Animal Instincts (2 page)

“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 ap
pointment.” 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.

I
SPENT THE NEXT HOUR PERCHED
in that stiff-backed chair from hell, reading old issues of
City Girl.
I really enjoyed the article titled Breasts: To Buy or Not To Buy. My own were small. I often called them “the Wonders.” (I wondered if they were even there.) Obviously after reading the article, I was leaning toward buying.

I only wish there’d been an article on Botox. I had already passed the dreaded three-oh and was beginning to notice fine lines. I’m too young for lines of any kind. And, I admit, I like to look my best at all times. I’m not vain or anything like that. It’s just,
when I first found out Richard had cheated on me, I’d felt so…ugly. So unwanted and unnecessary. So
disposable.
Like a filthy piece of garbage that smelled rotten and oozed disgusting black stuff.

I didn’t like feeling that way—for obvious reasons—and still had to fight for every scrap of self-confidence I could get.

I shifted in my chair yet again.

Finally—thank you, Lord, finally—Elvira, Handmaiden of Lucifer, approached me. “Are you Naomi?” she asked, as if I hadn’t already given her my name. Twice. When I didn’t reply fast enough, she added snidely, “Well, are you?”

I knew she hadn’t forgotten me so soon, so I stubbornly refused to answer.

She got the hint. “Your name isn’t listed,” she grumbled, her pale, matte-finished lips thin with irritation. “However, Mr. Powell will see you anyway.”

It pained me to say, “Thank you,” but I said it with a straight face. I even threw in, “I appreciate your efforts on my behalf,” though it nearly killed me to utter the words in a civil tone.

I was striving so diligently to appear forgiving and professional because, as I mentioned earlier, I really needed this job. My bills were stacking up and I did not like the thought of losing my bottom-level apartment and having to move back in with my mom and stepdad. Especially since Jonathan enjoys psycho-analyzing my every action. Like I really need to know the reason I ran away from home at the age of sixteen was because my mom hadn’t breast-fed me. I love the
man, but please. I’d run away (for all of six hours) because my mom hadn’t let me date Aarin Bower, the hottest boy to attend my high school. Duh.

“Follow me,” Elvira said, turning in one fluid motion.

“Follow me,” I silently mimicked.

She flicked me a narrowed, backward glance.

My eyes widened innocently.
What?
I mentally projected. She bared her teeth in a scowl before turning back around. Obviously, the woman had unleashed her own inner Tigress long ago.

I marched behind her, remembering to keep my shoulders squared and breasts pushed forward. Wits, cunning and blood instinct. I’d wield all three from this point on.

My shoes sank into the plush off-white carpet. A starched, almost sterile aroma clung to the air, as if the office lacked any type of personal touch. Judging from the employees I’d met so far, maybe that was a good thing.

Elvira swung open the heavy double doors, holding them forward and out of the way while I glided past. In the next instant, Royce Powell came into view—and the rest of my day tumbled straight into the deepest, darkest depths of hell. My eyes met his and my step faltered. I stumbled. (And this time, it had nothing to do with my shoes!)

I steadied myself, fighting the urge to drop everything I was doing and simply nibble on him. Really, truly nibble. As in, sink my teeth into naked flesh. Run my tongue over every inch and hollow.
This
is
why I hadn’t returned his calls. This is why I hadn’t wanted to meet with him in person. With only a look, he sizzled my hormones and knocked me out of my comfort zone.

He probably didn’t remember (or maybe he did, since he’d called me?), but we’d crossed paths six months ago at the first party I’d planned on my own. We hadn’t spoken, but he’d glanced in my direction once or twice, and I’d salivated.

The man was absolutely, one hundred percent edible.

After years and years of dealing with Richard, aka Whore Hound from Hell, I liked to think of myself as immune to testosterone. But this man radiated sex like a blinking neon sign that said, “Come get a piece of this.” I felt like a big, fat sexual appetizer screaming for a little down-and-dirty attention. I had the urge to slowly strip and swing from a pole. Maybe offer to give him a lap dance.

How pathetic was I?

Royce Powell was in his mid-thirties, possibly early forties. He had bronze skin. Electric, pale blue eyes—that were watching me intently. My stomach clenched. Did I still have dirt on my face? His nose was straight, his lips full, soft and completely kissable. A shadow of dark stubble lined his jaw, giving him a rugged quality that only added to his appeal. His broad shoulders were encased in an expensive Italian suit.

