structure, caught Talia off guard.

He didn't appear nearly as old as was claimed, yet the plaque at the base of the painting read as “Michael J. Jackson, 2000”.

It was very nearly recent.

Was that really him? Did he really--

“You have the reddest hair I've ever seen in my life!”

A voice of awe, frankly high-pitched albeit mild declared and turning Talia could feel her chest starting to tighten.

Advancing down the three steps of the sunken room towards her was a man.

The man.

His trim, lanky body draped in a royal blue satin shirt, rhinestone studded applique on the front, tucked into a pair of black leather trousers that stopped right at the ankle, revealing a flash of white sock and black, patent loafers with tassels.

A hand was put out to her and Talia could only stare at the diamond covered watch on his wrist for a moment.

She'd never seen such a timepiece, and honestly she wondered how he could tell time on it. The face of the watch was radiating baguette cut diamonds with a princess-cut filled bezel...there was no surface on what she guessed to be white gold or platinum that wasn't covered by the expensive rocks.

They all threw and reflected light like thousands of tiny mirrors with each move he made.

Surely that one bauble cost more than everything she owned...combined.

Then she blinked, realizing he meant to shake her hand.

She gripped his hand, it was smooth and a trifle clammy, but he shook her hand as warmly as though they'd known each other all their lives.

The smile on his face was large, friendly as he introduced himself, and Talia's thoughts that he would be a spoiled snob started to fade from her mind.

He was...nice.

Extremely nice, accommodating and gentlemanly.

For the next hour, work wasn't even discussed.

Instead, Michael, he insisted she call him by his first name, as she was “holding my purse strings now” took her on a tour of his estate.

Never before had Talia been able to refer to any of her employers so casually.

Then again, he was also the first to show her around his property.

A property which, inside the main house included a private theatre, trophy room for all of the awards he'd garnered in the realty realm, a personal library that he claimed held over ten thousand tomes, all of which he'd read, a music room with a grand piano, cello, guitar, and a genuine Stradivarius violin in a glass case, an art room, a solarium...by Talia's count, Michael Jackson lived alone in what had to be at least a fifty room house.

Out back was a tennis court, Olympic sized pool, a separate game room and a bungalow that served as a guest house for when “my family comes to visit”.

Below the house was a garage, built to hold ten vehicles but only occupied five: a 1919 Rolls Royce Phantom,, a 1921 Dusenberg Coupe, a 1957 Aston Martin, a 2002 Jaguar and a 2002 Mercedes.

In the very rear of the property was a greenhouse containing several varieties of rare roses, much different from the display ones in front of the main house, which Michael divulged that horticulture was a hobby he'd picked up in recent years and “tending to my blooms relaxes me after a long day...”

Michael had even been so kind as to pluck and gift her with a large, peachy-yellow and pink bloom named after famed actor Cary Grant.

It was until they'd returned to the formal living room that the conversation finally made its way towards business.

Though it wasn't the type which Talia Enfield had prepared herself for.

Talia, seated on one of the divans, one which hadn't seen too many guests as it was disturbingly stiff and hard to sit on, was quiet, twirling the flower in her hands and peeking over the high, rounded back, at Michael, a few yards away under the archway that led to the hall, conversing in hushed tones with the butler.

“...thank you...God bless you...” His voice came out louder as he patted the servant's shoulder, the hulking man departing.

Michael lingered a moment, watching him go, his hands folding behind his back.

“Monty will bring us some refreshments in a bit...” He informed her, slowly spinning on his heel, and began pacing towards the armchair directly across the low, enamel-topped coffee table from Talia.

Rather than sitting in it, he stood behind it, gripping the back and Talia noticed his short, manicured nails were mashing into the cushion.

Was...was he nervous?

That struck her as odd—but so much about all of this struck her as odd.

“Do you believe you'll be able to work for me, Talia?” He questioned and his brows bounced unnervingly as he spoke her name.

Eyes diverted to the ombre bloom in her hands, Talia felt herself nod and heard herself whisper,

“Yes...”

There was something in his eyes...they bothered her, yet she couldn't will herself to get up and leave.

Those eyes, they caused her to be strangely drawn to him, making her both fear and admire him at the same time.

What was this power?

His next question hit her like a lightning bolt and brought her swiftly back to the here and now.

“Are you very pleased...with the salary you're to earn?”

Her eyes came up a scant second to see the upper half of his body had bent over the chair, he was leaning forward, seemingly anxious for her reply.

The flower began twirling, with her stammering.

“Y-yes Michael, thank you...I've never been paid a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars just to do accounting work... are you sure it's not too much?”

That number had bothered her ever since she'd reached the end of that dossier.

Where her salary was listed.

She'd been overpaid before by thankful clients, but never to this extent.

Her typical salary fell between fifty and sixty thousand dollars annually and to be offered more than twice the average, was enticing...the cost of living in California was astronomically more expensive than it had ever been in her native Georgia, and she was soon to learn what all added up to the inflated sum.

“How would you like to earn some...let's call them 'bonuses'...while you work for me?” Michael inquired and the flame-haired head came up, eyes narrowing in confusion.

“Bonuses?” She echoed and was immediately silenced, Michael putting a finger to his lips as Monty returned, scalloped silver tray in his hands, boasting a pitcher of lemonade, two lead crystal goblets and a platter of assorted tea sandwiches.

It wasn't until Monty had vacated the room, that Michael Jackson completed his thought,

“I know you've read the packet you were given when you were hired on, Talia, so I know...that you know I've been married, and divorced...twice.”

A toast point topped with cream cheese, chives and thinly sliced radish was held in mid-air, Talia breathless, as Michael rounded the chair and table, placing himself on the cushion beside her on the couch.

What...what was he driving at?

She had something of an idea but didn't want to readily jump to conclusions.

His hands folded in his lap and his head lowered as he continued,

“Since my divorces...I haven't really dated, Talia. Not that people haven't tried to set me up. My siblings, my parents, some of my colleagues...just...I don't want to go through that again. Fall in love, get my emotions all entangled and wrapped up in a woman and then get my feelings hurt when it falls through. I...I don't trust that way anymore. I don't want to trust that way anymore. It's too hard. Too painful...but....”

He shifted slightly and Talia could see he was peeking at her through the sheet of hair masking his face.

“I...I do miss what it was like to have a girlfriend...or a wife...the affectionate aspect of it...”

His chest rose and fell more rapidly and she saw his hands were starting to tremor in his lap.

“You know, the hugging...the kissing...the talking...I honestly miss that...”

His hands shook harder and it was clear Michael was battling to control himself and his waning hold on his nerves.

His head came up slightly and his dark eyes were searching her face.

“I...I want to extend an offer to you, Talia...you can accept it, fine. Or if you choose, you can decline it, and we can be strictly professional from here on in...”

Again his shifted, body angling towards her, his head remaining down, eyes going back to his hands, now shaking prominently.

Talia looked on, bewildered, a dull ache starting at the base of her skull.

“You're a very beautiful young woman, and I would like the pleasure of your company...as more than just my accountant...if possible.”

The toast point fell from her hand, bouncing on the platter, the realization and weight of his words plopping onto her shoulders, hunching them, her head spinning.

It was her hands that trembled now, as Talia glanced at the arc at the far end of the room wondering if she should just rise and flee.

What this man was insinuating they do.

How they should behave above and beyond accountant and accountee.

Yet her legs didn't move, her feet didn't pound the marble flooring, and she remained seated.

Hands shaking, she asked, her voice a bare whisper, yet her words echoed in the still.

“So...you...want to sleep with me...Michael?”

Talia hadn't lived beneath a rock all her life, even if she had come from the rural South.

She knew she was attractive and it was her looks that had garnered her attention—wanted and more so unwanted.

She had dated and had been propositioned before, but Michael Jackson had set a land speed record with how swiftly he'd come to the point, she had to give him that distinction right away.

At least he was still seated and not trying to rip her clothing off her as Old Man Hawkins had tried, you know, before she had taken her shoe off and beat him into a sobbing lump of shamefulness for his actions with a five-inch heel.

Michael's fingers intertwined as he clutched them in an effort to quell their quivering.

“No.”

The word popped from his mouth like a cork from a champagne bottle.

Talia's brows rose in surprise.

He didn't want that? But isn't that what every man wanted?

That was a basic need for men!

