Beauty Bites (11 page)

All the sweaty fertility and hunky men cheering at first bothered me, not to mention the identity my subconscious gave to my dream lover. But when I boiled it down into a simple omen of good luck, deliberately ignoring the psychosexual overtones, I found I could push it from my mind. I had enough real trouble without having to worry about a little hot fantasy.

Today I was braving Holiday Buzz. I pulled on Twyla’s sexy lingerie, the Prince girding to storm Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Then I yawned, wishing I were the one sleeping, like Rip van Winkle…hmm, I’d have to get some different books to read Teddy.

As I started my car, a man slammed out of the other occupied cabin and ran to the bridge. By the time I reached the foot of the bridge he blocked it like a troll.

Definitely gotta twelve-step those fairy tales.

I braked and buzzed down my window. “Hi. Can I help you?”

He clomped to my side of the car and stuck his mug into the window opening. I reared back from a face that was thick ropes of modeling clay with two little black beads for eyes. Red ropes near the bottom moved, emitting a voice like a nail file. “Who the hell are you?”

Rude, yet annoying. I waved at the cabin. “I’m staying with my cousin.”

His beady eyes narrowed. “Two women belong in that cabin, a black and a Hispanic. You’re not either.”

I might have argued the point, but I found it slightly creepy he knew who “belonged” in our cabin. “I’m sorry, but it’s none of your business.”

His face got uglier. “It’s my business if I say it is.”

“Okay,” I said agreeably, and drove off.

He swore and tried to dash in front of me, but I’d gotten onto the narrow bridge first and he couldn’t squeeze past. “I’d better not catch you in the woods,” he shouted after me. “Stay out of the damned woods.”

Well. That was disturbing. But I had work to do. I’d ask Twyla about it later. I left him swearing and shaking his fist in my rearview mirror.

A little over an hour later I pulled up in front of another tall Minneapolis building and cut the engine.

I didn’t get out. Holiday’s carefully folded suit coat lay on the seat next to me, reminding me this wasn’t going to be easy. Forcing Ric Holiday’s hand struck me as a shortcut to retaliation more lethal than even a cosmic wedgie. Maybe the Cosmic Backhand o’ Doom.

A scent tickled my nose. Mellow, woody, like the apple logs last night. I found myself smiling.

Ric would never hurt me. I sighed and brushed a finger over the fine material of his coat, releasing a tang of spicy male. I picked it up and buried my nose in the fine fabric.
Mmm
. That sure was Holiday I was smelling.

My eyes opened on me grinning in the rearview mirror.

Bitch slap me with a bedpan. That was the same goofy grin Twyla wore when she’d been doing it again with Nikos…
Five primary branches of the facial nerve exist outside the skull, but the number of muscles used in expression depends on the person…

Argh
. No matter how many muscles it took to smile or frown, it didn’t take any to feel like an idiot. I shoved the coat onto the passenger seat, started the car and drove around the block to cool off.

Which was how I found the entrance to the underground parking in the back. After a couple spins around the block I decided I was ready, or at least not so inclined to mental Tourette’s, and parked. I gathered coat and purse, and a short elevator ride took me to the lobby.

Holiday Buzz’s corporate headquarters was as posh and upscale as Holiday’s penthouse. Elevator doors opened to a whole lot of sparkling glass, glossy gray-veined marble and a jungle of green plants. And chrome cladding. The silvery stuff was everywhere.

I checked a black felt directory with neat white letters beside a splashing waterfall. Holiday Buzz occupied two prime stories at the top. I started for the main elevator beyond a wide, curved oak reception desk.

“Ma’am.” A burly man in crisp blue uniform sat behind the desk, his name tag reading “Hanner”. “Your business?”

I stopped. “Holiday Buzz.”

“And your business there? Who are you seeing?”

My brows lifted. Building security was surprisingly rigorous. I fudged with, “Ric Holiday.”

“Mr. Holiday Himself?”

I didn’t imagine the capital letters. I’d better have a good reason to visit Mr. Holiday Himself, and I’d better think it up quick. “Well, um, I need to return his suit coat.”

