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Booth Gordon to take her on as his client.
    Turning on the silk-covered designer heels, she walked toward the entrance to the canopied, doorman Upper East Side high-rise luxury building with views of East River bridges connecting Manhattan to the outer boroughs.
    “Mr. Gordon is in apartment 2410. The even-numbered floors elevators are through the lobby on your right.”
    Seneca gave him her most dazzling smile, a smile that she could turn on and off like a spotlight. “Thank you.”
    She had to psych herself up before she met the manager/agent extraordinaire. There were circulating rumors that Booth Gordon could sell ice cream on the summit of Mount Everest. Whatever the rumors, Seneca wanted to discover if the man was as good as everyone said he was.
    Walking into the elevator, she punched the button for the twenty-fourth floor, and within seconds the doors closed and the car rose silently and swiftly to the designated floor. The doors opened and she found herself face-to-face with the man who was much shorter in person than Seneca had expected him to be. Perhaps it was his leonine head that made him appear taller and larger.
    For a man in his early forties, he was in good physical condition. She estimated he stood about five-nine and weighed about one-seventy. His rakishly long black hair was graying at the temples, and brilliant blue-green eyes in a deeply tanned face directed attention away from his too-large nose and thin lips. Although casually dressed in a white linen shirt, black slacks in the same fabric and imported slip-ons he radiated power and confidence.
    Professionally arched eyebrows lifted a fraction when she tilted her chin and gave Booth a curious stare. “Mr. Gordon?” Seneca knew exactly who he was, and knew instinctually to play to his inflated ego.
    Booth Gordon couldn’t bring his rapt gaze away from the woman with a golden-brown complexion, large, slanting dark eyes and perfectly symmetrical features usually seen in the paintings of Renaissance masters. She could’ve been Sandro Botticelli’s model for the wood nymphs in his “Primavera” or his famed “Birth of Venus.” Even her hair was perfect. It was raven-black, with wisps framing her extraordinary face.
    Taking her hand, Booth examined her long, slender fingers. Her nails were natural and covered with a pale beige polish. “Miss Seneca Houston, I presume.”
    Seneca gave him a demure smile. “You presume correctly.”
    His gaze fused with Seneca’s, Booth brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “When Mitch told me he was inviting someone I should take a look at I never would’ve imagined someone like you.”
    There was something about the way Booth Gordon was leering at Seneca that made her feel as if he were undressing her with his eyes. He had to know what she looked like, because Mitchell Leon had sent Booth a number of photos of her. “Are you going to continue to entertain me in the hall, or are you going to introduce me to your other guests?”
    Annoyance swept over Booth like an electric shock. Who does this bitch think she is? “What makes you think you’re one of my guests?” he spat out nastily.
    Seneca refused to take umbrage at his tone. She’d grown up with a waspish, controlling, condescending mother who complained about any and everything, so if Booth Gordon thought he frightened her he was mistaken. Although shewanted him to represent her, she had no intention of letting him intimidate her.
    “If I’m not a guest, then why was my name on the guest list?”
    Booth released her hand and crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe it’s because I was curious. I usually take Mitch’s word when he asks for something.”
    Holding her arms out at her sides, Seneca pivoted slowly, giving the egotistical man a good look at what he was about to lose. “Was Mitchell telling the truth?” she crooned.
    Booth bit his lip to keep from smiling. The beautiful Amazon definitely had him at a disadvantage. She was