“Not even close. Step back.” She waved her wrinkled hand.
He did as ordered, relieved not to have to smell her fragrance. Something resembling dust or mold. Possibly her decaying. “Are you cutting me loose?”
That had to be why she’d called him in today. His and Sesinando’s kind weren’t desired any longer, which would void their ironclad agency contracts and nullify the no-compete clauses.
Genies who faced those particulars generally ended up in landfills or alleys. They lived in discarded tin cans and tried to latch on to any mortal who’d house and feed them in exchange for three wishes.
If only he could grant a wish for himself, but that wasn’t possible.
Uncertain whether to feel anxious or relieved, he awaited his fate.
Ms. Quill sucked on her cigarette and blew smoke at the computer screen. “You made Miguel mad. You’re not supposed to do that.”
“Okay. Who’s Miguel?”
“The guard downstairs.”
Ranson still had a dent in his shoulder from the guy clutching him so hard. “I didn’t mean to piss him off.”
“Yet you did. You seem to be good at getting on people’s nerves.” She leveled her gaze on him. “Do you like to eat? Do you want a place to stay?”
He wasn’t certain if she was asking the obvious—that he didn’t want to be a bum roaming the streets, or if she was going to put him with a master who owned an upscale restaurant and would expect him to stay in the pantry or freezer at night. “I’ll do whatever it takes to succeed. Promise.”
“You better.” She tapped her ashes in an empty beer can. “Got you a new mistress.”
He tried to smile to prove his sincerity, but couldn’t. His heart was too heavy. “Another millionaire?” A stupid question, since they were the only ones who could afford the agency services.
“Nope.” She grinned, showing nicotine-stained teeth. “A billionaire this time.”
His stomach dropped. Millionaires were godawful to work for, demanding every damn thing. A billionaire had to be a thousand times worse, working a poor genie to the bone, nitpicking details, expecting perfection not even a newer model could provide. “You’re sure?” He leaned down to look at the screen.
She punched his chest. “Back. And yes, I’m sure.”
He rubbed his bruised pec. “Does she know I’m an old model? I’m sure I’m not up to her standards.” Not even a deity would be.
“Yep. She specifically asked for an original genie. Wants to mold you to her specifications.”
Sesinando groaned. “You’re fucked, man.”
No kidding. This was his worst nightmare come true. His pulse pounded. Perspiration ran down his spine. Although he could dematerialize to smoke and wasn’t human, his physiology was no different from any other mortal. He ate, slept, fucked, and sweated bullets when scared, just as they did. “Don’t I get a say in this?”
She hauled a stack of papers from her drawer and dropped them on her desk. “Remember signing this?”
His contract. No attorney alive could break it. Several had tried. Business-friendly arbitration panels always sided with the agency and the masters or mistresses. “Is she expecting me tomorrow?” If he could get friendly with a stewardess or pilot this evening, he might be able to stow away on a flight to South America. So far, they didn’t have an extradition treaty concerning runaway genies.
“Her office is on the fiftieth floor.” Ms. Quill pointed up. “She’s expecting you in a few seconds.”
Longing fled, dread replacing it. Head down, he pivoted and dragged to the door. A dead man walking.
“Hold it.” She rapped her desk. “You can’t go up there looking like a beach bum. Dress yourself in a nice suit while you’re here. I want to see it before you leave. And do something about your eyes.”
He figured he better point out the obvious. “I can’t wish things for myself. You’ll have to do—”
“I wish for you to be in a nice suit and to wash your eyes with Visine.”
The drops soothed like nobody’s business. He exhaled loudly.
Ms. Quill growled. “What the fuck is that?” She gestured to his clothes.
She’d asked for a nice suit, and he gave her what she wanted. His bell bottom trousers were awesome. The double-breasted jacket with wide lapels totally cool. He could have lived without the platform shoes, but they completed the outfit, everything in orange-and-brown plaid. Similar to clothes he wore in the 1970s when he’d been his happiest. A free-spirited Master had owned him then and let him boogie with the babes at countless parties. Too bad the guy ended up in prison for drugs.
