"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."