A woman wearing a stiff black tailored suit manned the reception desk. Her black hair was slicked back from her face, not a single strand free. The bun was so tight, in fact, her eyes slanted upward. Her pale, pale skin (even paler than mine and I'm practically albino) gave her an eerie, almost vampiric appearance.

"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."