Miranda stripped off her coat and tossed it onto the bed. Her blouse and skirt followed in quick succession. Now disrobed, she stood in front of the full-length mirror wearing only a bra and panties, the black lace set he'd bought her last week. She knew he loved it. She knew he loved seeing her in it.

Her patron stood in the doorway, raking his eyes over her semi-naked form possessively. She could see him behind her in the mirror. He gave her a coy look and grinned boyishly. Their gazes locked in the glass. She stared coolly ahead for a few seconds, as if daring him to look away, but with a laugh, she gave in and turned to admonish him. "How long are you going to stand there gawking?"

He entered then, peeling his gloves off and casually tossing them beside her coat. "How long were you planning on teasing me?"

Miranda giggled and threw her arms around his neck. "I wasn't teasing you," she said, kissing him full on the mouth. His lips were pursed close against her advance, but only for the briefest time. She knew what he liked, just as surely as he knew what she liked. He could never resist for long. His lips parted and returned her kiss with fervor. A masculine hand closed over her breast. She moaned and deepened the kiss. Abruptly, he pulled away.

"Soon. We'll have time for this soon. But now – our destiny!" He stepped away from her and went to the window. The airplane was thousands of feet in the air, but his eyes looked up even higher, as if he could somehow see into space, see the instrument of destruction his dreams and daring had built. His dreams, she thought, but my daring. A smile crept onto her lips.

She joined him at the window, slipping her arms around his waist and giving him a firm hug. "We did it. Icarus is operational. Everyone in the world will bow down before its might. They'll all bow down to us."

He spun around and pulled her into his arms. "The world will be ours," he agreed.

"The world is not enough," she mused scornfully. He bent to her, capturing her lips in a fierce kiss.

"You and I are two of a kind," he said, a mixture of awe and exhilaration in his voice.

"That," she noted with a healthy note of amusement, "is precisely why you're attracted to me. You're a narcissist. You're in love with yourself."

She disentangled herself from the circle of his arms and crossed to the bed, turning her back on him. "But you got tired of fucking yourself, so you decided I was the next best thing."

Long experience had taught Miranda exactly which buttons to push when it came to Colonel Tan-Sun Moon, lately known as Gustav Graves. As his mistress and closest confidante, she knew the words to please him, to placate him – and she knew the words to transform him into an incoherent monster. Her real power lay in her ability to gauge what to say when she wanted his reaction to be something in between, which was what she wanted now. Although she couldn't see him, she knew he was already foaming at the mouth with rage. But Graves' rage had two distinct poles. One pole was the rage he reserved for his enemies or anyone who was foolish enough to incur his wrath. The other pole – the pole she was playing to – was the rage that bubbled up when an attack was simultaneously infuriating and intriguing.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind her and suddenly, Miranda was lifted bodily into the air and tossed unceremoniously onto the bed. Before she could catch her breath, Graves had straddled her and pinned her arms down. "You bitch!" he bellowed.

His pale face was red with anger, as if it were he that had the ability to soak up the full power of the sun and not Icarus. Watching him grown redder and redder, and more and more furious, she had to laugh. When he had been Moon, she'd always had a hard time figuring out whether he was really, truly angry or merely annoyed. His passive Asian features had effectively obliterated the cues she'd been taught to read from a Western face. Now, in his guise as Graves, she could almost always be certain – the telltale redness was enough sign. However, it was this reddening of his features she always found uproarious – he looked ready to explode. Good, she thought to herself. We're finally getting somewhere.

Graves was puzzled by her sudden burst of hilarity and leaned back on his heels. "What are you laughing about, you daft bint?" His usage of the British slang touched off a fresh round of laughter. Some of the anger defused. "You're crazy," he pronounced, and started to get up.

"Of course I am," Miranda responded with a chuckle. She sprang up and pulled him back down onto the bed. She licked his ear. "I'm also very horny."

It was Graves' turn to chuckle. She had started nibbling his ear. "So that's your plan, you dirty little whore." He traced a finger down into the valley between her breasts. She shuddered and lay back against the pillows, her eyes inviting.

The bitch was such an aggravation! He didn't want to admit it, even to himself, but in Miranda Frost, he'd met his match. Secretly, he was overjoyed. Even if he had known that day he'd accidentally walked in on her changing in the locker room before fencing practice that this would be the result – that another human being could dominate him so completely, mind, body and soul – he still would have gone in. He needed her, with a primal need that went beyond anything physical (even though the physical portion of their relationship was damn overpowering), anything psychological, anything he would ever and could ever name. If he'd believed in love, he might have said he was in love with her, but of course, it wasn't anything as trite and as simple as that.

