"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."

That earned me a raised brow. "Name?"

I'd already told her, but I smiled politely. Now we were getting somewhere. "Naomi Delacroix."

One long, bloodred nail (authentic coloring, do you think?) ran down a calendar printout. "Well, well, well. What do you know? You're not listed."

My smile slipped a notch. "I assure you, I do have an appointment. Monday. Eleven o'clock."

"Oh, I believe you." Her sarcasm was as sharp and biting as fangs sinking into my vein. "A magic fairy must have sneaked inside and erased your name."

Maybe her lover the devil had done it, I thought, my smile fading even more. "Please check again."

"I don't think so. Just have a seat over there," she said, pointing to a stiff, uncomfortable-looking chair. "I'll call you if Mr. Powell can work you in. And by the way," she added with an evil smile, "you have a streak of dirt on your cheek."

"Thank you for telling me." Bitch. "I truly appreciate it." My own smile dissolved completely, but I didn't immediately clean my face. I waited until she turned, then scrubbed both cheeks with a vengeance.

Why hadn't the cab just run over me when it had had the chance? That would have saved me a lot of trouble. Would have been more merciful, too.

Legs stiff, I strode to my designated seat and waited like a naughty child for punishment. I would have liked to go home and indulge in an extra-large, thick-crusted pepperoni pizza dripping in grease with a side of gooey chocolate-chip cookies. And a box of Krispy Kremes. And a bag of Doritos. And a large Cherry-Vanilla Coke. What did I care about cholesterol and clogged arteries when my sanity hung in the balance?

Time ticked by and my butt began to throb. I couldn't get comfortable. The chair had no padding and, each time I shifted my weight, my ass bones ground into the faux leather.

Just as I was shifting yet again, a woman with shoulder-length silver hair and a regal air that shouted "pedigree," glided through the doorway, looking neither right nor left. An expensive, perfumed breeze brushed my face as she passed. When Elvira noticed the newcomer, she shot to her feet, her features tight with disgust. And just a hint of fear.

"No need to announce me," the older woman said in a tone that left no room for argument. "I can see myself in." With that, she sidestepped the freshly polished desk.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Powell, but I can't let you do that." Elvira held out a hand, blocking the woman's path. "Give me a minute and I'll tell him you're here."

The two faced off. Nails were bared. Hair stood on end. If either woman's expression grew any hotter, the fire alarms were going to erupt. Right about then, I forgot about my ass pain, forgot about my sucky day. All I needed was a bowl of Orville Redenbacher's best and a scorecard. This scene had definite ass-kicking potential and, if anyone deserved to have their ass kicked, it was Elvira.

Go, old lady. Go!

"I do not need to be announced to see my own son," Mrs. Powell barked. She was scarier in person than she'd sounded on the phone. If I were Elvira, I would have backed away long before now. "Move out of my way this instant or you'll regret it."

Elvira licked her lips and crossed her arms. "I'll only take a second. You can sit in the waiting room-with the other lady who doesn't have an appointment." Without waiting for a reply, she picked up the phone. "Mr. Powell. Your mother-"

Mrs. Powell didn't wait. She shouldered her way past the desk and stalked down the hall.

Dark storm clouds settled over Elvira's features and she barked into the receiver. "It's too late. She's on her way." She slammed the phone down.

And just like that, the showdown was over, leaving me to wait.

And wait. And wait.