He was a combination of George Clooney shaken together with Josh Wald and a splash of Brad Pitt on
the side. Did I mention how much I love to look at Brad Pitt? Maybe I’m not so immune to testosterone, after all.

Royce offered me a sexy smile of greeting.

My senses reeled and my mouth went dry; a lump formed in my throat. That smile…it was lethal. Pure lady-killer.
Run,
my mind shouted.
Get out of here.

Where were my wits? My cunning? My blood instinct?

I would soon be chatting with this perfect man, maybe even shaking his perfect hand. At the thought, my nervous system kicked into high gear. How could I shake his hand when my own felt like a swamp? I had to do something to calm my nerves. But what? My stepdad’s advice to “picture those who make you nervous completely naked” didn’t apply here.

Royce Powell…naked….

I slapped a polite smile on my face and decided then and there to think of him as a turkey-and-cheese-on-rye sandwich. I did
not
like turkey and cheese. I hated rye.

He rose, his gaze lowering and lingering on my lips, and held out one hand. We shook. When he pulled back, he wiped his palm on his slacks before reclaiming his seat.

My professional expression never wavered.

I hoped.

I cleared my throat. “I realize I’m seeing you later than scheduled,” I said, just in case Elvira, Queen of the Damned, hadn’t let him know of my early arrival, “but I’d like it noted that I did, in fact, arrive on
time.” Tardiness was one of the biggest sins in the world, in my estimation.

His smile grew wide with amusement. “So noted.”

My knees almost buckled. His smile was bad enough, but throw in that voice and good God! Its deep, husky timbre flowed as smooth and rich as expensive brandy. He’d spoken only moments before, but he hadn’t spoken like this. All husky and low, as if he were lying in bed after a vigorous session of sex. Raunchy, I-screamed-my-brains-out sex.

He watched me for a long, silent moment. Then, “Please—” he motioned with his chin “—have a seat.”

Nodding, I eased down and set my briefcase aside. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but where’s your mom? I didn’t see her leave.”

He didn’t seem put out by my question; in fact he appeared even more amused by me. “She went out the side door.”

“Oh.” Smart woman. She wouldn’t have to deal with Elvira again. “I spoke with her over the phone last Friday,” I said, getting down to business.
I’m calm. I’m professional.
“I’m not sure I fully understood the facts. She wants me to plan a surprise party, doesn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Yet she also stated that the party was to be given in her honor.”

“Don’t try to understand her. It will only drive you insane.” He didn’t offer any other information. He just gave me another of those I’m-the-best-lay-you’ll-ever-have smiles.

Was the ground shaking? “When I spoke with her, we didn’t have a chance to discuss my fee.” The most important matter, to my way of thinking.

“Money isn’t a problem,” he said, his eyes again roving to my mouth.

My cheeks heated. I had to get to a mirror ASAP and make sure I still didn’t have dirt on my face. “I can’t in good conscience continue until we’ve agreed upon—”

“Whatever the party costs,” he interjected, silencing my protest, “I’ll pay it.”

Was he that enthused about celebrating his mom’s next step closer to death’s door? Or did he love her so much he wanted the woman happy, whatever the cost? “Mr. Powell, that’s not a wise thing to tell a woman who hasn’t yet named her price.”

“True.” He chuckled. “Why don’t you work out the specifics and fax me an estimate.”

I nodded. “Excellent.”

“Good. Now, please, call me Royce. And I’ll call you Naomi.”

My name on his lips somehow seemed too sensual, like a mating call of some sort—a mating call my sexually bankrupt body definitely heard. I clamped my mouth shut before I did something stupid, like say out loud that yes, I’d have his babies. I managed another nod.

A high-pitched beep sounded a split second before I heard Elvira, Harpy of Doom, say, “Mr. Powell, Mr. Phillips is on line one.”

Royce rubbed a hand down his suddenly weary
face. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” he said to me. “I have to take this.”

“Of course. Should I wait in the lobby?”

“No, stay where you are.” He picked up the phone and swiveled his chair so that I saw only its back and the top of his dark head. “Do you have the figures yet?” Pause. He growled low in his throat. “That’s why you called? Yes.” Pause. “The one.” Pause. “Yes. Glad.” Pause. “You know I’ll do what it takes to win.”

