8:32 a.m. - "The Art of War"

Vegeta stared at her with disbelief. "Get down my knees? Have you lost your mind? Is this some kind of joke? I am the soon-to-be sovereign of a country – a country with, you know, some authority – and you speak as if I were a peasant."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Bulma crossed her arms and moved back. "You call your people peasants? What are we, in the Dark Ages?"

Vegeta waved his hands. "Wait! Wait! Wait! Don't change the subject. What the hell was that command all about?"

"Provocation, Vegeta. I'm curious how you function considering how easily angered you are. Have you not read The Art of War? There's this verse in it - oh yes, I remember now. 'If your opponent is of choleric temper…"

He turned his back. "'…Then seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant.' Yes, I know. Chapter one, verse twenty-two."

"So you understand my point then."

"Point taken, Ms. Brief. Now here's my question. Do you consider our exchange to be warlike?"

"Only if you allow it to be." She bowed to him with her feet pressed together.

Vegeta's jawline hardened, matching his steely gaze. He disliked this challenge. All fights should be taken seriously, practice or not - even if one never expected to battle within a lifetime. More, Bulma had the audacity to quote from one of the most important books on wartime strategy – to him! Americans were likable enough but some ventured too far with their playfulness during serious matters. There had been a time when formality mattered.

"You know you are outclassed."

Bulma remained hunched over, keeping her arms at her sides. "Is it beneath you to spar with a woman? Try me. I just showed a sign of respect. Onegaishimasu."

"No, your smugness is showing," he said, bowing to her. "My mother was my first teacher."

They stood up upright with their feet facing each other. Fists closed, they moved their arms on each side of their bodies, each bending their knees slightly.

"Kiai!"

Bulma's closed-fisted left arm moved backward, while her right arm jutted straight ahead to punch Vegeta from both sides. He moved back methodically, arms crossed, swaying past her jabs at his chest with ease.

He raised his voice but spoke casually. "Your straight punches are too high. As you've noted quite often, I'm not that tall – and your shoulders are too tense." He quickly stepped forward, pushing one leg back. "Kiai!"

His left hand snapped backward, sounding like a thunderclap, while his right hand thrust within an inch of Bulma's face. Her aqua eyes were calm, peaceful - more beautiful than he cared to admit. He could have crushed every bone. Maybe his hand could have slipped. Unlikely, but still possible. They breathed together with no strain. He shook his head, faking disgust, to contain his fleshly arousal. He felt drugged. What did this woman fear? His darker side wanted to know more.

"Absolutely dreadful!" he bellowed. "Have you not learned any appropriate blocking techniques? I refuse to continue. Try yoga. This hobby doesn't suit you."

Bulma moved into a front stance, knee up, and kicked. Vegeta moved into a downward block, deflecting the blow. His eyes rose like a watchful cat as he licked his lips.

"Tch. Were you trying to hit my balls on purpose? You could've broken that dainty little foot. I like the red toenail polish, by the way. Now can we move on please?"

Bulma bowed. "Arigato gozaimashita, sensei."

Annoyed, Vegeta bowed to complete their kata. "Do not mock me, Ms. Brief. I am… no sensei. Use the honorific for those who've earned it – who deserve it. Now that your ridiculous game is over, what is this about?"

Bulma beckoned him to follow her to examine the fabric swatches. He had chosen an artisan-produced wool, made in northern Italy, with a subtle royal-blue herringbone – a superb selection. "I willingly humbled myself to learn from you," she replied, "and, despite your protesting, you chose to teach. Now that you've demonstrated your capacity for service, are you comfortable enough now to be taught? You came here to learn, and I have experiences to share."

"Teach me?" Vegeta snorted and checked his watch. "You've had your fun. I just had a fabulous blood pressure spike from that stimulating exercise. Now I can conduct important world affairs with the vigor of a ninety-year-old on his deathbed. If I were a religious man, I would request last rites."

Smiling, Bulma tapped his nose. "And hell would welcome you with open arms! As you said, our session is over. We made progress, but you must stop dawdling over your fabric and clothing choices. That blue herringbone make a dashing suit on you. The fun part is selecting accessories, which you seem to have a good eye for."

"Ms. Brief, I have a good eye for many undertakings," he said, lowering his voice. "Time and again people have underestimated me and my countrymen and women. That creates an advantage, because…"

"'All warfare is based on deception,'" Bulma said. "Chapter one, verse eighteen. Point taken, your highness."

Vegeta clapped slowly. "Bravo, madame. Very, very good. Also, if by learning you mean that my psychological and intellectual abilities would benefit from your ever-increasing personal peculiarities, then I would suggest climbing down from your high horse. That's not what I'm paying you for."

