Summary: Vegeta tests. Bulma observes.


Brooklyn, New York: 11 a.m., September 30, Wednesday

"House Rules"

Vegeta met Bulma at the door of a two-floor walk-up apartment building in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. The space, which looked like it hadn't been inhabited in months, doubled as an artist's studio and living quarters. Thick plastic tarps covered the furniture in the studio, the rug were rolled up and tied on the floors, and thin layers of dust had settled in various nooks and crannies throughout.

The prince appeared slightly disgusted by the surroundings, which tickled his hostess. Clearly he expected having the red carpet rolled out for him, and Bulma was surprised that his bodyguard hadn't warned him before arriving. Nappa and another security team member had performed a "clean" safety check earlier. The burly, reserved man was flawlessly professional and respectful, but Bulma also sensed his displeasure with Vegeta being there. She also noticed the new, more visible security presence around her client, although she didn't feel unsafe. She was familiar with most protective procedures, having dressed VIPs both in Hollywood and in government.

Vegeta wore a tan-colored, double-breasted coat that cut slightly above his knees. A black-and-grey silk pinstripe scarf draped around his neck on both sides. His leather ankle boots and sheepskin gloves, both black, impressed Bulma the most since she adored clients who understood how to accessorize. He was showing off - challenging her to do better. Walking in the opposite direction, she deliberately slapped one of the tarps to kick up a cloud of dust behind her. Within minutes he began to sneeze and cough.

"How long has it been since this place was cleaned?" he said, covering his nose with a handkerchief. "It's bad enough that it's rained all week. I hope there's no deadly mold growing anywhere."

Bulma uncovered a 1940s black Singer sewing machine mounted on wooden cabinet. Her partial smile faded as her fingers glided across the controls. Vegeta realized the contraption had a backstory, but he wasn't in the mood to hear it. She probably wouldn't tell him if he asked anyway.

"You wanted to meet me in the city, so this is where we'll work," Bulma said, looking up. "I've allowed aspiring, underpaid artists and designers live here because I remember what it was like. My father was an artist. He willed this place to my sister and me before he died. I'm leaving Los Angeles to move in."

"So you weren't exactly poor as a child, then," Vegeta said, raising his eyebrow.

Bulma had never met a bigwig so blatantly arrogant while playing detective. Whoever taught him about evaluating personalities did a shitty job, she thought. "Considering your wealth, I'm not sure how you would define poor," she said crossly. "My parents expected me to pay for most of my schooling, and I made very little when I first started working."

"Sounds like a personal issue to discuss with a psychotherapist," he replied with a devilish grin.

"You can hang your coat on the hook to your right," Bulma said, ignoring his taunt. "I managed to wipe that off for you."

Instead of following her instructions, he walked behind her. "Does this move back here mean you're emerging from the shadows? I would enjoy bragging that I caused the great Bulma Brief to visibly reclaim her public throne of glamour above all others."

Bulma ran her fingers through her hair before turning around. She stared at him, recalling an article about aggression between male and female dogs, which often led to grave injury… or death. Same-sex dogfights weren't great either, but the former were considered the worst. At the moment, biting and shaking the prince sounded appealing – but not for fun, unfortunately.

She clacked her platform heel hastily on the floor. "Look, Vegeta, time is money, and you're on the clock for every second you keep yapping. I'm considering charging by milliseconds at this point."

"Fine, fine," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "You don't know how to take a joke."

She pulled out a cloth tape measure, snapping it like a bullwhip. "Oh, trust me, I can take a joke, buddy. You're just not funny." Placing her hand on her chin, she stepped backward and began to walk the circumference of his body. She hummed when she paused for closer observation.

Vegeta followed her movements, stopping each time she did. "What are you doing?"

Bulma raised a finger to her lips, shushing him. "You're approximately five feet, five inches tall. You weigh about of 155 pounds. You have a 32-inch waist, and 35- to 38-inch chest."

"You figured all that out just by looking at me?" Huffing, Vegeta crossed his arms. "I didn't send my measurements."

Bulma peered over the top of her glasses. "I know, Vegeta, which almost caused the termination of our business relationship. I have rules, and you just broke one. Now then, what do you have to say?"

He glanced at his stomach and thighs. "You could afford to shave off one or two pounds."

"So you plan to lose weight?" Bulma tried keeping a straight face while Vegeta's turned red. "I totally understand. We can wait until you reach the size you prefer. I have extended my services for others."

The veins throbbing on Vegeta's head were enormous. Bulma considered asking him to have his blood pressure checked. The last thing she needed was a prince with a brain hemorrhage sprawled on her studio floor, dead. The media attention would be nightmarish.

"Now it appears that you're wasting time," he replied, rubbing his temples.

"Very well," she said. "There's a clean bathroom down the hall. Remove your shirt and shoes but leave your undershirt and pants on. Put on the sandals outside of the door before you exit. I'll be upstairs for about five minutes. That round thing in the middle of the floor is a…"

"A tailor's fitting platform. I am familiar with them, Ms. Brief. I will be standing on it when you return."

Vegeta rubbed his chin as she walked upstairs. Everything was so outwardly controlled about her: the wool-blend plaid pants, white oxford shirt, diamond-stud earrings, cropped haircut. Her perfume, however, was overtly sensual. Each inhalation teased him with jasmine and orange blossoms – and vanilla. That almost tipped him over the edge. Did she do it purposely? He walked to the bathroom fantasizing about his fingers inside of her – at first – as he pinned her naked body to those cool red bricks. He hadn't expected instant, intense attraction to this woman when they met in L.A. He acted like a jerk that day because he didn't know how to feel. He just wanted the best designer who wouldn't make a big deal about his demanding ways – or his bad moods, which were happening more often.