Sesinando gave Ranson two-thumbs up.
Ms. Quill tapped her computer keys, peered at the screen, scrolled, stopped then pointed at a picture. “Wear this.”
The pearl-gray suit, white shirt, and dark-silver tie were blah as hell. Even if he could have wished such a travesty on himself, he wouldn’t have. “You’ll have to ask for it, since I can’t.”
“Just. Do. It.”
Given her foul mood, her snarling command was close enough. Within a second, he wore the new duds.
Sesinando made a face.
“You look almost normal.” She left her chair and rounded him. “Hold your head higher, pull back your shoulders.”
And women said men made them feel like pieces of meat. Holding back an oath, he did as she demanded.
She crossed her arms over her scrawny chest. “Alexandra Prescott is your new Mistress. Don’t screw this up, got it? You do precisely what she wants no matter what it might be. She bought the full-service package and expects us—you—to deliver. No excuses. No mistakes.”
“How is that supposed to work?” His gut churned. “Does she know I’m not good at wishes unless they’re totally specific or concern making women look younger? Is she way older than my last mistress?” Was such a thing even possible?
“She’s twenty-nine. It’s all you have to know. What she wants you for is her business, not mine, not yours.”
He bristled. Billionaire or not, no person had a right to own someone so completely they had no say in their existence. He’d taken these gigs, driven by fear and wanting to eat, preferring to live indoors rather than outside, but the demands were getting to be too much.
“Why are you still here?” Ms. Quill gestured him away. “I don’t want to see you in this office for another decade or so.”
If he made it through today, he’d be surprised.
Fuming, he waved good-bye to Sesinando and left. A middle-aged woman smiled at him in the elevator. Her kindness touched him deeply. “Can you do a favor for me?”
Surprise crossed her lined face. “I don’t know. What do you want?”
The general public didn’t realize genies existed, unless they’d unknowingly stumbled upon one, as in the old days. Only the elite in this country knew the truth about using jinns as a way to get whatever they wanted.
The woman’s tawny silk blouse and tailored cream suit were elegant and looked expensive despite the boring colors. She had to be a one-percenter. Taking a chance, he confessed what he was and asked her to help him.
She bit her lower lip. “I don’t know.”
“Please. It would mean a lot.”
“Are you going to cry?”
If tears got her to do what he wanted, then yes. “I’ve had a bad day.”
“I’m so sorry. Sure, I’ll help out.” She made her wish.
The suit Ms. Quill had put him in morphed to his orange-and-brown plaid outfit from the 70s.
The woman wrinkled her nose. “Oh my, did I do something wrong? Your clothes are awful.”
To her. To him, they brought back good times when he was relatively free and happy, treated with respect, like he was a person who mattered, not an inanimate object created for a mortal’s use and abuse. “It’s perfect. Thanks. I owe you. Want another wish? I’m, uh, good with some things…” Not wanting to put her off, he was afraid to mention facelifts. “I can mak
e your cheeks flush without makeup. How’s that?”
“Thanks, but no, I’m good. Glad I could help.” The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. She hurried into the hall but did wave bye before rushing toward the offices.
Ranson tapped his platform shoe and awaited the arrival of his floor, learning his destiny, meeting his new Mistress.
But not kowtowing to her. By god, those fucking days were over.
Alexandra Prescott observed the monitors in her inner office. The pictures were in full color, crisper than the best plasma TV, had audio, and tracked an arrival’s movements every-damn-where from the moment the individual entered the reception area.
Ms. Quill had just called, stating the genie was on his way here to serve. To do any freaking thing Alexandra wanted.
Excitement bubbled up, tingling her skin. On its heels, anxiety followed.
No, no, no.
