Pink Slipper Read online

  Bowled over? That had to translate to, "liked my legs and couldn’t find any woman willing to take their stupid job."

  Oops! Message deleted. Gee, it’s a shame I never got that one, isn’t it?

  Message two—Jean, "Leesa, I just bought a new computer for Dan’s birthday. I’m surprising him with a whole new home office. Desk, the works. They’re delivering the furniture Thursday morning. I was wondering if you could come over Thursday afternoon and help me set up the computer? I don’t know how to hook it up to my high-speed Internet."

  Sure, no problem.

  Message three—Willie. Groan. "Leesa, I’ve read the reports. Let’s meet. How about dinner on Saturday? I know a great little Italian joint."

  Sigh. Major internal arguments.

  Pros. When viewed objectively, Willie did have a nice phone voice. If only the rest of him matched it. I did have to talk to him about my claim because I needed the money, so part of this would be business. What were a few hours out of my life? That’s what I’d told Cara, right? So was I going to be a hypocrite?

  Cons. I’d be breaking my own date-only-guys-who-are-six-feet-and-over rule. This was Willie we were talking about!

  Desperate circumstances were driving me to desperate means.

  I dialed Willie’s number. "About Saturday. We’re on. Name your time."

  Chapter 14

  Job-free days: 55

  August Unemployment Log

  Rejections: Sadly, Willie did not reject my acceptance of his dinner offer. Bummer.

  Thought for the day:

  Keep my eyes on the prize. Eyes on the prize. Less than one week left until the SAPS financial numbers come out and I’m back on track with a fabulous job! In the meantime, no one has arrested me for arson, so I’m probably in the clear.

  * * *

  Jean lived in a pricey neighborhood near Bellevue, in a classic Northwest style home with a view of Lake Washington. The place reeked money. She answered the door before I’d even knocked and ushered me in.

  "Wow!" I stepped in and looked around. Classy. Elegant. Dad had a nice place, but a woman’s touch, a woman with good taste that is, made a difference in the décor.

  Jean smiled. "You like it?"

  "Love it. You do this yourself or did you hire a designer?"

  She shrugged. "My sister’s an interior designer. She got me into the design center to pick up a few one-offs. And gave me a bit of free advice."

  I’d describe her home, but I wouldn’t do it justice. All I can say is that it was modern yet not stark, and soft, and done in tans and creams with the occasional shot of accent color. Leather. Upholstery. Wood. Eclectic, and lovely.

  I looked at her. "You live like this and yet you still want to go back to work?" I paused. "You’re crazy. You’ll never get an office this nice. Not in a million years. Just stay home."

  She opened her mouth to speak.

  "I know. Respect. Have you thought about starting your own business? You know, work from home?" I said.

  She grinned.

  "Show me to the patient."

  I expected a woman like Jean to decorate her husband’s surprise new office in mock masculine. You know, a woman trying to make a room look like a man owned it. But I’d say she’d succeeded in creating the genuine thing.

  "How did you manage to hide this from him?" I asked.

  It was obvious that she’d done more than just move some new furniture in. There’d been a lot of priming, painting, and decorating.

  "He’s been away on business in Europe for three weeks. When the cat’s away . . ."

  "I don’t know him and his tastes. But if I were him, I’d be pleased." I went to work. Setting up his new computer and putting in the code for their wireless Internet was mindless, easy work.

  When we finished, Jean wanted to try it out. "You know how I’ve been struggling to decide what I want to do? Roger recommended an online personality test to help guide my job search. He said it helped him. Let’s take it!"

  Her enthusiasm was charming, but not catching.

  "No way. Bunch of boloney. I never pass those things."

  She laughed. "You can’t fail a personality test."

  "I never get the answer I want. That’s failing. Believe me, I’ve taken a million of these over the years. In teen magazines, and now women’s magazines. And I never get to be the fun party girl, or the sexy siren."

  She shook her head. "This one isn’t like that. It’s serious. Come on. Help me. It’ll be fun."

  The test Jean chose divided personalities into four groups—guardians, artisans, rationals, and idealists. I didn’t need to take the test to know I was a rational.

  Jean made me go first. Eager to get through this bogus exercise, I completed my test, hit the submit button and a moment later received a message with my score.

  "An idealist? What!"

  "What does it say?" Jean peered over my shoulder, trying to read the report that popped up.

  "Idealists make up eight to ten percent of the population," I read aloud. "They’re enthusiastic, intuitive, yearn for romance, and are the most romantic of the four basic personality types."

  "See! A vixen," Jean said. "The grown-up sexy siren."

  I frowned. "Hold the phone here! The yearning part, I can relate to. But the romantic part? That would require a man, right? Or at least a penchant for candles and flowing gowns.

  "Give me a pair of jeans any day, or a sleek spandex gown with a cutout back and high leg slits. Something with clean lines, not billows."

  I looked at Jean.