“I...don't want to...have sex with you, Talia...” He stated, each word coming out carefully as his head raised and he looked to her.

There was such a bright, abrupt sadness in his face, that Talia, once growing cold towards him in every way couldn't help feeling sorry for him.

He did seem so dejected, so miserable, despite all his wealth and apparent blessings.

Perhaps money really didn't buy happiness.

“Certain emotions go into that for me...and I don't want to leave myself open to such emotions anymore!” He stood suddenly and stormed across the room to the fire place, grabbing onto the mantle.

“I only want what I stated. The affection part. Hugging, kissing...looking at you from time to time...that's it. I never want to go...all the way...again.”

Had his marriages really been that terrible? So disastrous to the point he never wanted to be physically intimate?

Was he really abstaining like a monk?

Didn't he at least have the urges?

Talia wanted to ask so much and could not find the words to communicate.

She'd never met such a man...with ways such as these.

Michael Jackson may have been the sole one.

Hand running along the perimeter of the mantle, he walked over to a large bay window, looking out to the front of the property.

“I would be good to you, Talia, I promise. You'd want for nothing. You can live here, have your own apartment, house, anything. Whatever you want. You'd be treated well. Have access to whatsoever your heart desires. I'd get it for you...just...I'm so damn tired of being alone.”

There was a tiny bop and Talia realized it was the sound of Michael resting his forehead on the glass pane.

His entire form seemed to sag.

“Sure, I see my family and my colleagues and clients. But when I come home, it's to my butler, and maids and chef and gardener and pool boy...my servants. People who work for me. People who only show up for a paycheck. They're respectful, of course, but if I weren't Mr. Jackson and my name didn't appear on their checks, they wouldn't give a rat's ass about me. No one hugs me and kisses me or asks how my day went or anything like that. Like my wives did before it all went to hell...”

Breathless, Talia stood, and inched towards him.

“But...why...why me? Why did you choose me?”

She had to know.

Had this even been a meeting about a true accounting job or an elaborate scheme to spring this madness upon her?

“You're like a breath of fresh air to me.”

Michael announced leaning back against the velvet valance, his eyes drifting over her, but not staying in one spot on her body.

“So young and sweet and pretty and unspoiled. There's a kindness radiating from you, I could sense it the moment we met. Everything in me is screaming that I need you in my life this way. Maybe it's too quick. Maybe its crazy. I'm sure you think I'm crazy coming to you with such a proposition and you've only been here an hour...but...please. It's just the way I am. I'm used to taking chances. It's what's gotten me this far in life...”

A long finger was beckoning her, and Talia found herself, crossing the Persian rugs to him.

One hand, so warm, so soft was cupping her cheek.

The other taking the Cary Grant rose from her and tucking it behind her ear.

The angular face with the sparkling eyes coming closer.

His kiss was sweet, gentle, delicate.

It was a kiss Talia found she could not refuse.

So many other men had kissed her ferociously, hurrying.

No, Michael Jackson enjoyed...took his time.

Who knew when he'd last kissed a woman?

Slowly, their arms wrapped each other, Talia submitting to the kiss, pressing against him, heart pounding and smacking against his own as it tom-tommed in his chest.

Talia didn't have to say yes.

She showed it.

She'd never forget Michael's face when he finally released her.

The way his eyes, his face, everything to him glowed...

...with gratitude.

That had been sixteen months ago and in that time, Talia's life couldn't have been more different than if she'd stepped through a looking glass.

Within a week of their agreement for her to act as both Michael Jackson's accountant as first suggested and the secondary rôle as his companion Talia, with Michael's help had broken the three-year lease she'd had on her apartment in Los Angeles, with most of her belongings going into storage at a facility in Calabasas until she so needed them.

In the mean time, Talia was moved into the main house at Juenesse Eternelle, given a lavish suite of her own, on the second floor, just off the stair case leading up to Michael's expansive Master Suite that comprised the entire third floor of the mansion.

In the weeks that followed, Talia was gifted many luxury items including jewelry, designer clothing, and a baby pink Maserati to replace her old Honda.

Though her job on paper was to look after Michael Jackson's personal finances, this was only something that got her attention once a month, if that often, as Michael, so enthralled and encompassed with the idea of again having someone to share all of his time with and focus his attention on, filled Talia's days with activities even she couldn't have dreamt of in her wildest, craziest fevers.

In a little over a year, she'd traveled to no less than a dozen different countries, escorted by Michael as he viewed, bid on and resold properties spanning the globe and in the process had learned conversational French, German, Italian and Polish.

Her hobbies had changed.

Where once all she did to occupy her free time was go to the occasional movie or if she scrimped and saved for a few months, Disneyland in Anaheim, Michael introduced her to so much more.

She took tennis lessons, had taken up the piano at his insistence, helped him with the cultivation of his prized roses, and he promised if he could create a new species, he'd name it the 'Talia' after her.

Every so often, she'd join Michael and his siblings, and their spouses, at his mother's house in Encino for a Sunday dinner.

If any of the rest of the Jackson family felt this arrangement strange or outrageous, it went without mention, as from Day One, Talia had been welcomed into this exclusive fold and got on greatly with the large family and their loved ones.

Michael and Talia did have all the earmarks of a true couple, with the exception of the one thing Michael was staunchly against—consummating the union.

He'd come close, ever so close, but never quite gotten there.

Oh, he'd hugged and fondled Talia—with and without clothing—fawning over her richly curvaceous body, and while at times it was quite obvious parts of him were applauding her earnestly he never crossed that line.

Not even on those nights where the two laid in his bed together, the soft dulcet tones of a Bach concerto from lilting from hidden speakers lulling them to sleep beneath the satin sheets.

On the few occasions Talia had found herself with enough courage to try to initiate the act, Michaael would take her wrist, move it from his member with his head ducking and him always saying flatly,

“No.”

He was unyielding.

At times Talia did miss that part of a relationship, that intimacy, but she was also no fool.

And was unwilling to jeopardize the biggest break she'd ever received in life.

Despite that certain, missing element, Talia by now, over a year later, had grown intensely fond of Michael Jackson and in many ways, she could say she did love him.

Michael certainly said it, as his ritual before going to sleep was to hug her, kiss her forehead, peek down the front of her nightie at her bosom and tell her he loved her.

With a smile. That pleased, happy, gracious smile.

She wouldn't ruin that for the world.

Talia cared for Michael.

Respected him and revered him with the highest esteem.

To her, he could do no wrong, and while at times he may have done or said or acted in a manner she would have differently, it only fed into and magnified the myth and legend that was Michael Jackson.

Her adoration and loyalty to her genteel benefactor seemed untouchable...

“...we'll have the Coquilles Saint-Jaques to begin...the lady will have the Pan-Seared Fois Gras and I'll have the Confit de Canard...and could you bring us something white, on the dry, fruity order to pair with our meal, s'il vous plait? Merci...”

While Michael placed the lunch order for the both of them, as he liked to do to assert his masculinity when the two of them were out together, Talia occupied herself, plucking another of the complimentary rolls, still warm and dripping with rendered butter, to nosh upon.

Tearing a piece and starting to her mouth with it, she paused.

He was staring at her.

She should have been used to it by now...he did it all day, every day, unless he was occupied with his work.

His gaze faraway, dreamy...he was admiring her.

And Talia didn't mind being admired.

Popping the sweet pastry in her mouth and chewing, she pointed out with a snicker,

“You're doing it again...”

“I know I am...” He replied matter-of-factly, thinnish pink lips stretch to reveal his white teeth in earnest. “I can't help it. You're so ravishing...”

“You tell me that every day, Michael Jackson--”

“It gets truer and truer every day, too!”

Sheepishly the pair chuckled at this banter as it always seemed to weasel its way into their conversations. A playful little game.

A long hand was offered and Talia placed hers in it allowing Michael to squeeze it warmly.

Absently, he began tracing around the three sides of the ten carat stone in her ring, taking in her face.

Her smooth, naturally tawny skin, how it brought out the gold flecks in her amber eyes and the golden highlights in her red mane, how so very pretty she was.

Exotic, fanciful, unlike any other woman he'd set eyes on.

“Darling...” He trailed off, a sommelier appearing with a magnum of white wine, bending slightly for Michael to approve the make and year.

Talia studied the tastefully long nails, painted with a traditional French manicure.