She gripped her desk and pushed back her insecurity. She was Alexandra X. Prescott now, CEO for Adored Enterprises, a billion-dollar company she’d built from the ground up. No one created romantic films or TV series like she did. She knew what women wanted when it came to love: a guy who hungered for them no matter their imperfections. In her films and shows, the heroines weren’t drop-dead gorgeous. They were flawed human beings with ample thighs and hips, sagging boobs, occasional skin flare-ups, poor eyesight, stringy hair, and plain features. Yet it didn’t matter. Their good hearts and keen intellects always won over the hunks.
Totally bogus, but she pushed fantasy—nothing like real life, especially hers.
Born Millicent Dubowski in El Centro, California, she’d fled the area when she was eighteen years old. Although the poverty there was soul-crushing, other matters in her family were much worse.
Don’t think about that. It’s over.
She hauled in a breath, ignored the past, again, and focused on her hard-won success.
With an impoverished background, limited education, too skinny bod, and so-so looks, she’d worked her butt off and had to rely on pure determination to see her through.
First, she’d changed her name. When she started making major bucks writing romance scripts for Lifetime TV, she’d altered her looks. Gone was the mousy-brown hair, exchanged for champagne blonde. A plastic surgeon had sculpted and refined her features. She was no beauty by any stretch, but she looked aristocratic now rather than ordinary. Her dark-blue eyes were her best feature. Thanks to laser surgery, she had 20/10 vision.
Coupled with her designer clothes, she shouldn’t have feared anything. Yet, the old Millicent still lived deep inside, uncertain enough to ask for an old model genie so a new, perfect one wouldn’t sneer at what she lacked.
Damn, woman, you are hopeless.
“Uh…good afternoon.” Francine, her receptionist, sounded from a monitor. She cleared her throat. “Can I help you?”
Alexandra hurried to the screens to see who had arrived.
The guy was…something. She just wasn’t sure what. Tall, surely six-four or so, he looked to be in his early thirties and wore his black wavy hair long enough on top to skim his forehead. His features were masculine—rough rather than pretty—and hot enough to heat her blood.
Her belly fluttered.
His honey-colored eyes had a world-weariness about them she found vulnerable and charming. She would have given a decade of her life to stroke his bristly cheeks. It was barely one in the afternoon, and, already, he had a five o’clock shadow. His shoulders were broad, hips narrow, legs long, thighs powerful, clothing pure awful.
Where in the hell did he find his outfit?
He teetered slightly on his platform shoes. “I’m here to see…” He lowered his face, squeezed his fists then offered a brilliant smile, a dimple in each cheek.
Alexandra’s mouth watered.
He stepped closer to Francine. “Can I ask you something?”
God, his voice. Deep and rumbling, those sounds registered every-freaking-where within Alexandra, making her tremble.
Francine looked at him in wonder and lust. “Um, I suppose. What?”
“Would you like a genie? I swear I’m easy to work with. Just tell me what you want and it’s yours, unless it’s computer, food, finance, interior design, plumbing, or automotive related. I’m still working on honing my skills in those areas. The only thing I ask is that you’re patient with me. I’ll do my level best to make you happy in bed and out. Especially in bed. It’ll be orgasm city. Just ask for a ton of money, I’ll provide it, and you can quit your job. We can take off right now. I’ll live with you. How about—”
Alexandra buzzed Francine, cutting off the genie’s last words, or rather his proposal. Of all the damn nerve. He hadn’t even met her yet, he was a damn old model with limited employment opportunities, and, already, he was betraying her.
Guys were dogs no matter whether they were mortal or not.
“Francine, has my appointment arrived?”
“Yes, Ms. Prescott. Should I have him wait in your outer office?”
“Please.”
The genie glanced at the front doors to the suite.
Alexandra suspected he wanted to run. Maybe he’d read those industry articles about her, claiming she had bigger cojones than most guys, steamrolled over competitors, and gobbled up smaller studios until she’d dominated the romance market.
When a guy was good at business, he was heralded as a genius. Women got the BBB designation—ball-busting bitch.
So be it. She hadn’t gotten this far by being docile.