"I certainly hope you're thinking of all the things you're going to do to me." The sound of her voice brought him out of his reverie. Her position on the bed was unchanged, but she'd spread her thighs and was running a finger lazily up and down the inside of one. He cursed himself inwardly. And gave in.

"We'll have to be quick," he warned her as he joined her on the bed. The softness of her peaches and cream skin pressed against his clothes. He hurriedly stripped and then slowly began to remove her remaining coverings.

"Much better," she murmured. She bent her head and trailed her tongue languidly up from his navel to just below his chin. The warm, wet sensation of her tongue almost drove him into a frenzy, but he shut his eyes and calmed himself. He knew she hated men who couldn't control themselves. Which was why she was with him – she was insane that way; she loved a man who treated her with disdain, who could look at lovemaking with a jaundiced eye, as she did. Men who were overeager bored her. She'd bed them once, if she did at all, then casually discard them. She most certainly would never try to seduce them, as she often tried to with him. It was the thrill of the hunt.

She rose over him, displaying her full, ripe breasts. His manhood hardened and she watched it, and laughed, a low, throaty sound. Her inappropriate outburst annoyed him and he flipped her over and straddled her. "I'll be on top," he informed her.

Pulling him down for a kiss, she murmured,"Mmmmm, for now…"

He's almost too easy these days, she remarked silently to herself. Still, she wasn't bored with him yet and she didn't see herself getting bored anytime soon, not with Icarus and his plans for the world. The thought of all that power! The wetness between her legs increased.

He was still kissing her, but he slowly inserted a finger into her damp cleft and she moaned beneath his lips. God, he knew so well how to work her over. With his fingers, his mouth…All of a sudden, her night with Bond flashed into her mind.

Bond. James Bond. Reckless, debonair, cool-under-fire MI6 agent, with a license to kill. It had been enjoyable, but she was bored even before it was over. The man was nothing compared to her lover. He was too suave, too cocksure. He hadn't the faintest idea how to drive a woman wild; the pleasure was there, but Miranda Frost rarely made love for the sheer pleasure of it. In fact, she couldn't remember a time when she had. Sex was like war; the more explosions, the more pain, the better.

Graves' finger was drawing in and out of her in a slow, erotic rhythm. Her body pulsated with it, writhing to the beat he was creating.

She hadn't meant to become his mistress. True, there had always been sexual tension between them – even back when he was Moon - sexual tension thick enough to cut with a sharp knife, but neither had ever acted on it until Moon had his fatal accident and came to her for her help. Before then, their relationship had been strictly professional.

She always thought it had something to do with the fact that he was Colonel Tan-Sun Moon. He might have been attracted to her, but his position and his prestige meant more to him. Taking a Western woman like Miranda as his paramour would not have sat well with his troops, no matter what the politically correct might have to say. Leaders are judged differently from ordinary men. They are asked to adhere to a different set of rules. His father had already chosen his bride, the daughter of a high-ranking general – "An insipid girl without the brains of a cabbage," he'd once said of her – and to defy his father so openly would've been disastrous.

That all changed with Bond's arrival and Moon's "death". Suddenly, he was free to act as he chose. He could put into motion the plans he'd nurtured all those long years, the plans he'd hidden from his father and which had been rudely interrupted by Bond. And Miranda was there to help.

His hot mouth closed over one nipple. Teeth playfully sank into her breast. "Why won't you fuck me already?" she panted, her breath becoming harder.

He smiled. She loved being taunted. They didn't have much time, but he was not going to deny her at least a semblance of foreplay. He gently flicked his tongue over the pulse throbbing at her neck. "Tell me," he said softly, but with a undercurrect of solemnity, "am I doing better than your secret agent?"

Her eyes, half-closed in ecstasy, flew open. "What on Earth are you talking about?"

He feathered kisses down her body until his lips hovered over her feminine place, his hot breath there making her tingle violently. "Come now, Miranda. You've always been honest with me. Or at least, you've made it seem that way. It's a simple question. How was he?"

She peered down at him; his eyes locked with hers and she saw another chance to exert her power over him. Laying her head back against the pillow, she said, "Your fragile ego would be crushed if I told you what I really thought of him."

His hands seemingly came out of nowhere and clamped down over her breasts. He rose up abover her and his dark eyes stared deep into hers. "Don't toy with me, Miranda!" he said in a husky voice. "You're either mine or you're not! If you enjoyed him that much, I'll send you to join him!"