This act was purely for show.

They always ate the same meals at Chez Printemps, and always drank the same wine: a 1900 Savignon Blanc that Michael favored...the bottle from his own personal reserve, held at the restaurant exclusively for him. And each time a “new” bottle was uncorked, ten thousand dollars disappeared from one of his many bank accounts.

A drop in the bucket to a man like Michael Jackson, but still it had to be noted.

As glasses were poured, his attention returned to her, another squeeze being delivered.

“Darling...” He repeated, more bread going into her mouth. “When's the last time you saw some of my family?”

Those curved brows came together as the mind under the impeccably styled hair fired, reaching in thought beyond the frivolous shopping she had done that afternoon.

“About three weeks ago, when we had dinner at your brother Jermaine's house, because he wanted everyone to meet his new girlfriend...”

Unconsciously, a smirk crossed her face, as Michael's older brother was notorious for his pompous antics and how quickly he burned through relationships, if one could call them that. More like extended one night stands at best.

He already had a dozen children spread across the Northern Hemisphere.

She mildly recalled the pretty blonde he'd fawned over.

She'd be gone by the end of the month. They always were.

Scandalous.

“Why?” Slipping her hand from him she took a second croissant, tearing a piece and held it out for Michael, offering it him.

Leaning and using his lips to snatch it from her finger tips, Michael giggled as he chewed,

“Well, you remember how I mentioned I have nephews who are film-makers?”

Taking a moment to savor a deep sip of wine, Talia nodded.

She'd heard tell of these nephews, but though she'd met the greater portion of Michael's family, his parents, siblings, nieces and nephews, these particular three had been noticeably absent from all family functions.

Birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years.

Even when Michael's youngest sister Janet went into early labor with her son a few months ago the family had appeared in droves...but not them.

In a family where just about everyone one had some quirk—and could afford to—they were a bigger mystery to unfold than even their uncle.

No..that wasn't entirely true.

Talia had met two of the three brothers—Taryll and TJ.

They had dropped in, earlier that year in May, to celebrate their grandmother's birthday.

It was the eldest of this set of brothers, named Taj, whom Talia hadn't yet met.

For a while, Talia wondered if he even existed, but she knew he did.

Among Michael's monthly expenses, several thousand went to a company called “Teez Productions” listed as a film studio, and checks in all three of their names had been sent out routinely.

So that had to be his contribution to them.

“Yes...they're your brother Randy's sons, right?”

The lush head shook in the negative.

“They're Tito's sons--”

“You have too many damn brothers.”

With such a large family, it was indeed a feat to keep track of all the siblings and offspring they created.

Michael was beaming as he teased,

“Not everyone can be an only child like you, Baby.”

Scrunching her nose at him smugly, Talia drank more, asking over the rim of the stemware,

“What about your elusive nephews?”

The waiter reappeared, toting large plates of French delicacies, placing them gingerly before the couple.

“The last three years, Taj, Taryll and TJ have been in Germany shooting footage for a documentary. That's why they've been MIA so long—they've been working, on location, shooting interviews, all that sort of thing. But in the basement of the guest house, there's a cutting room and they usually stay there and do their work so they don't have to go back and forth between their homes and some place they rent. You know edit and put their pictures together, do voice over, whatever. And we screen it in the theatre. That's the only condition for them when they use my equipment, I have to see the final product they've put together--”

“You wanna land this plane, or are we going to continue to circle the airport?”

Talia had known Michael long enough to know when he was hemming and hawing towards a point.

He wasn't directly looking at her; instead he was staring down into his stewed duck, pushing it around his plate with his fork.

Swallowing her mouthful of goose liver, she raised a brow at him skeptically.

He was leading up to something; and she wanted to hasten him along before her auburn hair went grey.

“That's the thing...” He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of meat.

“I have a meeting out in El Segundo in the morning. I have to be there, it's about building a children's hospital, and I've invested in it...”

“And you want me to play welcoming wagon to your nephews?” Talia finished for him, eating another forkful.

“Not all of them; just Taj. He usually does all the cutting and piecing together of their film projects. But it'd be nice. I figured you're get on well. You're in the same age bracket.”

A croissant was dragged through the red wine reduction the duck breasts were nestled in.

Eating the damp bread, Michael added, smacking,

“Maybe you could get acquainted. I know Taj would enjoy the company. If the way his brothers have been talking in the last few emails we've shared, he's been working like a dog on his documentary. Won't go out, won't see anyone. Just work, work, work. But he's always been like that—since he was a child.”

The bread was washed away with a sip of over-priced grape juice.

Talia's free hand was held and brought to Michael's cheek.

“Do it for me...please...”

His bottom lip was jutted and he blinked, fanning his lashes at her.

Talia struggled to stifle a giggle.

How could she ever say no Michael Jackson?

Or any Jackson, for that matter.

The Following Day

Though Talia Enfield had been gifted one of the largest guest suites within all of Michael Jackson's fifty-three room manse, and allowed to decorate it as she saw fit with no budget whatsoever, she hardly ever spent the night sleeping in her own bed.

As was part of the her routine with her boss and benefactor, Talia more often then not, would awaken in the third floor suite from a deeply restful slumber.

While most days, Michael Jackson's work schedule had him waking and being on the move just after dawn, his little companion was afforded the luxury of sleeping in as late as she liked, her daily activities scheduled around just when—or if—she chose to rise.

That particular Saturday morning was no different, Michael long gone, the only soul to be found in the room filled with antiques and family portraits among more modern conveniences such as a seventy-two inch big screen television and a half-dozen game console, an entire wall taken up with games, giving the room an elegant, albeit cluttered, air, was Talia.

Tucked beneath the embroidered duvet and silk sheets, Talia, draped in a lace nightie, had been awake some twenty minutes already, but hat reused to open her eyes.

Michael was in the tiresome habit of opening all six of the windows that looked out over the back of the property, flooding the space with retina-blistering natural light.

But Talia knew she'd have to welcome Michael's nephew, Taj in his absence, once he arrived from Germany by private plane; she couldn't loaf about all day.

Surrendering, Talia made a point of rolling so her back was to the windows, and finally, allowed her lids to flutter open.

After a five minute interval, of blindness, marked with every swear word in the book, her vision managed to focus and she could feel her lips curling.

On the pillow beside her lay a white rose and a pink sticky note.

The smile faded to a thin line of worry, as the note, rendered in Michael's frenetic hand stated,

“Taj arrives at 8:30 a.m.”

“Shit!”

More swears ensued as a glance at the crystal clock on the bedside table revealed the time as half past nine. If Taj had arrived on time, and with the use of one of the family's four planes, it was almost guaranteed, Taj had been by his lonesome for over an hour now.

How disappointed Michael would be to hear she hadn't greeted his own flesh and blood at the gate with open arms as was expected of her.

Instantly, the covers were kicked askew, Talia laying a hand on the receiver of the phone, in polished brass, much different than the silver French phone used for placing general landline calls, and was ringing the butler.

She didn't give him a chance to speak,

“Monty, this is Miss Enfield” She declared the obvious hurriedly. “I want you to go find Mr. Jackson's nephew and tell him--”

“Mr. Jackson's nephew is in the guest cottage taking a nap, following his flight ma'am.” Came the deadpan, monotone reply. “He requests you excuse him, but he wanted to rest before he came in to meet you, ma'am.”

“Oh...” That was a load off her shoulders; Taj was sleeping. At least now he wouldn't feel slighted at not receiving a hug to his body and a kiss to his cheek as was expected of her when meeting Michael's family. “Very well then, thank you Monty.”

“You're welcome, ma'am.”

Talia was relieved, with Taj knocked out by the Sandman for a while, it meant she wouldn't have to rush her morning routine and could take her time primping and dressing.

A few months back, one of his younger brothers, Taryll, had shown up unannounced and she'd had to whittle what usually took upwards of two hours down to twenty minutes and had resented him ever since.

Perhaps she would like this Taj character better.

Perhaps.

An hour and forty-five minutes later, Talia exited the huge spa that sufficed as the bathroom she shared with Michael, steam, heavily perfumed with the custom fragrance she always wore—a mix of vanilla, jasmine and musk—billowing out after her.

