by Jessica Sims
He chuckled low in his throat at my tart lecture. “You’ll have to forgive me for not being too familiar with your website.” His voice thrummed low in my ear. “I’m not used to searching for women online.”
No, I’d bet not. If he was half as sexy as his voice, they’d be falling all over him on a regular basis.
“Regardless,” he continued, “we need to fix this. Is Giselle in? Should I talk to her?”
I ignored the last two questions. Obviously he was on good terms with my boss. Obviously this was bad news for me. “I can’t force Rosie to go out with you, sir.”
“Call me Beau,” he said, the inflection in his voice changing to coaxing. It made my thighs quiver traitorously. “And if Rosie won’t go out with me, I need you to find me another date.”
I brightened. “I can do that.” Piece of cake. Tucking the phone against my shoulder, I began to type, entering his number and today’s date into the profile generator. “Give me just a moment and I’ll go through the database. I’m sure we can find you someone on short notice.”
“No vampires,” he said, “or any sort of un-dead.” Then he paused. “What’s your name?”
I typed his search criteria into the system with a frown. The whole “no undead” thing limited my search by a lot. Female shifters were rare, and if I counted out both men and undead, we might have a problem getting someone for tonight—let alone the next week. “My name is Bathsheba Ward,” I said absently, crossing my fingers as I waited for the profile results to pull up.
Just as I gave him my name, the door to the office rang and a gorgeous man walked in, a pair of sunglasses obscuring his eyes.
My jaw dropped. He was beautiful—tall, dark, tanned. His suit was expensive, and he grinned and flashed pearly white teeth at me. Even at my desk, I could smell the thick musk of his cologne. A bit heavy, but typical of the confident sorts.
Sara immediately got up and went back to the filing room, as she always did when a shifter entered the building. I smelled the powdery stink of the perfume she was dousing her pulse points with, the smell overpowering and cloying when combined with the stranger’s cologne.
The man must have come in for a new profile setup. Giselle preferred that I handle those in person, and I raised a finger to my customer, indicating that I needed a moment.
He nodded and sat down directly across from my desk, eyeing me with interest.
I felt the heat rise in my cheeks and hit the Enter key a few more times, just to distract myself. Look busy, look busy.
“Bathsheba?” The man on the phone sounded amused, and I had to drag my attention back to the phone call. “That’s a mouthful for a modern girl. Are you a vamp?”
Intensely uncomfortable, I flipped through some files on my desk, avoiding the scrutiny of the man across from me. “If I were a vampire,” I said lightly, “I’d be burnt toast right now since it’s midday.” Sunlight poured in from the window behind my desk, and the entire front of the strip-mall office was windows. “I’m human. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Oh, I’m not disappointed,” he said in a low voice that made my toes curl.
Between the phone call and the man across from me—who looked altogether too interested in my conversation—I was going to die of embarrassment.
My search results finally came in and the computer pinged at me. Thank God.
One lone, lousy profile popped up on my screen. “It looks like we’ve found you a good match, Beau,” I said, turning on the sales pitch. “Lorraina Murphy happens to be free tonight, and she’s very interested in dating all kinds of shifters, according to her profile.”
He made a rumbling sound of assent. “And what is she?”
“A shifter,” I said evasively.
“What kind?” he pressed.
“Avian.”
An uncomfortable pause. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”
I held back a sigh, knowing where this was headed. “Harpy.”
The man across from me smiled.
There was a pause on the phone, as there always was when the harpy’s profile came up. Then, very softly, he said, “I’m not going to go out with a harpy, Bathsheba.”
I couldn’t blame the man. Harpies had a bit of a reputation. They gave psycho-girlfriend new meaning. They tended to get unhinged over small stuff, and then things got really ugly. Shit hit the wall, no joke. “We have a doppelganger on file,” I said desperately. “Jean can pose as a man or a woman, depending on your needs.”
The phone grew very quiet.