Glad about what? Win what? Man, listening to a phone conversation when you could only hear one side of it sucked. Bigtime.

“I’m in a meeting right now.” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “Goodbye. Idiot,” he muttered. He spun around and replaced the phone, his gaze on me, going all intent again. “Sorry. I’m in the middle of an acquisition, a merger of sorts.” He waved his hand through the air. “Anyway, I wish I had more time to meet with you today,” he said, with what sounded like genuine regret in his voice, “but unfortunately, I have appointments lined up all morning and I can’t get out of them. Why don’t I call you in a few days and we’ll set up another meeting?”

At his words, a fine mist of red shrouded my vision. Yet despite my anger, my first instinct was to politely accept his offer and leave. Just like in the lobby, however, I squashed the urge to capitulate. I would not be a doormat. Not anymore. I’d spent cab money, had my purse stolen and had waited for over an hour. I wasn’t leaving without finishing this meeting.

My fists tightened on the armrests of my chair.
I’m a Tigress.
“Mr. Powell, we haven’t gone over a single detail yet.”

“I want you to call me Royce, remember. Mr. Powell makes me sound like my father. And we’ll have to go over the details another day.”

“Royce.”
Be strong. Assert yourself.
“I waited out there for over an hour.”

“I only learned of our meeting a few moments before you stepped inside my office. I apologize for any inconvenience you’ve suffered.”

Inconvenience? That red mist shrouding my vision became a boiling inferno. His apology didn’t bring back my jacket or my favorite tube of lipstick. Teeth grinding together, I said, “Can’t you spare ten minutes? That’s all it will take. I have a list of questions—”

“My mother’s visit threw me off schedule, and I’m afraid I can’t even spare five.” O-kay. Message received. Obviously, he was giving me the brush-off. He wasn’t going to hire me and was eager to get rid of me. I found myself reaching out and lifting a notepad from the edge of his desk. I began itemizing my time, my purse, my lipstick (with twenty dollars extra tacked on for sentimental value), a new pair of shoes and, what the hell, a dry-cleaning bill.

“What are you doing?” He tapped the shattered edge of a pencil against his knee.

“I generally build the meet-and-greet into my original costs, but I’m making an exception for you. Here’s my invoice for today’s meeting.” I ripped off the paper and handed it to him.

His eyes gleamed with curiosity as he read it. That curiosity was quickly replaced by amusement. “Lipstick?”

“My purse was stolen outside the building and my favorite tube was inside.”

He frowned, losing all hint of amusement. “I’ll have security look into it. That will
not
happen again.”

“Thank you.”

Pause. Then, “Is it okay if I mail you a check?” he asked.

“Yes.” Like I’d ever see the money. “Of course.”

“I’ll make time for you another day, you have my word. In fact, I’ll devote a full day to you and the party.”

Liar,
I wanted to say. “Fine,” I said, giving up.

Exhibit A,
my inner Tigress said.
You’re a weakling. Fight. Make him talk to you now. Don’t let him kick you out like this.

“I’m so glad you’ll make time for me,” I added, ignoring my Tigress. “That’s great. Wonderful.” I handed him a business card, confident I’d never hear from him again. “Here’s my number. Call me when you’re ready to get together.”

He took it, giving the surface a cursory glance. “On second thought, I
do
have something I want to go over before you leave.”

“Won’t that take up too much of your precious time?” I mentally patted myself on the back for that one, even while I kicked myself for such blatant sarcasm. The man had many influential friends who might one day need a party planner. But damn it, my knees still ached.

“For this, I’ll make an exception,” he said. “I have a stipulation you need to agree to before I officially hire you.”

Officially hire me? I gulped. O-kay, perhaps he
did
plan to get in touch with me later on. Oopsie. “Stipulation?” I asked, breathless.

“Prerequisite. Condition. Term.”

“Thank you, but I know what a stipulation is.”

“While you’re working for me,” he continued smoothly, “I want my mother’s party to be your first and
only
priority.”

Every muscle in my body stiffened. I should have realized this the moment I stepped inside the office, but it just now hit me. The man is a Triple C. Corporate. Controlling. And a total Commando. “I’m sure, as a businessman, you understand my unwillingness to allow someone to take my business decisions away from me.”