Following a luxurious bubble bath, in the sunken claw-foot marble tub, large enough to hold ten, Talia had take care to hot roll and tease out her red mane, accenting her face with pale, shimmery nude tones in makeup, and slipping into a dusky pink satin matching strapless bra and panty set.

Her last stop was the closet, to select her outfit and accessories for the day.

The closet had once been three adjoining rooms on the third floor that Michael had renovated, firstly to store all of his clothing, and recently, reorganized to accommodate Talia's ever-expanding wardrobe, which now took up a solid half of the expanse.

Michael's half consisted of somber suits, alligator shoes and designer silk ties for work and for leisure, slacks, jeans, button downs, and black loafers while Talia's side was an eclectic mix of dresses, skirts, shorts and trousers, with heels of every color and pattern at her disposal.

Michael Jackson liked for his companion to stay well-dressed and spared no expense for her—even her plain white tee-shirts cost over a hundred dollars!

She may have been playing hostess to Taj Jackson, but as she was aware that sometime that day she'd also have to contend with her tempestuous piano instructor and how she still couldn't fully grasp the art of playing a Chopin Mazurka, Talia was going to dress stylishly, yet comfortably to receive him.

She had no problem in reaching a sleeveless white blouse, and a pair of dark-rinsed, wide-legged denim trousers, but when it came to retrieving the sandals she wanted to wear, a pair of six-inch, brightly colored floral wedges, no matter how she grunted and strained, rising on tiptoe it remained precariously just beyond her fingertips.

“Oh for crying out loud--” She began bitterly, and lost her voice completely, as from behind her, a large hand reached with ease, retrieving the sandals, holding them over her bare shoulder.

She...wasn't alone?

Taking the shoes, she slowly turned, and found herself facing an unfamiliar man.

Half his face was hidden by a cascade of small, deep brown, braids, a few coppery strands woven in for good measure. He was tall and lanky, of a bronze complexion, with dark, gold-flecked, sleepy eyes, under straight groomed brows.

A glance downward revealed him to be wearing an oversized black tee with the Disney cartoon character Goofy on it and black and white plaid pajama bottoms with sneakers.

Such a strange, laid back outfit. In a place where Talia was used to Michael walking around in crystals, sequins and leather no matter what.

This man was really wearing pajamas—as outerwear?

Her eyes came back to that face.

He was so...unconventionally handsome, looking something like a teddy bear with softly rounded cheeks, an upturned nose, and full, pouted lips that seem to protrude though they were held in a thoughtful manner.

Ears jutting out on both sides through his plaits.

Talia's eyes met the stranger's once more. Her heart rate increased slightly, when she noticed he didn't blink.

Why didn't he blink?

It was so lingering, so unnerving, and undivided his gaze, Talia unwillingly dropped her own gaze down to his shoes and her painted toenails.

“Are...are you Taj?” She questioned meekly, the first time she'd ever felt so, since meeting his uncle so long ago.

“Yes.” His voice was an octave or so lower than Michael's and crackled a bit with a men's version of “vocal fry”.

“Are you...Talia?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She nodded unable to comprehend how she'd swiftly grown so shy in his presence.

“It's so nice to finally meet you. My Uncle Michael has spoken highly of you.”

His eyes were searching her face. Seeming to take in ever last feature down to her eyelashes.

“Thank you.”

That quickly he was ambling away, to the door of the closet.

He paused,his back still to her.

“I will be out in the solarium.” He informed her. “We can take lunch there.”

It wasn't a question; it was a statement.

And with neither a yay nor nay, Taj was gone.

Talia sinking back against the racks, drained.

Completely drained and she had no clue as to why.

Then it dawned on her like the sun outside:

She'd just met this man in nothing more than her underwear!

Yet, never once did his eyes ever look anywhere but into her face.

Not at her cleavage or legs or hips or anything.

Only her face.

Like his uncle, Taj was a gentleman.

Or...so it seemed on the surface, at least.

* * *

The winding, seemingly endless labyrinth of halls, corridors and alcoves, traversing the nearly thirty thousand square feet of the Main House, usually filled with some sort of classical piece, as piped through hidden speakers in each room; in the absence of the master of the maison, sat still and eerily silent.

Indeed, even as Talia, in those hard-soled wedges, navigated her way through the house, aiming to join Taj in the solarium, she produced no sound from the inlaid marble floors.

It was a very rare even to have company staying for an extended period of time.

So much, too much of the time, it was only Michael and herself—and the help.

As she was Michael's companion, he came first in her life. Got all of her attention, affection. Everything just shy of the ultimate act.

Sure, she got on with Michael's family and had various instructors of all the skills he insisted she nurture and cultivate...

Yet, outside of that...

There was nothing outside of that!

Talia's was alonely existence. It had its perks, of course, but it was lonely.

Michael Jackson's whole world, whole bubble of life, was one of imposed solitude.

And Talia had been consumed by it.

Yes, she had been exposed to a world unlike any she had ever dreamed—affluence, luxury, the esteem.

The name Jackson meant something.

Any time she went out with him or word merely preceded her of her association with Michael, people were kowtowing to her in an effort to keep her happy and pleased.

It was all a well-crafted facade.

And cracks were beginning to show, ever so slightly.

The leaded, stained-glass doors of the solarium, situated at the rear of the Main House, stood shut as Talia made her approach, and for a moment, she thought she'd misunderstood Taj about joining him there.

As she drew closer, though,peered through one of the richly colored Tiffany panels, the center of which depicting a landscape of hills and trees surrounded by a wide, interwoven design of greens, blues, yellows and browns, hunting the familiar, lurking silhouette of her house guest.

From what she could tell, the solarium was empty; it would be incredibly easy to pick him out in the black and white ensemble he'd been wearing--

“Looking for me?”

Her breaths stilled in her lungs, the abject silence of the hall broken by the gentle, articulate utterance.

Turning slowly, she found Taj standing, a few away.

Features set, staring into her face through those braids draping his so attractively.

His gaze was just as piercing as it had been in that walk-in closet.

And remained on her as he, brushed past her, opening one of the doors, allowing her into the space.

Built as a towering octagon, not to be confused with Michael Jackson's conservatory for his roses, the solarium housed exclusively green plants, ivies, small trees, ferns, with an almost three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of the back end of the property through french doors which could be—and that day, had been—left open to allow a breeze to trickle through.

Here and yonder, busts and figures of nude ladies were partially visible, tucked in the corners and out of the way.

In the center of the room a wicker table had been set for two, a book setting next to one of the places.

“I...hope you don't mind...” Taj spoke up softly, a following Talia a few paces behind, the pair making their way to the table,

“I have the chef preparing some roasted lamb for us. All I had on the flight here from Berlin was a single knockwurst and some sauerkraut. I'm famished.”

“That's fine--” Talia started to pull at the unoccupied chair and found Taj holding it back for her.

“--thank you”.

He hadn't been there a good three hours yet, and already Taj Jackson was running the show on his uncle's estate.

(That wasn't so strange. The few instances they'd entertained guests, Michael's staff had been ordered about by them without a single eye being batted. It was practically expected and the same had occurred at the various other estates of his relatives they'd visited. )

Talia had expected Taj to take the accompanying chair at the table once she was seated; instead, he wandered.

Over to one of the open French doors, the breeze causing his braids to sway gently and fronds of the nearest palm to dance over his head.

Several moments passed without a sound, during which Talia began to feel quite awkward and tried to foster a conversation, inquiring politely,

“Eh—Michael tells me you and your brothers have been in Germany filming a documentary, Taj...what's it about?”

“It's about Black Germans who were caught in the country when Adolf Hitler came to power in the early thirties. Germany colonized parts of Africa at the turn of the last century and well...there was race mixing...with some of these blended families, if you will, returning to Germany. Of course, when the Nazis took over, they were segregated, exiled...”

Taj sighed loudly, his hands looping behind his back, knuckles cracking, with him further explaining,

“...My brothers and I sought to track down the few, if any, of these people who survived the atrocities and discuss how it affected them and their families...People only know of the Jewish side of the Holocaust, but many other populations were persecuted, and murdered for their perceived 'error of birth': Gypsies, homosexuals, the mentally-handicapped. Everyone deemed 'unfit' and Non-Aryan. We wanted to touch on something uncommon, that not many people knew about. It's been three years in the making. We went all over Germany, even into Austria, finding people, shooting hours of tape, gaining all the information we could.”

