Gena Showalter: Animal Instincts

I didn't like feeling that way-for obvious reasons-and still had to fight for every scrap of self-confidence I could get.

I shifted in my chair yet again.

Finally-thank you, Lord, finally-Elvira, Handmaiden of Lucifer, approached me. "Are you Naomi?" she asked, as if I hadn't already given her my name. Twice. When I didn't reply fast enough, she added snidely, "Well, are you?"

I knew she hadn't forgotten me so soon, so I stubbornly refused to answer.

She got the hint. "Your name isn't listed," she grumbled, her pale, matte-finished lips thin with irritation. "However, Mr. Powell will see you anyway."

It pained me to say, "Thank you," but I said it with a straight face. I even threw in, "I appreciate your efforts on my behalf," though it nearly killed me to utter the words in a civil tone.

I was striving so diligently to appear forgiving and professional because, as I mentioned earlier, I really needed this job. My bills were stacking up and I did not like the thought of losing my bottom-level apartment and having to move back in with my mom and stepdad. Especially since Jonathan enjoys psychoanalyzing my every action. Like I really need to know the reason I ran away from home at the age of sixteen was because my mom hadn't breast-fed me. I love the man, but please. I'd run away (for all of six hours) because my mom hadn't let me date Aarin Bower, the hottest boy to attend my high school. Duh.

"Follow me," Elvira said, turning in one fluid motion.

"Follow me," I silently mimicked.

She flicked me a narrowed, backward glance.

My eyes widened innocently. What? I mentally projected. She bared her teeth in a scowl before turning back around. Obviously, the woman had unleashed her own inner Tigress long ago.

I marched behind her, remembering to keep my shoulders squared and breasts pushed forward. Wits, cunning and blood instinct. I'd wield all three from this point on.

My shoes sank into the plush off-white carpet. A starched, almost sterile aroma clung to the air, as if the office lacked any type of personal touch. Judging from the employees I'd met so far, maybe that was a good thing.

Elvira swung open the heavy double doors, holding them forward and out of the way while I glided past. In the next instant, Royce Powell came into view-and the rest of my day tumbled straight into the deepest, darkest depths of hell. My eyes met his and my step faltered. I stumbled. (And this time, it had nothing to do with my shoes!)

I steadied myself, fighting the urge to drop everything I was doing and simply nibble on him. Really, truly nibble. As in, sink my teeth into naked flesh. Run my tongue over every inch and hollow. This is why I hadn't returned his calls. This is why I hadn't wanted to meet with him in person. With only a look, he sizzled my hormones and knocked me out of my comfort zone.

He probably didn't remember (or maybe he did, since he'd called me?), but we'd crossed paths six months ago at the first party I'd planned on my own. We hadn't spoken, but he'd glanced in my direction once or twice, and I'd salivated.

The man was absolutely, one hundred percent edible.

After years and years of dealing with Richard, aka Whore Hound from Hell, I liked to think of myself as immune to testosterone. But this man radiated sex like a blinking neon sign that said, "Come get a piece of this." I felt like a big, fat sexual appetizer screaming for a little down-and-dirty attention. I had the urge to slowly strip and swing from a pole. Maybe offer to give him a lap dance.

How pathetic was I?

Royce Powell was in his mid-thirties, possibly early forties. He had bronze skin. Electric, pale blue eyes-that were watching me intently. My stomach clenched. Did I still have dirt on my face? His nose was straight, his lips full, soft and completely kissable. A shadow of dark stubble lined his jaw, giving him a rugged quality that only added to his appeal. His broad shoulders were encased in an expensive Italian suit.

He was a combination of George Clooney shaken together with Josh Wald and a splash of Brad Pitt on the side. Did I mention how much I love to look at Brad Pitt? Maybe I'm not so immune to testosterone, after all.

Royce offered me a sexy smile of greeting.

My senses reeled and my mouth went dry; a lump formed in my throat. That smile… it was lethal. Pure lady-killer. Run , my mind shouted. Get out of here .

Where were my wits? My cunning? My blood instinct?

I would soon be chatting with this perfect man, maybe even shaking his perfect hand. At the thought, my nervous system kicked into high gear. How could I shake his hand when my own felt like a swamp? I had to do something to calm my nerves. But what? My stepdad's advice to "picture those who make you nervous completely naked" didn't apply here.

Royce Powell…naked…

I slapped a polite smile on my face and decided then and there to think of him as a turkey-and-cheese-on-rye sandwich. I did not like turkey and cheese. I hated rye.

He rose, his gaze lowering and lingering on my lips, and held out one hand. We shook. When he pulled back, he wiped his palm on his slacks before reclaiming his seat.

My professional expression never wavered.

I hoped.

I cleared my throat. "I realize I'm seeing you later than scheduled," I said, just in case Elvira, Queen of the Damned, hadn't let him know of my early arrival, "but I'd like it noted that I did, in fact, arrive on time." Tardiness was one of the biggest sins in the world, in my estimation.

His smile grew wide with amusement. "So noted."

My knees almost buckled. His smile was bad enough, but throw in that voice and good God! Its deep, husky timbre flowed as smooth and rich as expensive brandy. He'd spoken only moments before, but he hadn't spoken like this. All husky and low, as if he were lying in bed after a vigorous session of sex. Raunchy, I-screamed-my-brains-out sex.

He watched me for a long, silent moment. Then, "Please-" he motioned with his chin "-have a seat."

Nodding, I eased down and set my briefcase aside. "I hope you don't mind my asking, but where's your mom? I didn't see her leave."

He didn't seem put out by my question; in fact he appeared even more amused by me. "She went out the side door."

"Oh." Smart woman. She wouldn't have to deal with Elvira again. "I spoke with her over the phone last Friday," I said, getting down to business. I'm calm. I'm professional . "I'm not sure I fully understood the facts. She wants me to plan a surprise party, doesn't she?"

"Yes."

"Yet she also stated that the party was to be given in her honor."

"Don't try to understand her. It will only drive you insane." He didn't offer any other information. He just gave me another of those I'm-the-best-lay-you'll-ever-have smiles.

Was the ground shaking? "When I spoke with her, we didn't have a chance to discuss my fee." The most important matter, to my way of thinking.

"Money isn't a problem," he said, his eyes again roving to my mouth.

My cheeks heated. I had to get to a mirror ASAP and make sure I still didn't have dirt on my face. "I can't in good conscience continue until we've agreed upon-"

"Whatever the party costs," he interjected, silencing my protest, "I'll pay it."

Was he that enthused about celebrating his mom's next step closer to death's door? Or did he love her so much he wanted the woman happy, whatever the cost? "Mr. Powell, that's not a wise thing to tell a woman who hasn't yet named her price."

"True." He chuckled. "Why don't you work out the specifics and fax me an estimate."

I nodded. "Excellent."

"Good. Now, please, call me Royce. And I'll call you Naomi."

My name on his lips somehow seemed too sensual, like a mating call of some sort-a mating call my sexually bankrupt body definitely heard. I clamped my mouth shut before I did something stupid, like say out loud that yes, I'd have his babies. I managed another nod.