Then, “Bathsheba, are you married?” God, his voice sounded sexier than ever.
Say yes. Lie and say you are married. “No,” I breathed. “I’m not.” I didn’t dare look up at the man across from me; too bad I couldn’t hide under my desk.
“Seeing someone?”
“No.” My personal life was way too complicated to even think about throwing a boyfriend into the mix. Worried, I glanced at the doorway to the filing room, but I didn’t see Sara. I hoped she was all right.
“Then it sounds like you’re my date, doesn’t it?”
“What?” I sputtered, then immediately threw the standard rejection at him. “The Paranormal Alliance doesn’t permit human/supe dating unless allowed by a special visa.”
“I’ve got lawyers. Leave the details to me.”
“Mr. Russell,” I said, desperate, “I don’t date clients.”
The man across from me sat up and leaned forward, as if his interest had sparked. He murmured, “That’s a real shame.”
My face couldn’t possibly get any redder. Not. Humanly. Possible.
“Make an exception—or let me talk to Giselle.” The man on the phone wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and I turned all my concentration back to him. I was starting to get a little irritated at his high-handed demands.
“Giselle’s not available.”
“Then it looks like we have only one option.”
Shit. Giselle was going to flay me alive if I went out with a client. It was forbidden. I’d lose my job. Then again … I stared at the star on his profile. I was going to lose my job either way, wasn’t I? Maybe if I went out with Mr. Russell, I could convince him to keep it a secret. Giselle would never have to know we’d botched his account, and I’d have a few drinks with the man and then let him down easy. He seemed nice enough.
I sighed. “I think you are making a mistake, Mr. Russell.”
“Beau.”
“Still a mistake.”
“Why is that? You have a lovely name, a sexy voice, and you’re free tonight,” he said, his tone cajoling. “You’re at least an auxiliary member of the Alliance if you’re working for Giselle, so there won’t be anything awkward to explain, like why I grow a tail sometimes. And you already think I’m a pervert, remember? So there won’t be any surprises.”
Was that a joke? My protest came out as a dry squeak. This was such a bad idea.
“I have to say, I’m looking forward to our date,” Beau continued. “I’ll get the chance to put a face to that sweet tongue of yours.”
I blushed again. Dammit.
Thinking hard, I glanced over at the file room and saw Sara pacing, rubbing her arms. That was a bad sign. Right now she had a lot to stress over: the messed-up account, Giselle’s wrath, and the shifter in the room. A panicked knot formed in my throat as Sara slammed the file room door shut. Very bad sign. Since it was my job to keep Sara from getting agitated, that meant getting rid of the shifter who sat across from me.
And to do that, I had to get the other shifter off the phone.
I turned away from my desk, trying to get a semblance of privacy. “Just dinner,” I breathed into the receiver, caving despite my misgivings. I couldn’t look at the man across the desk from me as I gave in to Beau’s demand. Everything in me shouted big mistake, but I had to do something. Sara was seconds away from losing it. “Not the whole week. And I won’t go back to the hotel with you.”
“Unle
ss you want to,” he added.
I rolled my eyes at his cockiness. “I won’t want to. Trust me.”
“We’ll see,” he said, supremely confident. “I’ll meet you at the restaurant at seven thirty. See you then, sweet Bathsheba.” He hung up.
I set the phone down with relief. One problem down, one to go.
The man across from me smiled. “Hi, I’m Jason,” he said, extending his hand.
“Was that him?” Sara called, her voice muffled through the door. “Am I totally fired now?”
I cleared my throat and gave the man across from me an apologetic look. “Could you excuse me for a moment?”
“Of course,” he said with a nod.
I dashed into the file room and closed the door behind me. Immediately, I put a hand to my mouth, gagging at the thick, cloying perfume. My eyes watered. “Jesus, Sara. If you spray any more of that stuff, he’s going to think we have a rose garden back here.”
“He’s a shifter,” she hissed and sprayed another squirt into the air. “I’m just being careful. So, am I totally fired?”