"Indeed." Bulma left for the kitchen. "You can't pay me for the gift I'm offering, Vegeta, if you accept. I'm still not sure if you're ready anyway. Finish dressing and I'll meet you at the door shortly."

That's it. She's bonkers. I always liked that strange colloquialism: "bonkers." Calling her crazy is boring. She would say I was being sexist. Maybe Nappa was right for calling me a fool. But god, she is interesting.

Re-entering the sound-masked studio ended Vegeta's musing. The burden of seriousness returned. He picked up the blue fabric to meditate on his choice. He would plead for his country at the United Nations in this first suit. Plead. The word angered him beyond words. Despite its troubles, Hegemone was a proud country. For a thousand years his people had fought for, established, and were determined to maintain their independence. Wars and foreign occupations had come and gone, but they were still there. They were warriors… who wanted to be left alone. Now they faced another threat to their freedom, and his father had been indecisive and argumentative about making necessary decisions. The country had to secure its place in the post-modern era, which would force dynamic changes to everyone's lives, including the royal family.

Worst of all, Vegeta didn't want to be king. Nappa was the only person close enough to suspect it, although they never discussed it. The queen probably would have noticed her son's reluctance had she been healthier. Her decline increased Vegeta's emotional distance from others. He had to swallow that pain. The king had taught him well in that regard. His younger brother's welfare also concerned him. Yes, he had earned others' opinion of him as a temperamental, brattish playboy, but he had more insight about life's complexities than others gave him credit for. That insight helped him make careful strategic decisions, and other times it demoralized his spirit. He had been told from childhood that greatness was expected, and yet it appeared that some – his father included - were determined to limit his attempts to meet those demands.

Preoccupation had made him unaware of Bulma's return, which made her curious. He was guarded about everything, except then.

"Hey, weren't you the one complaining about time?"

"Hmm." He sighed and turned around. "What?"

Bulma took the fabric from his hand. "You made a huge fuss earlier about your busy schedule. Let's not keep you much longer from those grownup discussions with other world leaders. Leave. I will choose the appropriate fabrics and colors for your other suits."

Vegeta closed the swatch book and pulled out his sunglasses. "Hn. Are you seeking acknowledgement for doing what's expected? Most teachers don't expect gratuitous thanks from their pupils."

Bulma pointed at the door. "No, they don't, technically. When the student is successful and reaches a deeper understanding about themselves, only then can the teacher feel satisfied with training. Vegeta, your problem is that you're scared. You don't know how to be vulnerable, which makes sense to me given your upbringing and the expectations others have burdened you with. However, if you allow yourself to hold back because fear, then there's nothing I can do."

"How dare you. I have had enough of this. God forbid that you consider the sincerity of my interest in you, both as an artist and as a fascinating woman, as insane as it sounds! What could you possibly teach me personally at this point in my life that I'm not already aware of about myself? You're playing games."

Unmoved by his growing resentment, Bulma drew on the sketch pad next to him. "Stop it right now, and stop lying to yourself. You have some nerve to say that I'm playing games. From the beginning you wanted me because I said no - not necessarily because you wanted me, Bulma, the person standing in front of you. You say your interest is sincere, but right now all I see a peevish man-child who doesn't know what the hell he wants. Do you really understand what your tastes are at all – in women or sex or in life? What will you say 'yes' to? What are you willing to explore? Where would you draw the line and say 'no'? How much of yourself are you willing to cede to another? Can you submit and be enriched by the experience? Can you dominate without misusing? Can you use rules, or the lack thereof, to set your mind, body, and spirit free?"

Her words had shaken his emotions and pride, but there was no way in hell this could continue. His eyes fixated on the door. The winding half-smile on his face could have frozen the Hudson River. "If you will excuse me, I do have a meeting."

Bulma blocked his exit. "No, damn it. How dare you, Vegeta. You've come to my home repeatedly and played mind games with yourself. This dance ends now. You can build trust with another beyond the mere act of sex. You may come here at my invitation to learn how, but you must give as much as you receive. I have a past, and I haven't always done things that I'm proud of, but I promise that I won't betray your trust or intimacy. But that also goes both ways. Beyond that, there won't be outrageous obligations. We set the boundaries. We agree to break them if necessary, but we are not just having sex – because, as I said earlier, I am no one's fuck toy. I'm more than that."

Vegeta looked away. "Move – now. I won't come here again. You're skilled enough to design my clothing without more fittings."

Bulma draped her index finger over her cheek. "If you want these clothes, which I know you do, then we'll finish our work together under my rules. Otherwise, I have no problem returning your advance payment. Normally I would keep it, but in your case I wouldn't feel right. Also, if we continue I won't mention my other offer again. I force myself on no one."

Vegeta's deep-throated laughter echoed through the hallway as his bodyguard followed him. "Keep the money. Don't let your foolish conceit overcome good financial sense."