Bulma returned with a tray with black tea and shortbread cookies. She always served clients this way during their first session. Then, she reached the bottom of the stairs. Once again, Vegeta didn't follow simple instructions. Instead, he stood with his arm propped on the wall, bare-chested.

This would not work.

His magnificent, naturally sun-kissed body was cut like a Greek god, as she anticipated, but she had to establish dominance. He would learn discipline – and, perhaps, eventually thank her for it.

"First, your highness, there is nothing you could possibly offer by playing these silly games. Second, I don't fuck my clients, male or female. Third, if you try this bullshit again, I will set fire to your ass – literally. My job is to build your wardrobe arsenal. So let's get this straight: I tell you what to do, and you say 'yes, ma'am.' My hand is firm and talents unmatched, and if you follow my rules you'll be thrilled with the results. However, what happens here won't appease your ego. You must do that on your own."

Eye ablaze, Vegeta left for the bathroom without saying a word. He was fuming beyond the point of yelling. Bulma handed over his coat when he returned fully dressed. The interior door to the studio was open, with a bodyguard facing them from the hallway.

Watching him leave, she slowly gnawed on the tip a cookie. "If you choose to return, you will arrive at 6:45 a.m. Friday to complete this session. It will take two- to-three more days with me for a proper fitting, and you'll arrive at the same time until we're finished. After that, it will take three-to-four days to make one suit, as I'm sure you know. I will construct the first one after we agree on a design. Unless there's a dire emergency, you will be erased from my client book permanently if you're late."

Vegeta glowered at her. "Tch. I won't be coming back."

Bulma swiftly shut the door in his face. Heavy, decorative chains slapped against the wood while the prince and his escort quietly exited from the apartment's front entrance. Sunlight had appeared, finally, prompting him to don his mirrored sunglasses.

Nappa opened the car door from inside, saying nothing. The look on Vegeta's face confirmed what he suspected: The prince was smitten with this woman, as if he didn't have enough troubles.

"I'm going for a walk, and I don't want to be flanked by anyone," Vegeta said tersely. "You can follow me in the car. It someone decides to shoot me, so be it. If it makes you happy, I can mess up my clothing by wearing that god-awful bulletproof vest."

Damn it. Maybe I am getting too old to tolerate this crap from him. Nappa chewed three aspirins, without water, to avoid a headache. "We still have the meeting later at the United Nations, sir."

"I know that!" Vegeta snapped. "Have you all forgotten that I can fight too? I just… need fresh air, OK? This is an attractive neighborhood. We don't have architecture like this in Hegemone."

"Understood, sir, but can we try having the guards follow you from a wider distance?"

"Fine, Nappa," Vegeta said, looking back at the apartment. Then he strolled down the tree-lined sidewalk with his hands in his pockets.

After finishing her tea, Bulma stepped atop the fitting stand. She hadn't tied rope knots in a while, but her skills hadn't diminished one bit. The tight handcuff loops she crafted almost seemed quaint. Her cheeks burned red as she twirled them above her head.


8 p.m., Oct. 1, Thursday

"Something Special"

Zeus poured a glass of wine and sat down. "What are you up to, girlfriend?"

Without turning to address him directly, Bulma continued stirring tomato sauce on the stove. "Pour a glass for me too. Have you lost all of your good manners?"

"Look, don't waste my time, honey," Zeus said, looking annoyed. "I'm not here to take advantage of your cooking skills, as superb as they are. What is up with the prince? Any good gossip about world affairs? I need some business. Isn't Hegemone having problems with surrounding countries? I assume that's why he's in the states so often – to get U.S. support."

Bulma swirled her glass of wine and sipped. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Brickey, but it was a rather mundane affair. The most exciting part was threatening to kick him off my client list."

"Bulma Brief, you're holding back information, which hurts my feelings. Did this guy make an aggressive pass at you without permission? Isn't that automatic grounds for dismissal? If not, it should be. I know we've joked about his personality many times, but now he strikes me as a rather strange character."

"Sweetheart, Prince Vegeta is as harmless as they come," she said, raising her glass to him. "Now come serve yourself dinner. The pasta is al dente."

"Well, did you at least get a good, hard look at his physique, woman? How was it?"

Bulma shook her head and smiled. "And here I thought you were really worried about me." She sniffed loudly, as if she was on the verge of tears. "It's all about you!"

"Oh sod off," Zeus said, waving his fork at her. "It's not like you're some pristine angel. You're not saying anything because you have plans for him, don't you?"

She poured another glass of wine. "Wow, you picked a great bottle of Merlot – and I don't know what you're talking about."

"The hell you don't, liar."

Exasperated, Bulma began writing on a notepad. "You know this place might be bugged. They can probably hear everything we're saying, so shut up. We can talk later."

Zeus snatched the pen from her. "If you plan on hanging Tiny Tim upside down from the rafters, blindfolded and gagged, his henchmen will figure it out anyway. At least give the poor bastards something to look forward to."

Bulma spit out her wine laughing. "Damn you! Now I have red dribble all over my apron!"

Zeus pulled her up to whisper. "Just... be… careful, honey. I don't know why you picked this one, but remember that trust between a dominant and a submissive is essential. He may be a haughty pretty boy, but just because you think you can teach him something special doesn't mean he's ready for it. I'll choose to believe this isn't about your ego as well."

"Let me go, Zeus," she said, turning away from him. "Our food is getting cold."

Before she could sit down, her cell phone rang - another unwelcome interruption. The phone number was masked, but she felt compelled to answer anyway, for whatever strange reason.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Brief? This is Nappa, Prince Vegeta's bodyguard. Do you have time to chat?

"Uh, sure, sir - of course." Concerned, she looked over at Zeus. He stood immediately, leaning forward with his hands on the dining table.


Thank you for the enthusiastic comments. You are making this lots of fun to write.