“Not quite,” I said, fanning the air. The goofy, nervous feeling wouldn’t leave me, no matter how hard I tried to calm down. “I’ve fixed things.”
Sara looked confused. “What do you mean, you ‘fixed’ things?”
“I’m going out with Beau Russell tonight. Taking Rosie’s place.”
Sara’s jaw dropped. “What? We’re not allowed to date clients. You’re a normal, not paranormal. You don’t have the appropriate paperwork.” She shook her head, glancing at the closed door behind me to make sure our guest wasn’t going to enter. “That’s really sweet of you, sis, but Giselle will have a cow if she finds out.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” I said. “By the time she gets back from vacation, it’ll be taken care of.”
She shook her head, her short, fine hair flying about her shoulders. “Don’t be crazy, Bath. I can fix this—”
I grabbed her arm and pinched it, like I used to when we were kids. “If you erase one file out of that database, I swear I’m going to pour water onto your motherboard at home. Understand me?” At her glare, I continued, “I’m the office manager. Let me manage this.”
She stuck her tongue out at me in response, and I knew I’d won.
“Are you going to be okay?” I asked abruptly, changing the subject. “Do you need to leave?”
“I’m fine,” she said as she rubbed her arms again. “Everything’s under control.”
“Bullshit.” I wanted to reach for her again, but I knew from experience that would just aggravate things. “I’ll take care of this guy. You stay in here and I’ll cover for you until you feel better, all right?”
Her lips pinched into a tight line, and she nodded.
“Knock something over so you have an excuse to stay here and clean up. Just not the perfume bottle. My lunch won’t stay down if you spray it again.”
Again, Sara gave a tight nod.
I gave her a thumbs-up and slipped out of the room.
Jason smiled at me as I returned to my desk. “Everything all right?”
“Just fine,” I agreed with my best smile. “Now if I could just see your Alliance ID, I can get your profile set up.”
It took forty-five minutes to set up Jason’s account. I usually got them set up faster while still being polite and chatty, but Jason was a talker and a flirt to boot. I worked steadily, sneaking glances at the closed file room door. There wasn’t a single sound, which concerned me a little, but I couldn’t show it.
Jason was determined to hit on me. I declined his advances and kept things strictly business, sending his request for a date to a pretty little were-fox that I thought might suit him. Once Jason had his profile paperwork printed out and his latest flirtatious comment rebuffed, there was nothing else for him to do but leave. I kept working for a few minutes after he left, just in case he decided to come back, but he didn’t. Then, I bolted up from my desk and ran to the file room and opened the door.
A sleek gray wolf lay on the floor, her head between her paws. Sara’s clothes were discarded on the floor, mixed with some fallen files.
“Oh, Sara,” I chided her.
The wolf whined.
I picked up her torn shirt, examining it to see if it was mendable. It wasn’t. With a roll of my eyes, I went back to my desk and opened my bottom drawer, then lifted a big, manila envelope to reveal a stack of emergency shirts. I picked out a pink one and shut the drawer again.
Living with a werewolf meant a lot of torn clothing. In the six years since Sara had been transformed, I’d learned to adapt to her needs.
But it didn’t mean I couldn’t give her crap about it. I went back to the file room and dangled the pink shirt in front of her. “Last one in a normal color,” I teased. “Change one more time, and you’re reduced to those SpongeBob T-shirts we found on the clearance rack.”
She growled at me, her canine lips curling back in a snarl.
I grinned and tossed the shirt down at her. “Just a little added incentive.”
I warred all day with what to wear to my date. Part of me wanted to wear something that was about as sexy as a funeral. Since Mr. Beau Russell was planning on getting laid, I wanted him to understand as soon as he looked at me that he was not scoring tonight. I needed something that screamed off-limits, puritanical, and possibly Amish.
But the feminine part of me rebelled at not looking my best. Beau was probably handsome and confident. I, meanwhile, hadn’t been on a date in six years.