Miranda burst out laughing. "You're jealous!"

His mouth crashed down onto hers, smothering the last of her laughter. The kiss was hard, punishing. In the middle of it, Miranda realized he was biting her lower lip. A sharp, short pain and she tasted blood. She shoved him harshly away, then rose and slammed her palm against his cheek. He grabbed the damaged flesh and stared at her, his eyes bright with fire – and desire. He said, his voice barely above a whisper, "That's only the second time since we've known each other that you've hit me."

The memory came back all too readily. She could see he was recalling it as well.

Her first year at Harvard. Alone, in a strange country, surrounded by strangers who spoke in tongues. She'd been accepted at Oxford and Cambridge, but had decided she couldn't stand another second on this side of the pond. The United States seemed the best place to go. She arrived in the country without any idea of what was to become of her. The work was easy enough; life, not so much so. She was brilliant, but a loner.

Deciding that it wouldn't do to isolate herself, she'd made up her mind to join the Harvard fencing team. Miranda loved fencing. Actually, she loved any excuse to win and hurt someone at the same time.

Tryouts were after her last class and she'd gone to the locker room to change. It was still early and she was alone. No sooner had she pulled off her blouse than she heard someone enter. She looked up and found herself face to face with a lanky, dark-haired man whose eyes betrayed his Oriental origins. Instead of apologizing and excusing himself, he stared at her defiantly, daring her to scold him. The icy arrogance of his gaze was too much. Miranda found herself stepping forward and slapping him hard across the face. "Get out!" she ordered. She only found out later that she was lucky he hadn't killed her; he'd been trained in taekwando since the age of six and was more than capable.

Despite what she'd done, he'd smiled, given her a polite bow, and left, rubbing his cheek. She thought the incident over. To her horror, when she made the fencing team, she found they were teammates.

He cornered her one afternoon as she was practicing her stance. "We meet again," he began, letting his gaze drift over her, "I see you're fully clothed."

Setting her jaw, she replied, "Yes, indeed I am."

He cocked his head to the side and appraised her again. Miranda could almost see him thinking. Again, later, she discovered he could have easily declared war on her that very moment and made her life a living hell. But he hadn't; instead, he grinned, extended his hand and said, "It seems we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Tan-Sun Moon. And you are?" Seeing as how he was trying to make friends, she decided to accept his indirect apology.

As Miranda slipped her hand into his with a cool "Miranda Frost", she felt a surge of electricity. Perhaps it was fate jolting her, telling her that this was a major moment in her life. Whatever it was, that was truly the moment her life changed.

They were inseparable afterwards. Even after graduation, they kept in touch. When Moon entered graduate school at Oxford, he would often stay the night at her apartment. When he left for Korea, he left with, "Don't forget about me."

She didn't, even though their lives went in completely opposite directions. She joined MI6, rising quickly through the ranks in the cryptography department. Moon proved himself an amazing warrior and strategist and was made a colonel.

He wrote her often, outlining his plans for North and South Korea. He mentioned women he'd bedded – other officers, officers' wives or sisters, young country girls who'd been forced into labor for the army. Miranda felt the stirrings of jealousy, but suppressed them. It could never be.

On her end, many men made advances, but she rebuffed them all. She told herself it was because mixing work and pleasure was foolish, but the real reason was she knew no man could ever satisfy her like Moon could. No man could compare to Colonel Tan-Sun Moon.

The Sydney Olympics began and Miranda entered the fencing competition. Her opponents were good, but she was better and she enjoyed beating them. Then, tragedy – she lost the gold medal. In shock, rage and disbelief, she called Moon and told him the story. "I'll fix it," he assured her. And he did. The winner was found, dead of an overdose of steroids and she was declared the true victor by default.

She called Moon the very next day, to thank him, but the words couldn't seem to be formulated. That was not part of the parameters of their relationship. In the middle of trying to stammer out her gratitude, Moon cut her off with, "Are you mine now, Miranda?"

She knew she could play dumb, pretend she didn't know what he meant, but they were both too smart for that. And besides, secretly, it was what she'd always wanted – a chance to get closer, to be a part of his plans, his ideals. They shared the same weaknesses, the same strengths. "Yes, I'm yours," she answered softly. "I'm completely yours."

Moon had won himself his very own MI6 agent and he used her to his every advantage. She stole information for him and kept him one step ahead of his enemies. In return, he rewarded her with a handsome salary. She supposed it was enough.

