He hands me his shopping list and I lead him through the store in search of the items. Duct tape? Plastic wrap? A hacksaw? Who is this guy, Dexter? I lead him toward the aisle with tape, and it takes all of my available mental capacity to concentrate on walking. Left foot, right foot, left foot . . . right foot?

“Shoot, we forgot your CD,” I say.

He waves a hand. “I have ten copies of it at home anyway,” he says. This guy throws money around like a monkey throws crap.

“So what are you doing here in Portland? Business?” I ask him.

“Pleasure,” he says. I feel my womb instinctively heat up, preparing itself to incubate our babies.

I stop. “Here’s the aisle with tape.”

“Thank you, Miss Steal,” he says. He picks up the most expensive brand, which runs $3.99 a roll. This guy is a total baller.

“You like to live large,” I say.

“Does that impress you, Miss Steal?”

I blush. “I’ve never known anyone with so much money,” I say. “That came out totally wrong. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says, grinning. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“That I have a lot of money.”

I nod. “Can I ask what you’re doing at Wal-Mart? I mean, you can afford to shop anywhere.”

He laughs. “Oh, Miss Steal. I love your honesty. It’s so refreshing. To answer your question: Why would one of the world’s wealthiest men shop at Wal-Mart? For one thing, Wal-Mart has the lowest prices around.”

I don’t want to offend him, but I might as well say what I’m thinking. “It’s just...if I had your money, I’d shop at Target.”

“I’m not your average billionaire,” he says.

I smile. “No, you’re certainly not, Mr. Grey.”

He flashes that wicked smile of his at me. “Take your finger out of your nose, Miss Steal.”