up at him. The women behind me acted instantly, surging forward. Unprepared for movement, I was propelled past the guard and into the elevator. I managed to right myself before I kissed the carpet.
"I spoke with Linda Powell," several women shouted at once. "I did. I swear."
"Back off, ladies," I heard the guard say, just as the doors closed around me.
As I rode up the many flights, my hands began to sweat and my heartbeat quickened. I don't hate heights. I simply hate the knowledge that I could plummet to my death at any moment. Thankfully, the elevator didn't crash and I made it to the office with a few minutes to spare, one of the advantages of being a perpetual early bird.
A woman wearing a stiff black tailored suit manned the reception desk. Her black hair was slicked back from her face, not a single strand free. The bun was so tight, in fact, her eyes slanted upward. Her pale, pale skin (even paler than mine and I'm practically albino) gave her an eerie, almost vampiric appearance.
"Is this Royce Powell's office?" I asked, just to be sure.
"Yes." The severe, frowning woman glanced up through the black fringe of her lashes. "And you are?"
"Naomi Delacroix. I'm here to see him."
She gave me a once-over and obviously found me lacking. Her frown deepened. "Applications are supposed to be mailed, not personally delivered."
Application? Lord, what was it with the people in this building? Royce Powell had called me months ago-okay, he'd called me several times over the last few months, but I'd ignored him and never phoned him back. I hadn't had the courage to face the devastatingly sexy man I'd met only once, but had dreamed about countless times. Sadly, though, I'd work with the devil at this point. (If you're reading this, Mr. Satan, I have good rates. Just FYI.)
Anyway, when Linda Powell had called me a few days ago, I hadn't ignored her, and she'd requested that I meet with her son to see if I was the "right person" to plan her sixtieth birthday party. I tried to explain this to Elvira, Mistress of the Dark. "Look, I don't need an application. I'm-"
"Honey, everyone needs one and you can pick yours up downstairs. In fact," she said, her eyes narrowing, "how did you get past Johnny?"
"I walked." For emphasis, I waved one arm through the air. "Look, I believe I explained that I don't need an application. I already have the job." Well, that wasn't a complete lie, but almost. No terms had been reached, no contract signed. "What I need now is to speak with Mr. Powell."
"There's no need to become violent."
"Uh, excuse me?" Was the woman on drugs? "I'm not violent."
"Tell that to the murderous gleam in your eyes."
I gritted my teeth. "If you'll just tell Mr. Powell I'm here-"
"For the love of God, I'll get you an application." She pushed to her feet. "Wait here. And don't touch anything while I'm gone."
"But I'm not here to apply... " My voice tapered off when I found myself completely alone. Wait. Uh-oh. What if the applications were for the position of party planner and all those women downstairs were my competition? I gulped.
Moments later, a blue packet of papers was thrust in my direction. "Here. Fill this out and mail it in."
I glanced over the application. Favorite hobbies. Information on last boyfriend. Sexual habits. What the hell? I was not filling that out. Not knowing what else to do with it, I stuffed it in my briefcase. "Is this for the party planner gig or a regular office job?"
She snorted. "That isn't an application for employment, chickie. It's for the position of Mrs. Royce Powell."
I took a moment to breathe, positive I had misheard. "Excuse me?"
"Oh, please. Don't pretend you're not here to marry him. The Tattler broke the story a few days ago. Women have been swarming in ever since."
"He's taking applications for a wife? Seriously?" What kind of man expected women to fill out a questionnaire to be his life partner? It was so unbelievably egotistical.
Contemptuous.
Disgusting.
And yet, it fit so perfectly with my day.
Like I ever wanted to get married again. Like I wouldn't rather sign up to be a contestant on Fear Factor and eat rotten bugs wrapped in pig uterus and smothered in a nice cow-blood sauce.
I strove for a calm, rational tone. "I'm here to discuss the details of Linda Powell's birthday party. Nothing more."