He leaned against the door frame, arms folding over his chest adding,

“My youngest brother, TJ, is the most fluent in German, so he did most of the talking, but it was still a pain in my ass hiking all over here and yonder with all my filming equipment strapped to my back. No one lived in one of the bigger cities like Berlin, Munich or Hamburg, they were all out in little rural villages. Up mountains, down mountains, skiing in Austria—Taryll got rammed by a ram—rain, heat, snow. We went through it all. But it was worth it to shoot the footage we needed. And now I'm here to do the editing and piecing it together into a cohesive program while the other two find a distributor for us.”

Talia was thoughtfully quiet as the chef, a squat, hulking fellow in a pristine white uniform, a starched toque on his bald, reddened scalp, appeared, setting out a pair of long-stemmed glasses, popping the cork on a vintage bottle of Riesling, pouring the dull gold liquid into the glasses.

“Mr. Jackson?”

Taj, apparently lost in his own thoughts, as he gazed over the rolling green hills, offered a mere “hmm?” at his name.

“I shall bring the lamb to you and Miss Enfield just as soon as the potatoes become tender, Sir. I apologize for the delay.” The chef was bowing away as he spoke, making a speedy exit, shutting the doors behind him.

Seeing Taj had no intention of furthering the conversation about his film project Talia reached for her glass to take a sip.

“You're my uncle's girlfriend?”

His head had turned in her direction and while she couldn't see his eyes for his hair, she could certainly feel them on her.

Her hand faltered, falling to the linen table cloth and she heard herself mumble meekly in correction,

“I'm...I'm his companion.”

“And how does one...differ from the other?”

Taj returned to the table, slipping into his seat, hands folding on the tabletop.

A shake of his head cleared the braids from his face and showed his straight brows raised in interest, eyes sparkling.

A rarity, Talia was at a loss for words, as this was the first time she'd ever been asked to describe the nature of her relationship with Michael Jackson.

Up until then, it had been pretty much implied or overlooked by the rest of the Jackson family. No one had ever come outright and tried to discuss the matter with her before.

The silence, as Talia searched the annals of her mind for a way to properly disclose the details, was deafening and drowning out the pounding of her heart, as Taj took his time to have a gulp of wine, his right brow cocking upwards.

There was a sly, little smirk twisting his plump mouth off to the side, those eyes running up and down her as he said with a sigh,

“I have a fair idea, Talia. I've known my uncle all my life. I know his quirks, his tendencies. My brothers mentioned they'd met you, but didn't really get to talk to you...even Taryll when he stayed overnight here that time. How you were stuck to Uncle Michael....”

A second sigh left him as he trailed off, the chef rolling a low cart in.

He remained quiet while platters with hunks of moist lamb and lightly charred vegetables, accompanied by a small Caesar salad was placed before them.

And he remained so until the chef had vacated the room.

“I was a kid when my uncle got married both times. I was ring bearer at the first wedding and a mini-groomsman at the second.” He was smacking on his lamb, a trait Talia typically found annoying ,but coming from Taj, she didn't mind.

“And I was around when shit went sour both times. With Brooke, it was a clean break. Basically 'pack your shit, get out'. He was upset naturally but he was happier to have her gone. With Diane, I guess, because he thought she was his second chance, he let it drag on longer. Longer than it should have. He was beating the hell out of a dead horse, really. Four years...”

He paused to sprinkle salt over his food.

“Brooke caused the cracks....but Diane...she shattered him, Talia.”

Talia stared down at her plate unsure of what to say.

In all the time she'd been with Michael, he'd never really spoken at length about his previous marriages.

In a way, she felt as though she were invading his privacy.

“So...exactly how seriou--”

“Begging your pardon, Miss Enfield?”

The flame-haired head turned from the round face with its jaw jumping as chunks of lamb were quickly disappearing, and found Monty at her side.

Her glittering, pink-crystal encrusted Blackberry in his hands.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Jackson is on the phone for you, ma'am, he says it's urgent.”

“Oh!” Immediately, her fork was thrown to the plate and the device mashed to her ear.

“Michael?”

For the next few moments, Michael Jackson was chattering wildly, firstly something about the board of directors over the hospital to be built in El Segundo, secondly begging Talia to pull clothing for him—he'd been asked to stay for dinner in the city and was likely going to stay the night there—and was sending a messenger to retrieve his belongings.

“I trust your taste in dressing me, Honey.”

Thirdly, he asked to speak to his nephew.

“Yes...of course...I don't mind. You have your work to do. No, Michael, it's fine—really. He's right here. Stop fretting! Michael Jackson! Stop it—Taj...”

The phone was passed off with her standing to excuse herself.

“Hi, Uncle Michael...no the flight was fine...they gave me a knockwurst and sauerkraut...”

* * *

“...you already took his monogrammed slippers down to the car right? Those go with his red silk pajamas...”

“Yes, Miss Enfield.”

Sometime later, a rather harried looking Talia sat on her knees in the corner of the huge walk-in closet, carefully stacking a pair of brightly colored shoe boxes on top of one another.

A few feet away, the messenger, a solemn faced boy who appeared in his late teens looked on anxiously, ignoring the beads of sweat trickling down his brow as he'd made no less than half a dozen trips up and down to the third floor suite retrieving outfits and accessories for Michael Jackson's stay over in El Segundo.

Passing the boxes to the boy, she instructed curtly,

“The black patent tasseled loafers go with Mr. Jackson's navy wool suit with the watered silk vest, and the grey suede loafers go with the grey cotton-blend suit and the plaid vest! Are you sure you have everything? His toiletries, his underthings, socks, belts, suspenders, his Louis Vuitton luggage?”

“Yes, Miss Enfield, I carried everything to the car myself.” The boy nodded a second time hugging the box to his chest clumsily.

“And you be careful with those shoes! They cost more than some people make in a year!” Talia called after him as the boy scurried away.

Though this was not the first time such a request had been made of her, Talia did dislike it so when Michael called upon her to pull outfits for him at a moment's notice, when sudden events emerged with no prior warning.

And now she sat in the closet, which half an hour earlier had been neat and orderly, now looked as though a small cyclone had rifled through it, leaving a mess of designer duds scattered here and there, to be picked up later by one of the maids.

Talia reclined against one of the slats that divvied up the fifty or so cubbies that contained some of Michael's shoes near the back end of the closet, thoroughly exhausted.

She sat there a moment, allowing her eyes to shut.

She needed to be still...if only for a moment.

Michael Jackson was so incredibly finicky about his appearance, Talia knew ever piece of each outfit had to be just so, or he'd call again asking for another shirt, another tie, another pocket square.

It was his way.

With a wardrobe as vast as his, he could afford to have it his way.

After such an endeavor, Talia desperately wanted to crawl back into bed and take a nap; but she knew she couldn't, she still had to practice that damn Mazurka with Monsieur Dufarge in about an hour.

Both he and Michael would hit the roof if she canceled on such short notice.

Also she couldn't sleep, she had to entertain Taj.

He was a guest and she was the hostess...

Michael would have been even more upset if she slacked on her duties.

Relegating herself to being up several more hours without a break, Talia began to stir, with the intention of ringing the kitchen for a strong cup of coffee.

She stopped short, eyes widening.

Across the floor, at the large island that contained both hers and Michael's accessories for daily wear, stood Taj, examining a fine striped necktie which had been cast aside during the scramble earlier.

How long had he been there?

“You know...” She forced herself to chuckle, though she was rather shaken that he had the stealth skills of a ninja, “...we really must stop meeting up in this closet!”

A shy, sheepish little curl that crept on to his mouth, with Taj responding,

“There's a French man downstairs asking for you--”

“Belgian.” Talia petted his shoulder indicating he follow her. “And don't you dare forget it. He certainly won't let you! That's Monsieur Dufarge, my piano instructor. I have a lesson today.”

Reaching the doors that led to the private stair, again, Taj hastened to hold it open for her.

He was such a gentleman.

“I won't disturb you...” Taj announced lagging behind her. “I was going to go out to the guest house and start viewing some of the footage and trying to make a rough cut of the documentary. Oh...”

His hand wrapped her bicep, pulling her to a stop mid-way down.

“I wanted to give you your phone back. Thank you for letting me use it.”

From a hidden pocket on those baggy pajama pants, he produced the glitzy Blackberry.

“No problem...”