It was the first thing to have changed in my life after Sara had turned, and I’d willingly given it up. Protecting Sara had become my life, and everything I did revolved around her.
And yet … here I was, about to go out on a date. Just me and some guy looking to meet a pretty girl, charm her, and hopefully score. I swallowed. No pressure. To make matters worse, we were going to a fancy restaurant. I needed to look like I belonged there, to be glamorous and confident.
After all, I had to be on my guard around Mr. Russell. I needed to be supremely self-assured, and poised as hell. Balls-to-the-wall, take no prisoners, not-interested-in-you strong female who was human and normal, and didn’t happen to have a werewolf sister.
After work, I spent an hour picking through my closet. Most of my clothes were practical, and nothing seemed quite right for a date. I ended up settling on a sleeveless, swingy A-line dress in black, edged with aqua satin. It was pretty and feminine. The skirt was shorter than I remembered and the neckline deep enough to show generous cleavage, which was probably why it had sat in my closet unworn for so long, the tags still attached. It really wasn’t all that seductive, but for someone like me, there was never an occasion to wear it.
I put on a couple of bracelets and hoop earrings, and pulled my long, straight, superfine blond hair into a bun high atop my head. I didn’t have time to blow-dry it into fluffiness.
After all, I wasn’t really trying to impress Mr. Russell, was I?
And just because I wasn’t trying to impress him, I added a second coat of lip gloss.
Before heading out the door, I gave my clothes a squirt of Febreze and tumbled them in the dryer with a floral-scented dryer sheet just in case Sara’s distinctive werewolf scent lingered on me. I couldn’t smell it because I was human, but just about every shifter had a nose ten times keener than mine, and we’d had several close calls. My black strappy sandals had been airing on the porch for the same reason.
Un Peu de Goût was in the heart of Sundance Square in downtown Fort Worth, where it catered to a business clientele and tourists looking to spend money on dinner. The last restaurant I’d been to was Burger King, so I was nervous.
My sister was at home sleeping off her most recent change. It always took a toll on her, so I left the car with her and took a cab to the restaurant. I stared out the window as we drove, trying not to get too anxious, my purse clutched close to my chest like a football carried into enemy territory.
As I walked into the restaurant, my heels clicked loudly on the marble tile, drawing the attention of the maître d’. This was a big fat mistake. I should have worn something with a longer hemline, or a less plunging neckline. Or just turned the date down. If Giselle found out I was dating one of the clients, even at his request, I’d be out of a job, no matter how important the account.
Humans were a dime a dozen, even the ones who wouldn’t freak out over the weird proclivities of the boss or strange client requests. The Alliance community was an exclusive one, and all of the clients were rich and powerful. Some had tons of money, thanks to long life spans, and some simply had a natural charisma that drew humans to them.
A couple of sorry humans like Sara and me—well, maybe just me—were outclassed. If she had to choose between loyal human employees and clients, Giselle would always pick clients.
“Yes, mademoiselle?”
I smiled at the maître d’, hoping he couldn’t sense my nervousness. “I’m here to meet Mr. Beau Russell,” I said breathlessly. “We have a dinner reservation.”
The maître d’ didn’t even look down at his list. He gave me a tight, knowing smile. “Mr. Russell will be here shortly, mademoiselle. You may wait at the bar.”
“Oh,” I said, a bit surprised that my date wasn’t here yet. “Certainly.” I let him lead me in.
When I approached the bar, I started to feel a little irritated at the absent Mr. Russell, who couldn’t bother to show up on time. If this was some sort of passive-aggressive move to put the little human in her place, I wasn’t amused. With a small frown, I ordered a mojito and sat down on my barstool to wait.
The mojito was expensive but tasty and did wonderful things to relax my frazzled nerves. I’d sucked down half of my drink before I forced myself to slow down. I didn’t want to be plastered by the time the man got to the restaurant.