Then, one day, he told her of the diamonds he was buying. "This is a tricky deal. A hundred things could go wrong." She nodded in agreement. They were in her apartment, drinking tea, their monthly ritual for when Moon flew to London. "I'll keep you informed."

Bond had been foolish enough to think he could trick Moon. No one tricked Colonel Tan-Sun Moon. Only, Bond got the best of him, sending him flying over the edge of a cliff, severely injuring him and forcing his exile. She'd helped him to the gene therapy clinic, although he was almost beyond recognition at that point, he was so bruised and broken. "Revenge," he kept muttering.

He emerged from the clinic with a new face and a new identity, but beneath the skin, he was still Moon. "Now, Miranda, now is the time!"

They grew closer over the course of the next few months, and suddenly, one night, it happened. The sexual tension became too much to bear and he'd grabbed her roughly, shoved a hand beneath her skirt and demanded, "Are you going to tell me to go to hell or are you going to let me fuck you?"

She was eternally grateful she'd chosen the latter.

They now had a long and prosperous history together. But in all that time, Moon – Graves - had never shown the slightest inkling that their relationship was anything but a convenient professional partnership with added bonuses. Sometimes, she felt more like a business associate than his mistress. The look on his face now however made her wonder if that had all been a façade.

"You still haven't answered me," he hissed. Roughly, he drew her towards him.

She stared directly into his eyes and for a moment, she saw Moon – the real Moon, not the man encased within the shell of Gustav Graves. She opened her mouth to make a cutting remark, but he pushed her down on to the bed and climbed on top of her. "It doesn't matter. He's dead. He's dead and I'm alive and you belong to me!" Then he was inside her, thrusting, thrusting so deeply it was as if he was trying to meld their two bodies into one.

Their bodies danced together in the timeless, mindless rhythm of sexuality. Graves watched her face as he moved in and out, watched it contort with undisguised pleasure. Oh, she had power over him, but he had power over her as well! This – this part of his anatomy could reduce her to her most primitive state, to the most feral side of her femininity. He'd always wanted her, he realized now, but there had been too many factors, too many obstacles. All of them melted away when he assumed the identity of Gustav Graves. There was nothing to prevent him from claiming her as his woman. And he had, and more and more, he saw why he'd been drawn to her. They were one soul, existing in two separate bodies. When they made love, it was as though they were conjoining the two halves of that shared soul and it made them stronger.

Miranda's breathing had quickened to the point where she could no longer speak. Sweat glistened all across her skin, making her appear golden in the dim light of the cabin. "Harder," she rasped, "Harder! Faster!"

He complied. She reached up and pulled him deeper inside, raking her fingernails across his back. A guttural moan issued forth from her lips. As he felt the beginnings of a climax, she shuddered violently for a long moment, screamed one long, animal scream and fell back against the pillows at the moment he felt his own release.

He rolled over next to her and pulled her head onto his chest. She was still breathing hard and his own breath was still uneven. He was aware of the rapid beating of his heart and wondered if she could hear it. Sweat slicked his fingers as he ran his hand down one slender arm. "Are you mine?" he asked softly.

She inhaled and replied, "We're two of a kind. How could I not be?"

Because he knew she couldn't see him, he smiled, a wide grin of pure, unadulterated joy.

He pushed himself up. "Must you leave so soon?" Her voice was gently pleading.

He turned back and kissed the top of one breast, then the other. "After this, we'll have all the time in the world together. You'll have everything you ever wanted, everything you never even knew you wanted. It will all be ours for the taking." Her eyes brightened in anticipation. "But after this."

She sighed and placed a warm hand over his heart. "Hurry back."

He grinned, taking her hand, kissing each of the fingers and finishing by licking the palm slowly and deliberately. He stood and she watched him dress. He looked back down at her, naked and spent. "Dress comfortably," he said, "and leave your hair down. I love it that way."

She smirked. "As you wish."

He gave her one final, hungry kiss, her fingers tangled in his hair. "Two of a kind," he mused, studying her face. He reluctantly left.

Miranda watched him go. The world! Who would've thought he'd succeed so completely? She knew of course. She rose and began to dress.

Everything falling into place so perfectly, who could have known? She finished putting on her black halter top, the one he adored because it covered just enough to leave something to the imagination. The thought of him sent a warm tingle shooting down to between her thighs. I knew, she thought, because we're the same person. We're two of a kind.

She smiled at her reflection and walked out of the cabin to meet her destiny.