He was staring at her so strangely.

So intensely.

His gaze so sharp it could cut a diamond.

“You're...” He took a step forward and in the small hallway, automatically had Talia backed against the opposing wall.

His dark eyes were locked with her amber ones, his tongue slipping out to moisten his lips.

“You're a lot nicer than my uncle's previous girlfriends...” He started, leaning closer, only to have Talia remind him, a knee-jerk reaction,

“I'm his companion.”

“You've said that before...what exactly does that mean?”

His breath was so warm...smelling brightly of Altoids.

“It...it...it....”

Her knees were weakening.

“Madomoiselle Enfield!”

She went stiff as a board, a dismayed accented voice crying her name.

At the bottom of the stairs, a tall, lean man, dressed down in a plaid suit was squinting up at the pair of them through the small spectacles perched on the large nose hanging over an even larger handlebar mustache.

“You are late for your piano lesson! Allons-y! Tout suite!”

“Oui Monsieur Dufarge!” Quickly, skipping two steps at a time, Talia ran after her instructor.

The last thing she saw as she turned the corner, was Taj sagging, his forehead pressed to the wall.

* * *

Talia didn't see Taj the rest of the evening.

But he stayed on her mind, no matter how she tried to focus on other matters.

As a result her lesson with Monsieur Dufarge had been a disaster, as she managed to play her Mazurka even worse than she had the week before, causing the temperamental teacher to nag her for a solid hour in his native tongue, and her to curse back at him under her breath.

There was something about Taj.

Something special, something exciting.

He...he awakened feelings in her that had laid bubbling just beneath the surface.

The feelings she'd had to repress for so long...that had been geared towards Michael.

Deflected by Michael Jackson.

Feelings that seemed...to be reciprocated by Taj Jackson.

Feelings that wouldn't let her sleep.

Feelings that wouldn't let her rest.

And before she could stop herself, Talia found herself walking.

Down from the third story Master Suite.

Down through the Main House, its twists and turns weaving in and out until she passed back through the solarium.

Into the back yard and onto to the bricked path, lit every few feet by an old fashioned lamp atop a tall post, leading the way out to the Guest Cottage, a one story replica of the three story manse preceding it on the opposite side of the swimming pool.

Though it was nearly midnight, through the windows, she could see all of the lights were on.

Perhaps Taj was still awake.

Talia had no idea of what she was going to say or do once she was inside the cottage...

It was crazy. It was ridiculous.

And yet, she couldn't turn away.

In her mind she told herself, she'd try the knob.

If it were locked, she'd turn and go back to bed.

If it opened...

A sweat-drenched palm slid against the polished brass of the knob on the front door.

To her surprise, it swung.

Opening directly onto a classically furnished living room.

Taj was nowhere to be found, yet she heard what sounded like muffled speaking, as though a television were playing somewhere nearby.

The kitchen right off the living room was also empty,but had been used; a pot of coffee was still steaming in the maker on the counter by the sink.

Talia ventured to the back of the house where four bedrooms were were situated, the door to one of them wide open.

Again, no Taj, but it was clear it was the room he was going to sleep in.

Luggage was strewn about, a few outfits hanging in the closet, a book about filmography on the foot of the neatly made, canopied bed, all in shades of goldenrod and black.

A peek in the bathroom revealed bottles of cologne, an electric toothbrush and bottle of Scope.

Moving back out into the hall, Talia continued to hear the speaking and returning to the kitchen she was able to make it out...just barely...but it was the sound of a man, speaking, rather hoarsely in German.

“...they were beating him...and beating him...I never thought they'd stop beating him...” Her mind translated the foreign words and she noticed the door, leading down to the cutting room sat ajar.

“...they eventually stopped...when the commandant shot him in the head...all because he'd refused to say Heil!,,”

Automatically, Talia found herself easing down the dim stairs towards the flickering light below.

“...My name is Hildegarde Olga Graff, and I was twelve years old in nineteen thirty-three...”

The first thing Talia saw was the screen, taking up much of the far wall in the long room, where an elderly woman was speaking in German.

A few feet from the large screen, was a massive console full of buttons, knobs, flashing lights and smaller, lit monitors, showing what had to be footage from other interviews.

“...I was what they called a 'Rhineland Bastard'--”

Abruptly, the tape stopped, and there was the sound of paper rattling and violent scribbling.

It was then, Talia noticed that the chair in front of the console was swaying ever so slightly, and moving closer, she could make out Taj's legs, now in white pajama bottoms covered with Looney Tunes characters, his bare feet patting the carpet.

The tape started again,

“...my father was from Niger...my mother was from Berlin...”

The tape stopped and there was more scribbling.

Taj must have been painstakingly going word for word, translating the German into English for subtitles for his documentary.

Talia found herself beside the chair, but no longer mentally converting language.

She simply lacked the ability to do so.

The tables had turned and she found herself staring at Taj.

He was hunched over a notepad, pencil in hand, writing hastily.

And in the weak light from the screen, she could see that Taj was topless.

Her breath became even weaker as she could make out the smooth, bronze skin of his back, a small mole on his right shoulder, the lightly defined shoulder blades and triceps that rippled with each pass of the lead.

He was so slim, but so delicately toned.

She hadn't noticed it before, but he'd possessed a long, thin neck...and with him sitting bent as he was, she could make out each vertebrae pressing against his dermis.

“...my parents met just after the end of World War One in nineteen-twenty...”

Taj sat bolt upright, pencil clasped in his hand, staring straight at the screen and it took everything in Talia not to cry out from being startled.

The braided head whipped around.

“Oh God!” He gasped with potent relief the exclamation coming out as a whoosh.

“It's you Talia! For a minute I thought I was going bonkers...smelling vanilla all of a sudden.”

Vanilla?

Vanilla?

“That's...that's my perfume...” She whispered, mouth going cottony as Taj stood, hand sliding along the wall behind him, flicking a switch.

Flooding the room with fluorescent light.

And giving her an uninterrupted view of his upper torso.

The slick, glossy, moisturized skin, the pert, proudly small, yet erect nipples, a darker, fleshier brown standing out in the cold room...the hint of six-pack abs featuring an “innie” belly button...

As he took a step forward, Talia noticed the tiny, almost imperceptible tattoo of an open clapperboard just below the bend on the inside of his left arm.

Was he that dedicated to his film-making?

At the same time, his eyes were passing over her.

The flaming hair, held from her face by a wide lavender strip of satin ribbon, tied in a bow, matching the sleeveless pajamas clinging to her body.

The swelling of a mature bosom below an inset of ecru lace.

How her hips swayed as she shifted from one foot to the other in her high-heeled, marabou trimmed slippers.

How beautiful she was...how exotic with those light, golden eyes, the high nose,the plump mouth...and how her mane set it all off so well.

He was still approaching her.

Soon, he was so close, she could visibly see his nostrils flaring as he didn't bother to hide the fact he was inhaling her fragrance.

And she could smell the interwoven scent of lemongrass and lavender on him.

Such a gentle, unobtrusive scent.

“I....I....” Taj started a hand rubbing at his chest as he was now on her so, the two of them bumped. “I like your perfume, Talia.”

“Thank you--” Nervously she took a step back, his eyes drifting over her.

“You...never answered my question from earlier today...”

His eyes met hers and Talia had to lean against the console to support herself.

Her heart was in her ears and her breaths non-existent.

“What...” She had to close her eyes. “...what question was that?”

“About you being my uncle's...companion...”

His breath, smelling of hazelnut coffee blew against her cheeks causing her to tremble in her size-seven shoes.

“What does that mean?”

“It--” She stopped short, Taj raising his arms and tightening the bow in her red tresses.

The unrestrained breasts beneath the silky fabric bounced, with her inhaling sharply, Taj answering for her in a matter-of-fact manner,

“I know what it means. I inquired specifically when I spoke to Uncle Michael on your phone today. And he explained to me what all your...relationship...supplied..”

His hands fell to quivering shoulders.

“And what it lacked.”

There was a coy, rude smile on his lips.

“You've been with my uncle, here, for sixteen months. And for sixteen months you've done everything that belongs in a relationship...barring one crucial detail.”

Any feelings of lust and wanton were momentarily overridden by pure fear.

She had to get away.

“I have to go now...”She was sliding past him, shaking his grip off, her own hands going clammy. “I have a tennis lesson, very early in the morning--”

She was scared of him, and herself.

