Page 13 of Devil’s Disciples

“The sign says manager’s office.” I pushed the door closed. “Are you the manager?”

“I uhhm. Yes. I’m the manager. How can I help you?”

Despite my desire to pull her pants down around her ankles and bend her over the desk, I maintained a somewhat professional posture. I raised my index finger. “I’ve got a few questions.”

She was wearing wide-legged black dress pants, conservative heels, and a flowing white top. She wasn’t a tall woman, but the high-waisted pants made her legs seem unreasonably long. They also drew attention to her shapely hips. My eyes scanned the length of her body. From her dark gray toenails to her remarkably attractive face, she was very well put together. Her sun-streaked hair was off her neck and clipped into a bun.

A bun that wasn’t quite centered.

The hair bothered me, but her shapely body forced me to make note of every curve. My eyes shifted from the askew sprout of hair to her perfectly shaped hips and then back.

Repeatedly.

I had faults. Many of them, to be honest. Most I could conceal, leaving those who encountered me to be of the opinion that I was relatively normal.

I wasn’t.

I was somewhat of a perfectionist. There were many things in my life that could be out of order, but her bun didn’t appear to be one of them. Despite my attempts to dismiss it, I simply couldn’t keep my mind focused on anything else.

She reached for it. “Is there something wrong?”

“Wrong? No.” I tore my eyes from the disaster that sat atop her head and met her gaze. “I had a few questions about the availability of property.”

She lowered her hands.

My eyes shot to the bun.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

I needed to have a conversation with her. I knew myself well enough to realize doing so would be impossible if she didn’t fix her hair. I gestured toward the unsightly mess. “It’s not…” I waved my finger to the side. “It’s crooked.”

“My hair?” She shrugged dismissively. “These things are impossible to get perfect, so I just wing it…”

There was no way I could carry on any facsimile of a meaningful conversation with her hair in its cock-eyed state. I took a few steps toward her and raised my hands between us. “May I?”

“Awk-ward,” she said jokingly.

I raised my eyebrows.

She let out a playful sigh. “Sure.”

I opened the clip that held her hair in place, moved the mound over two inches, and clipped it in place. A quick inspection satisfied me that it was as perfect as it could be. As I stepped away, a wisp of her perfume caused me to falter.

Hypnotized by the scent, I offered a compliment and a suggestive grin. “That’s wonderful.”

She returned a confused look. “My hair?”

“Your perfume.”

“Oh. Thank you.” She curtsied. “It’s shaunce. It’s spelled C-H-A-N-C-E, but it’s French. It’s by Chanel.”

I took every inch of her into view, taking time to pause at the parts that interested me the most. She was far too attractive for me to simply walk in, press her for information, and walk away. As much as I realized I needed to, keeping my hands off her would be difficult, if not impossible.

I drew a slow breath. “It fits you well.”

“Thank you.” She gave me a quick look. “You had questions about property? Here or somewhere else?”

“Here. Do you manage other properties?”