Animal Instincts Read Free Page A

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 requestedthat 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. Whatthe 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