swarm. She waved a tablet, streaked across the crowded floor on glittery airboots. What looked like a couple sets of painted chopsticks stuck out and up from her messily bundled hair.
No retreat, Eve ordered herself. No surrender.
“Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Pardon me, I’m just a little frantic. Ha. Ha. Ha.”
She actually laughed like that. In three, distinct Ha’s.
“We worked with each other before.” She stuck out her hand, gave Eve’s a solid pump. “I’m Omega.”
“That’s a name?”
“Ha ha ha. Yes, indeed. I’m the head designer. I realize you and I didn’t have a chance to go over the decor and details for this evening’s event, but Roarke did sign off on the design.”
“Okay.”
“Naturally there are always a few tweaks on-site, particularly when coordinating with other vendors. And while the florist has done an amazing job . . .”
She turned, aimed a look at another woman jabbing fingers in the air while a couple of guys hauled around a big gold urn with enormous red and white flowers. The look didn’t speak of admiration.
“An amazing job,” she continued, “there are some adjustments we need to make.”
“Okay.”
“I just need to go over a few points with you, and address a few questions. All of us, of course, want tonight’s event to be absolutely perfect.”
“Right. Okay.” Eve braced herself, thought: Ready. Aim. “Fire away.”
• • •
Within ten minutes, with her head throbbing, she admitted Roarke had been right to tell her to leave her weapon in her office.
Really, she would have done a service for all mankind to stun the decorator and the florist.
Within thirty, she considered going back, getting the weapon and taking them both out.
They complimented each other with icy smiles and words like brilliant, beautiful, bountiful. Then jabbed at each other with sharp little insults.
The urns were too gold a gold. The tulle was too fussy.
The florist claimed her measurements were precise. The designer disagreed—hers were. And as far as Eve could tell there were bare inches between.
“I need that space for my poinsettia snowflakes,” the florist, who introduced herself as Bower (seriously), insisted. “They’ve been created specifically and exclusively for this event.”
“As you can clearly see on my design, that space is required for the gift table, and you are to provide for that table—per my notes—gold mini trees, red amaryllis, and white flameless candles.”
“We discussed this design change, Omega.”
“I don’t recall that, Bower.”
“We absolutely—”
“What gift table?” Eve demanded, and stopped both women from snarling.
“The holiday gifts for your guests,” Omega told her. “A gold bag for the ladies will contain a limited edition bottle of the new fragrance, Snow Queen—not on the market until February. A red bag for the gentlemen will contain a portable bar set in a custom-made case. At last count, the number of guests—”
“I don’t want to know.” Eve waved that away. “We can put the gift bags in one of the other rooms out there.”
“But . . . Well, I don’t want to insult your guests, of course, but if the gifts are placed elsewhere some might, mistakenly, of course, take more than their share. Or some of the staff might help themselves.”
“If we’re giving stuff away, what do we care? There’s that salon place out there—we get spillover in there when we have these deals. Just set up the gifts in there, do the snowflake thing in here. Problem solved. Next?”
“I’d have to see the salon area,” Omega insisted. “In order to display the gifts to the best advantage I may need to make further adjustments, add some decorations to that space.”
“Help yourself. That way.” Eve pointed. “Hang a left. You want to add tinsel or lights or whatever, fine by me.”
“We’ll need to be sure there are complementary floral arrangements,” Bower put in.
“Great. Make it happen.”
Both women, elated with the idea of having another space to haggle over, rushed off. Eve let out a single grateful breath.
“Well done.” Roarke stepped up to her, offered her a tube of Pepsi.
“Thanks.” She cracked it, guzzled. “Why do you have gifts for everybody? They get to come, get to eat, get to drink, get live music. I see the stage over there.”
“They’re guests, it’s Christmas. It’s a token.”
“They didn’t sound like tokens. But it’s your dough.”
He slid an arm around her waist, kissed her temple. “Our party.”
“Yeah.” Cleared of florist and decorator, she took a fresh look around.
All the trees up and dressed, and, okay, they looked pretty terrific. She watched a guy in a watch cap and combat boots fiddle with