If she didn't stop him right then...

“Fine.” Taj put his hands up and moved back a few paces.

With a fling of his braided head he indicated the staircase leading back up to the guest house.

She gave him a parting glance and ran.

His taunting voice flooded her ears as she mounted the stairs.

“I know you had a reason for coming down here...other than being out for a midnight stroll!”

* * *

Talia was hiding.

And had been ever since her run in with Taj the night before.

She didn't quite know what to do, as she'd never been in a predicament like this.

This was a problem...and one that had been mounting for serveral months though she had trie vainly and valiantly to ignore it.

She'd tossed and turned half the night and walked the floor the rest because of it.

Because Taj Jackson, knowing her less than twenty-four hours, had managed to put his finger so directly on the issue, it was sheer insanity.

Talia had lacked and severely missed the intimacy that went with normal relationships.

Yes she was fond of and did care for Michael Jackson; in many contexts she did love him, but she could no longer deny it.

She seemed caught in a forever game of foreplay with Michael.

Kissing, caressing, even undressing...but always stopping just shy of the act where such movements should have ended up.

She was frightened of Taj Jackson.

Even worse, she was frightened of her feelings towards Taj Jackson.

Talia was attracted to him.

The way he seemed both shy and confident at the same time.

The ways his eyes were alternately shifty behind his hair.

The queer, open, jarring way he would leer at her without shame.

How handsome he was; his strange, tensely quiet ways.

His polite, articulate manner of speaking, belying the genius film-maker he truly was.

She had seen him translating German by ear.

It was assured he was multi-lingual as was most of the rest of the Jackson family, as many were well-traveled and had dated or married people from various cultures.

Taj had been right when he called her out the night before, as she had fled the film cutting room.

She had had a reason for going down there.

For venturing through the door of the Guest House, seeking him.

Talia wanted to be near him, look at him.

Have him look at her.

And it scared her terribly.

She was in a relationship with Michael Jackson...and there was just no room for his nephew in the equation.

Had she stayed in the basement of the Guest House, would she have ended up on the cutting room floor herself?

Talia had her suspicions as to the answer, but didn't want to admit it to herself.

She couldn't.

She also couldn't stay in the closet much longer.

At exactly ten a.m., she had to be down on the tennis court, ready for her lesson with Mrs. Rambova.

It was a lesson she couldn't skip; Michael expected her to play mixed doubles with him in their county club's tennis tournament that summer.

Talia didn't want to run into Taj.

She hoped he was locked away, down in that basement, working on his documentary.

Talia was certain he was down there; that morning when she'd risen to bathe and change, a glance out of one of the bay windows revealed him on the porch of the little cottage, receiving a silver domed platter containing his breakfast from the chef.

She didn't even eat breakfast on the off chance he'd wander into the dining room.

Drawing a deep breath, Talia regarded herself one last time in the three- way, full-legnth mirror near the door of the closet.

She was outfitted simply in a sleek, black tennis dress, her initials embroidered on the hem of the skirt and matching black sneakers.

Of course, as Michael Jackson's companion, she was impeccable with natural makeup, a diamond tennis bracelet circling her slender wrist, and studs in her ears, as revealed by her tresses having been pulled back into a low ponytail fastened with a black bow.

The time on her phone showed ten minutes to ten...just enough time to make it out to the court.

The trek from the third-story suite through the house and out to the rolling back lawns was terse and nerve-wracking, as with every corner she turned, Talia expected to find Taj there.

She didn't have the authority to bar him from the house or the property. He was a guest and moreover he was Michael Jackson's blood kin.

It just wasn't done.

Walking the long, winding cobblestone path on her lonesome, Talia began to loosen up somewhat.

It was a beautiful day, bright and warm, just a hint of a breeze.

The perfect sort of day for a two hour lesson with Mrs. Rambova, the former Ukrainian tennis pro whom Michael had procured to whip her into shape for that tournament.

Sure she was hard, demanding and screamed...but so did just about all of Talia's instructors, insisting on the best from her.

She was a part of the Jackson's world—only the best would do.

The court was coming into view, the wire fence around a black asphalt playing ground—Michael thought the green courts looked tacky and opted for black instead.

Nearing it, she could make out a figure leaning against the open gate.

Several feet from it, Talia Enfield came to a rapid halt.

Taj Jackson leaned against the gate, arms folded over a Mickey Mouse tee, staring back at her.

Though unnerved, he was staring not at her face, but at her body, as he had down in the basement, rudely seeking out every dip and curve to her.

Now she hated her dress was so clingy, the skirt so short.

She hadn't intended to give him a peep show.

But she couldn't let him get to her.

No, not after the way he'd flustered her the night before.

Tossing her head with defiance, Talia announced as she made her way to the gate,

“My tennis lessons are a private affair. Only Michael has permission to watch when Mrs. Rambova coaches me--”

“Mrs. Rambova?” Taj cocked his head to the side, his braids moving and showing he was raising a straight, plucked brow. “Was that who that woman was? White, blonde, fifty-ish, with a heavy accent?”

Talia felt her own brows raising in suspicion at the spot on description.

“Yes...” She stammered, noticing Taj's eyes on her thighs, as he calmly cracked his knuckles telling her,

“I saw that woman on the court after I finished my breakfast a while ago—I dismissed her.”

Pale pink, glossed lips quivered in a quick anger over white teeth with Talia sneering,

“How....how dare you send my instructor away! You have no right! I have a tournament I'm preparing for! You've been trying to run this estate ever since you got here! This is not your house--”

“It's not yours either, but from what I can gather you've been running it as well.” Taj broke in smoothly, his eyes traveling up and meeting her with a cool arrogance.

“It is my home--” Talia sputtered to which Taj smiled, teeth glowing in his tanned face.

“You're a guest, just like I am. Only on a...” His gave her a sweeping glance. “...more intimate level. At least that's what my uncle makes-believe anyway. ”

“What in the hell is wrong with you?” Talia losing her grip on her temper cried. “Why do you seem to have this...this aversion to my relationship with Michael? Why does it bother you so much?”

He was on her again, like he had been in the basement, eyes piercing to her very core.

“Pardon me...I only felt you deserved more...than what it is you're getting.”

Chills lit her as Taj tucked his hands into the pockets of his loose fitting jeans and began sauntering away.

Talia watched him go, mouth twisting into a scowl, with her trying to think of an appropriate comeback and failing.

After a moment, she tossed her racket to the ground and slowly began to follow him.

By the time she reached the Guest Cottage, Taj had long since disappeared inside.

Talia hesitated at the doors.

What was she doing?

Why had she returned here?

She no longer knew...

Crossing the threshold, she spotted Taj almost instantly.

He was seated atop the table in the kitchen, eating a peach.

With a shaker, he sprinkled a bit of salt on it and went to his mouth with it.

Mid-bite he noticed her.

Slowly,ever so slowly, he withdrew the peach from his mouth, lips remaining puckered with a cool, tempered arrogance.

Timidly, leaning against the door frame, Talia gulped in hesitation, her mouth again dry and rough as sandpaper. Her voice wa s hardly a whisper, with her asking hoarsely,

“What... exactly is the 'more'... you think I deserve, Taj?”

His right brow raised, Taj helping himself to another bite, juices running down his hand as he replied between chews,

“I think you know already, Talia.”

The red-head tossed and she laughed, meaning to be flippant, “And you think you're the man to make up the difference for me?”

His left brow joined the right and he quipped,

“You're in here again—aren't you?”

Suddenly, feeling exposed, Talia went rigid repeating,

“You canceled my tennis lesson!”

Another bite.

“If you're so desperate to hit a ball, I have a couple you're welcome to take a whack at.”

“Taj!”

“I know my name.” He hopped down from the table, sauntering in that nonchalant way over to her.

Gaze never breaking.

He leaned into her, whispering,

“I like the sound of you saying my name...but I bet it would sound even better shouted.”

Out of pure reflex, Talia raised her hand to strike for such a lewd comment.

No one dared speak to her in such a manner.

Quickly, Taj took her hand and was pressing, plump, juicy, sticky lips to the top if it.

His eyes blazing behind his braids.

How his mouth ventured from her hand to her lips, Talia did not know.

All she did know was he had the sweetest, most tender mouth she'd ever encountered, exceeding even that of his uncle.