The guard eyed me with disbelief, surprising me even more. Maybe Ric didn’t routinely loan his clothes to underclad young women. Unless most simply didn’t return them. I fingered the soft fabric in my hands. It
would
be a nice reminder, tucked in a dresser drawer where it could nestle with bras and panties, or under a pillow, to fall asleep to the delicious scent of well-heeled male, or, thinking about beds, do other things a bit more active…

I thrust the coat toward the guard and gave him a tentative smile. “It’s from the Christmas-in-July party last night. I had a wardrobe malfunction.”

He added a tapping pen to the glare. I was starting to sweat when he slapped a book on the top ledge. “Sign. I’ll need to see two forms of ID.”

I retracted the coat and scribbled before he changed his mind. When I dug out my driver’s license, he actually checked the signature against the book. Finally he let me board the bullet elevator.

Whew. Done.

Remember the fate’s wedgie? I stepped off the car on thirty-two (with a slight case of jet lag), and was confronted by another security desk—with a doorway-style scanner.

The guard here identified every last bit of metal on me, including my fillings. Good grief, this was supposed to be the easy part. This was what airport security wanted to be when it grew up.

By the time I was escorted to the long curved pane of glass fronting the Holiday Buzz offices, I was wound tighter than an old-fashioned spring. I pushed open the door and stopped. More chrome and running water all over the place. Weird.

My first impression—after all the silvery stuff and water—was high-energy movement. Men and women marched, strode and segued to and fro in constant transition, the latest tablets and smart phones in hand. And the chatter! Arguing, explaining, expounding. It was worse than an episode of
The West Wing
.

The floor itself was a scramble of gold silkscreen partitions and curved chest-high walls. Wheeled workstations were scattered in haphazard groups, obviously according to personal style and need rather than any rigid plan. A bank of windows bright with morning sunlight lined the left wall. The only closed spaces were some offices way in the back, and conference and restrooms to my right.

Though advertising was style over substance at its worst, I was impressed.

“Hello, my name is Rosie,” chirped a voice as cheery as the sunlight. “I’m the account manager on duty today. How may I help you?”

I dodged people to approach a wave-shaped reception desk. A six-foot HD screen hung on a false wall behind the desk, showing network news to test ads to kids’ cartoons.

A young woman sat behind the reception wave. I hadn’t seen her, lost in all the glass and gesticulating. Her auburn bob and white silk blouse were sleek, but not in that brittle overdone way. A blue and white handwritten nametag said “Rosie”, a smiley face dotting the I. She was the woman at the Christmas-in-July party, the one as underdressed as me. I smiled at her, feeling more at ease.

But now I had a problem. Though I’d made my way up based on Ric’s suit coat, I wasn’t actually here to see Ric. I dropped the coat on the floor, stuffing it with one toe under the reception desk (which didn’t cloak the alluring aroma
at all
), and launched my plan to acquire Holiday Buzz sans Holiday. “Hi, Rosie. I’m Synnove Byornsson. I’d like to be a client. How do I do that?”

She beamed at me—without dollar signs in her eyes. She was genuinely delighted to meet me. “That’s easy. You tell us what your product or service is and why you consider it useful to people. We do the rest.”

Useful? That was almost…philanthropic. “How do I do that? Talk with a rep or take a survey or something?”

“We have an online tool to help you write it up. We also have a paper survey. You can call or text or email or even act it out with hand puppets. Whatever mode of communication you’re comfortable with, we aim to supply.” She lowered her voice. “Actually, the hand puppets are very popular.”

“Rosie,” a gravely voice snarled. “Why are you still here?”

A big, beefy man stalked over. Shaggy dark hair, a sour expression and a low growl made him seem like a wounded bear. “You were supposed to go on break an hour ago. You need to take better care of yourself.”

“Poor Harry. Do you still have that headache?” Rosie reached into her desk, pulled out a white bottle and popped the cover. She shook out a tablet, paused, eyed the man and shook out two more. “Take these. You’ll feel better in no time.”