The genie plodded after Francine into the outer office. Decorated in cream, pink, and gold, the spacious area exuded femininity. A trick Alexandra had learned early on. Persuade the opposition she was a pushover and they’d let down their guard. Once they had, she dove in for the kill.
Right now, she preferred to let the genie cool his heels, or platforms as it was, and sweat out her arrival.
He strode to the windowed wall and gazed at the Los Angeles basin spread out beneath him. A jet cut across the flawless blue sky, the clear air courtesy of the Santa Ana winds earlier in the day. The summer afternoon was dry and warm, Chamber of Commerce perfect. Buildings sprawled in every direction through affluent, middle-class, and working-poor neighborhoods. In the distance, the Pacific twinkled beneath the heavy sun.
Longing filled his eyes.
For what? Escape? Freedom? A woman?
Alexandra’s heart cramped. Why, she wasn’t sure. She didn’t know him and wouldn’t, not on a personal level. They’d always be employer and employee. She’d command. He’d obey.
He’d never like or want her.
She didn’t need his approval. Money and position were enough. If she got horny, she’d hook up with “dates” from the service she used. More employees doing her bidding. No feelings involved. Sex without commitment, the best life had to offer.
Emptiness gnawed at her. She shook the feeling off.
He touched the marble walls and traced the gold that veined the pink stone. His hands were large, fingers long. Their glide across the surface registered in her breasts.
Her nipples peaked.
She tamped down her desire and loneliness. Too bad she couldn’t shed her feelings as easily as she had her inadequate looks and rotten heritage.
He strolled to the enormous artwork hanging from her ceiling. Connected gold rings, one larger than the next, dangled free, seemingly suspended in air.
Hands on his hips, he regarded the thing then tapped the bottom ring.
The sculpture rotated in place, its gold catching the light and winking it back.
He grinned.
She smiled, too, touched by his guileless pleasure. Countless men had come to her outer office. None had noticed the artwork or bothered to touch it.
He was different, taken with the world surrounding him. Noticing things those in her social circle missed. They were too busy with deals and into themselves. He was more human than they were.
Nice.
At her door, she stopped and doubled back to check herself in the mirror. Her black designer suit was flawless, the jacket dipping low in the front for a feminine touch, the slim skirt two inches above her knees. Her spike heels had satin ribbons tied in bows in the back. Deceptively feminine, like her offices.
She spritzed Baccarat Les Larmes Sacrées de Thebes on her throat and neck. At sixty-eight hundred dollars an ounce, it was the most expensive perfume in the world and would, hopefully, give her the confidence she needed.
For some reason, doubt had returned in full force today. Of course, she’d never had total control over any being before. Her employees could always quit. Her genie couldn’t.
The prospect should have made her happy as a loon rather than vaguely disturbed.
She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and entered the outer office.
His back was to her. He stroked the cream leather chair facing her desk.
Heat raced to her pussy. She had an insane urge to ease his hair behind his ear.
He traipsed to the left, taking in the glass-topped end tables and lamps, then roamed to the right.
Look at me.
He halted—much to her surprise—and glanced over.
Everything stopped.
His eyes looked nearly golden against his bronzed skin, his sooty lashes longer than hers, even with the mascara she’d piled on. His sculpted mouth was made for kissing. An ancient and mysterious scent emanated from him and perfumed the office. His open expression registered surprise and delight at seeing her, then his face became a mask, telling her nothing about what he felt inside.
He took her in again, reluctantly, or perhaps dutifully. “Ma’am.”
What? She was barely twenty-nine, not middle-aged. No matter their relationship to each other, he’d found her attractive. At least for a second. The pleasure flaring in his eyes proved it. “Don’t call me that.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You got it. Mistress?”
Now he made her sound like a BDSM participant. Not entirely bad, but hardly appropriate in an office setting. “That either.”
His mouth turned down. “Care to tell me what you’d like, or am I supposed to guess? By the way, I’m not good at speculating.”
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