“I've...” He pulled back just far enough to confide into her face,

“I've wanted to do that since I first laid eyes on you.”

“Mmm-hmm...” Talia mumbled, pressing her head against his chest, listening to the quickened pace of his heart, as it rose and fell with each of his tempered breaths.

“Are you...” He was twisting the little serpent in the top of her earlobe. “...content to be only a companion to my uncle...”

He stopped eyes widening at the paling face staring back up at him with a wild, crazed expression.

“Or would you like to be with me--”

“I want to!” Talia cried suddenly, clinging to him tightly. “I want to! I...I need! I need you--”

Her mouth was pecked and Taj snickered,

“I know, I only wanted to hear you say it. Yesterday, when I took your phone to speak to my uncle you came up, I inquired about you. And well...my uncle said I could have you...with your consent of course.”

Talia was shocked into speechlessness Taj continuing holding her closer to him,

“My uncle knows what it is you're missing. What you need. And for a while, he's been scared you would wander from him, like the other two did. He...he somehow felt better letting you loose near me. He'd rather you be with someone he knew and trusted, rather than some random stranger. But like I said...”

He cupped the flushing, reddened face in his hands, and pecked her forehead.

“I need your consent--”

“You have it!” Talia all but spat the statement at him.

And she was in his arms, cradled against him, carried through the cottage.

Towards the open door of his bedroom...

Thwack...Thwack...Thwack...

For the last thirty-odd minutes, the quilted, leather padded headboard of the king-sized bed had been steadily, and rhythmically smacking the wall behind it, as powered by each throw of his unyielding, powerful, yet graceful hips.

Talia was helpless, each strike causing her to moan uncontrollably, staring up at the deep yellow fabric swaying over head.

Feeling the full weight of Taj's nude body pressing her's into the mattress and pillows.

The smell of him, the feel of his dampening perspiration on her skin.

His lips, plump warm and moist, sucking at the bare, tender flesh of her throat with such force she was certain he was leaving a string of hickies in his wake.

His braids, sweeping across her face as he held her down by her wrists, on either side of her head, leaving her open to the welcome pounding he was delivering upon her.

“Oh! Oh! Mmm-hmm!” She whimpered, body arching as again, his fur-trimmed pubis met her shorn one, the massiveness of his shaft, forcing its way in, spreading her to impossible widths.

She had only glimpsed him a moment...seen his plaid boxers falling to his ankles...taken in his toned, proportioned body atop the stocky hips and thick legs.

Seen that manhood rising upwards, in all of its glory, its pinkish tip stretching beyond the foreskin, winking at her.

She had been besieged like an undefended fort by a storming cavalry.

How could she resist him?

How could she resist herself? The things she had wanted, longed for.

Yearned for all these months.

Yes...Michael Jackson provided well for her, beyond her wildest dreams.

But affluence, prominence and the finer things didn't replace that one basic instinct.

The need for a man.

And what a man Taj Jackson was.

“You... you like this...don't you?” He teased those lips slipping against her and sucking on her chin.

“Yes...yes...yes!” She was able to gasp, Taj falling onto her, their arms wrapping each other to the point neither could tell where the other began or end.

Mouths, bodies, souls connected into one.

“Please! Please!” Was all Talia could seem to vocalize in between her frantic gasps and moans...but Taj showed a prowess and innate sense for fulfilling her needs.

He threw his hips harder, that bush on him meeting her smooth skin with more force, all of him surging deeper, deeper, yet deeper into her moist welcoming folds.

She was so good to him, so warm, alive, lithe...so tight.

But his deepest pleasure came from feeling her, touching her, listening to her.

It took a bit of effort, but he managed to raise himself so he could fully take in the majesty that was Talia laying beneath him.

The tawny skin kissed with a sheen of sweat, the full, round bosom bouncing im response to his every connection with her.

The flushed cheeks, the glossy lips curling around the white teeth. The beautiful amber eyes, nothing more than slits in the carved face, as he continued to gleefully assault her other slit...feeling her struggling to contain him all.

So few women were able to.

But he could the little cavorting vixen among that exclusive few.

The way her auburn tresses spread out over the pillows.

Was he really enjoying this lovely woman?

“Oh God!” Talia whined, feeling his hands grabbing onto her mounds, plying and kneading them.

“Taj! Taj! Oh--Taj, please!”

Continuing to pound away at her, Taj threw his head back, bearing his teeth and snarling at the ceiling,

“I can't stop! I won't stop!”

It was swiftly becoming apparent to Talia that Taj was proving too much for her.

The entire situation was too much for her...

And before she could warn him, it happened.

Taj's thrusts slowed as the gasp of ecstasy popped from those lips and lower, a flow or warm wetness sprang from her little love pocket.

“Yes! I like that! Yes, girl! That's what I want!” Taj hissed, easing himself from Talia.

All was calm for a few moments, the only sound was the pair of them breathing heavily.

And then the silence of the late afternoon was broken by a shriek.

“NO! NO! OH GOD! OH TAJ! TAJ! AH! TAJ! WHAT ARE YOU—TAJ!”

Pushing up onto her elbows in alarm, Talia stared down her body, staring at the top of Taj's head, pomade glistening on his scalp, his face completely hidden in her loins.

And as the head began to bob up and down, his tongue lashing against her already swollen clitoris, Talia could only fall back onto the pillows, her eyes snapping shut from the sensation.

Gripping on her bosom, her first reaction to such a feeling, such a sensation, was for her lgs to snap shut, but they were prevented by the strong palms of Taj's hands on her inner thighs, pressing and forcing them to remain open.

Allowing him to continue making a meal of her...sucking, biting, nibbling and licking after the bud and moist opening quivering in is wake.

“Right there! Right there! Right there! AH! Right there!”

The rush was on her again, thighs quivering as her body down to her very soul was wracked again, Taj managing to pull his face back, an arch of lust liquid arcing into the air, splatting the carpet below and part of his bare shoulder.

“That's what I like to see! Get it all out, Baby...”

Two fingers were venturing inside her, his thumb flush against her clit rubbing her, and encouraging her onto another orgasm.

“AH! AH! AH!”

More dampness gushed forth and the bed shook, Taj crawling closer to her, resting on his knees by her side.

His breathing heavy, his eyes fixed on her, glinting glowing and widened with madness from his behind his braids.

Beads of sweat sparking on his chest and abdomen, a few droplets glittering from the thatch of curls surrounding the stiff rod he was slowly forcing past those shimmering lips.

Talia could no longer resist him—how had she ever resisted him to begin with?

The taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of that bush repeatedly bumping her lips...it was intoxicating.

“You're too good...oh shit...” He hissed at her through grit teeth, snarling.

“Oh shit.... oh shit....oh shit....”

Marking each exclamation he was punching against the headboard, causing the bed to rattle.

His hands found her breasts, gripping them tightly, the red head bobbing back and forth relentlessly into his crotch.

“SHIT!”

With one final drowning scream of passion, his cock, wet and dewy with saliva popped loose from her mouth running up onto her cheek.

Three rapid, hard bursts exploded from his tip, streaking off into her hair and onto the pillows under her head.

“Oh God...oh my God...Jesus...Oh...shit....”

Taj gasped, still clutching the reddened distressed face, those pale eyes huge at him.

Gently, delicately, slowly, he bent over her, pressing his lips to hers, kissing her deeply.

He drew back, pecking the snake in her earlobe only far enough to hear Talia whisper weakly,

“Thank you...”

That night, dinner, taken in the grand dining hall was a quiet, calm affair.

Michael, fresh from his jaunt to El Segundo was his usual self, sweet, cheery, and quite chatty about the deal he'd closed and the building he'd overseen presided from the head of the table, Talia to his left, Taj to his right.

And though she was quite attentive, clutching Michael's hand through all six of the lavish courses, time and and again, her eyes drifted to and met those of the man across the table from her.

If Michael noticed at all, he remained silent on the matter...of course, the union of the two flanking him had been done by his own hand.

A touch of a sacrifice had been made in 'sharing' the young love of his life, but granted, it was for only one aspect of so many that went into a healthy, long term relationship.

Yes, the three at the table, finishing up bowls of sorbet were happy, all for different reasons, stemming from the same root.

There were no longer any actions with which a misinterpretation could be gleaned.

Not anymore.