Bulma shut the door and returned to her sketching. She imagined how Vegeta's dress shirt and tie would balance against the suit's lapels. Would his tie match a color from Hegemone's flag, or would he merely wear a flag pin? So many options to consider. He would look flawless. Anything less would be unacceptable.

The prince sat sullenly in the SUV's cavernous back seat after leaving the studio. Being called a "peevish man-child" was bad enough, but to have this woman diagnose him as sexually repressed was the height of arrogance - and make no mistake, that's what she did. It would have been easier for him had she declared him "emotionally unavailable." Nappa said that almost daily.

"I'm changing clothes at the penthouse, general. I'll meet you at the conference site."

Nappa cursed under his breath. He almost wished the prince hadn't called with this nonsense. "You didn't bring your business attire to Ms. Brief's studio?"

Vegeta rubbed his eyes wearily. "Nappa, not now, please. I'm hanging up. You can't call me rude since I said please."

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong, or should I wait until you're annoyingly drunk again?"

"Okay then," Vegeta said, lighting a cigar. "Would you prefer arguing about your top-secret visit with Bulma while I'm sober and pissed off? Did you think I wouldn't figure it out?"

They hung up on each other. He quickly set aside their quarrel when the SUV's secure phone rang. Expecting to hear from his father, he took a deep breath to prepare.

"Son, where are you?"

"Mother? How did… are you well?"

"Of course I'm not, Vegeta, but that's okay. I wanted to hear your voice. Are you giving the general a hard time? That's a stupid question. Sure, you are. Be nice."

"This sounds like one of your better days, but I would prefer that you save your strength, mother. And as I recall, learning to be 'nice' wasn't father's highest priority – or yours."

"Prince Vegeta, I wanted to you learn how not to be taken advantage of – so yes, that means you can't always be nice. However, I didn't expect you to grow up believing the absolute worst in others until proven otherwise. You're not all the way there like your father, thankfully. While you're fighting the good fight for Hegemone in the U.S., please do something good for yourself. Don't be self-destructive. When… are you coming home, son?"

He closed his eyes. "Soon, my queen," he said quietly. "Soon. I haven't forgotten about you."


4 p.m., Oct. 9, Friday

"Simple Acts"

"Zeus, may I borrow your Bleecker Street studio while you're traveling?"

Bulma didn't have to see his face to sense her friend's irritation. His heavy breathing though the speakerphone sounded like a wind tunnel.

"May I ask why? Did your home burn down yesterday?"

"Oh, don't be like that. I need to create a mannequin bust for the prince's clothes."

"Ugh! Really, Bulma, is all of this pomp-and-circumstance necessary? You're making him sit for a body cast now? Let me guess. You haven't asked him yet either. Which reminds me, what happened last Friday anyway? I've waited for a week, and we now have a half hour to chat before I get on my plane. Spill it, sister."

"Are you loaning me the studio or not, Mr. Brickey? It's not like I don't have your keys. I'm being courteous."

"You should not make a body cast alone. You need an assistant."

Bulma jumped up and down swinging the phone in her hand. "Zeus! Zeus! Zeus!"

"All right, already, you spoiled brat! Just don't make a mess. My apprentice will be there working. Make sure your visits don't overlap with hers. I don't need your weirdness or Vegeta's bad attitude scaring her away. That said, it sounds like you've two have established a normal working relationship. I'm glad."

"Well, not really," Bulma replied sheepishly. "I have to go now, though. I'll explain later. Love you much. Have a good trip! Bye!"

"Damn it, Bulma!"

With that taken care of, all she could do was wait for Vegeta to respond. She had more than enough design work to keep her busy anyway. Avoiding another meeting with her was a form of bondage. His submission would have to be given freely. Everything was out in the open. Now he had a choice.

She opened a bottle of Merlot. At first she considered inviting her sister for dinner. Tights had been everywhere lately except for New York, ironically, since she was dead-set on seeing Bulma move back there. Bulma had been miffed with her for being distant, but they would work out their differences eventually.

She liked watching the cherry-colored wine swirl in the glass. Simple acts could be spectacularly beautiful if one paid close attention. She looked at her phone as the doorbell rang and straightened her hair.

"I'll be there shortly."

She carried the bottle downstairs, along with another wine glass. Sunset was quickly moving in, casting a hazy shadow through the skylight. Her eyes, lips, cheekbones settled into seriousness as she opened the door. The stunning, proud man standing before her was dressed in a black double-breasted wool overcoat. His eyes flickered from underneath the matching porkpie hat. He removed it and nodded as he entered. She grabbed his hair, driving her fiery tongue deep into his mouth.

"You made an excellent choice." She stepped back. "I am glad you returned, and I am listening. Now tell me, Prince Vegeta, what do you want?"

"I want… you to teach me."

She took his hand.