His face softened, and he took the tablets meekly. “Then you’ll go on break?”

“After I help Ms. Byornsson, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” He lumbered away.

A smile lifted my lips. That was sweet.
 

“Don’t mind Harry. His headaches make him a little surly.” Rosie was watching the man’s big back with her own soft little smile. “He’s assigned himself my keeper for some reason.”

She was pretty and she’d been kind to Harry. I could guess why he was concerned about her, but simply said, “I’d like to talk to an account rep.”

“Of course.” Rosie was back to chirping. “If I weren’t on reception I’d do it. I’ll see who’s available. Please have a seat.”

“That won’t be necessary.” The deep voice came from behind me. “I’ll help Synnove myself.”

I whirled.

Ric Holiday glided in, all effortless grace and suited glory. Against the constant motion and chatter, he was a large fixed point, reassuring and solid. My heart skipped a beat, happy to see him, and my insides heated like a fireplace.

Then I remembered I’d been avoiding him.

Which, considering his name was Ric Holiday and this little ad shop was called
Holiday
Buzz, had been rather optimistic of me. It’s a measure of how flustered he made me that that teensy-weensy fact hadn’t occurred to me before.

Or maybe it was a Freudian slip. Yay, psych rotation. I couldn’t avoid it but I could sure pin a label on it.

“Oh, Mr. Holiday!” Rosie’s chirp was even brighter. “You’re handling Ms. Byornsson’s account personally? How lucky she is. Ms. Byornsson, why didn’t you tell me you’re a special client?”

I opened my mouth to say,
Because I’m not
. Or maybe to quote more
Gray’s
, I don’t know and I’ll never know because the agency door swung open again.

Camille strutted in.

Her red power suit and crisp white blouse were very business-like—not counting the platform hooker heels, the skirt cut an inch shy of her crotch, or the neckline flirting with her navel.

Meow.

She latched onto Holiday’s arm, rubbing sleekly against him. I shut my mouth with a snap.

“Ric,” she cooed. “I’ve been trying to catch up with you since the parking structure. Didn’t you hear me calling to you?”

“Sorry, no.” He extracted himself smoothly. She tried to grab on again and when he evaded her nearly fell on her nose—although come to think of it, with her topography it wouldn’t have been her nose hitting the floor first.

She pouted. “I almost didn’t get in. It took a dozen of my Lestat foot soldiers to spring enough of your booby traps so that I could get through.”

“I’ll have to see those traps get reset,” Ric muttered. In louder tone ruffled with annoyance, he said, “Why are you here, Camille? I told you yesterday I’m not interested.”

“Oh, but that was yesterday, darling.” She simpered at him. “Since then, my boss has helped me design a new offer.”

Ric’s stance changed, became wary. Dangerous. “Your boss.”

“Yes, he wants Meiers Corners and I’m desperate for a certain promotion, so I came up with the Midwest Vegas idea. Anyway, last night I called him. It was very interesting.” Her tone went sly. “I think Mr. Nosferatu knows you, and quite well.”

Almost imperceptibly, Ric stiffened. He apparently didn’t care for that idea at all. His stance shifted again, deliberately casual. “Arnaud Nosferatu runs CIC Mutual and is on the board of half a dozen other F500 companies. Every businessperson in the Midwest knows him.”

“Possibly you better than most? I only ask because when I described you, Mr. Nosferatu said he’d known someone—Exactly. Like. You.” With each word she poked one blood-red nail into the pristine white of his shirt. The cotton hardly dented at all, testimony to the rock solid muscle underneath.

But while she hadn’t marred skin or shirt, she’d definitely drawn psychic blood. Ric’s eyes glinted a furious violet, while a muscle pulsed in his jaw, shouting to me how hard he was working to keep his true reaction hidden.

I was reading him as if I knew him intimately…like a lover.

Twist me up a caduceus.
Which is actually the symbol for the U.S. Army Medical Corps with its two serpents twining a winged pole; the medical emblem is Asclepius’ single snake around his rod…