  She smiled a knowing smile at me. "You could have a man. What about that guy at the fish market? Hot, hot, hot! And to this unbiased observer, he looked interested. Very interested. He bought you a piroshki, didn’t he?"

  "Yeah, and never called me again."

  Or appeared in any more dreams.

  I kept reading. "Idealists dream of knowledge." Or in my case, sex. "And of attaining wisdom, and are passionately concerned with personal growth."

  I could live with pursuit of knowledge. But the rest?

  I said to Jean, "This test is fouled up. I bet it says you’re an idealist, too. Take it and see."

  She did. "Guardian."

  I could see her as a guardian, very momly.

  "So it worked for you. But I should be a rational. I have an engineering degree for heaven’s sake."

  Jean looked at the screen. "This test was written by a specialist in personality typing. Are you sure you answered the questions correctly?"

  What kind of an idiot did she think I was? There were no right and wrong answers on this test, just opinions, that’s what she’d said. I gave her a blank stare.

  "What I mean is, did you answer the way you really are, or the way you wish you were?" She patted my shoulder. "Take it again and this time be brutally honest with yourself."

  I submitted my answers and got the same result. Idealist, indeed!

  "This test is obviously malfunctioning."

  "Face it," Jean said. "You’ve learned something today. You aren’t who you thought you were." She gave me a playful push. "You’re just a seething, oozing, sensual, repressed romantic. Seize it, Leesa. Go with it."

  Somehow, that wasn’t reassuring.

  * * *

  Barn stood under the bright lights of C&H’s crystal extravaganza chandelier.

  "Barn, you look fabulous." I meant it, too.

  He was still overweight, but he’d dropped ten pounds by following Julie’s low carb diet books and eating only sugar-free jam on his toast. I could tell he felt svelte, which made him stand up straight and gave him confidence to strut the strut Sean had taught him. The shirt he wore camouflaged his considerable remaining girth well.

  Candy, Hank, Sean, and I had all stepped back to view our handiwork. Sean had been coaching him for the last week on what the ladies liked. On the way to stare at a woman as if she’s the most desirable object in the world. To give her the up-and-down with an appreciative grin
and good humor.

  I still thought Barn’s up-and-down looked more leering than flattering, but maybe that was all in the eye of the beholder. Hopefully Cara would like it. Or she’d kill me. Whatever. Sean had done his best.

  I’d coached Barn on what Cara liked. Topics of conversation sure to get things going and fill embarrassing dead air. Topics to avoid at all costs, unless he liked diatribes, lectures, and funky Italian hand gestures. Cruelty to animals would be top of that list.

  I’d made reservations for them at her favorite midpriced restaurant, a mere two $$ on the price scale in the restaurant guide section of the newspaper. Roger had very generously given Barn a two-for-one coupon from his Seattle’s Gold Coupon book. Sean had instructed Barn how to surreptitiously use the coupon so as not to look cheap. JCG was a regular image-updating, matchmaking team and I was proud of us.

  So much so that I spouted my modified Ryne-ism, "We’ve really proved there’s no I in group! This is terrific!"

  I turned to Candy. "You worked wonders. You really did."

  She beamed. She’d cut Barn’s hair, added a few blond highlights, and flatironed the whole thing into a bed-head look. She and Hank had gone through his closet and coordinated a chic outfit with the addition of just a few accessories from Target.

  "I think we could be on one of those shows, you know, as makeover specialists," I said. "They could pay us the big bucks and then we wouldn’t need to look for work anymore. Makeover artists to the common man. That’s catchy."

  "Plus we’d be TV personalities," Hank added.

  A little chime sounded somewhere from deep in the C&H condo. Sean slapped Barn on the back. "Time to be off to pick up the date, buddy."

  "Do you have your GPS programmed?" I asked.

  "And your comb and gel?" Candy’s two cents.

  "Your coupon? Her number?" From Hank.

  Finally, we ushered him out the door like nervous parents and watched from the front balcony as he drove off.

  "We should’ve snapped his picture!" I said. "Like all good parents do when their child goes out on a big first date."

  Everybody laughed.

  "How about a beer?" Candy said.

  We milled back to the kitchen, grabbed our long-necks and retired to the living room. Sean had brought his portfolio for me to see. He showed it off to an enthusiastic crowd. I promised again to recommend him to Julie. Lots of drawings of cars that looked real enough to be photos. And designs for things like pens and watches, seats and chairs. Very nice.

  After several, okay, probably too many, beers, Sean said, "Why don’t I just give you all a demonstration of my talents?"

  I looked at Candy and Hank. We paused as one, probably all wondering just exactly which talents he meant. I mean, this was Sean.

  He saw our expressions and laughed. "Not that! Sex is a one-on-one contact sport for me." Big grin. "I meant drawing. I’ll just pull out my sketch pad."

  Was that a collective sigh I heard? A little longing along with the relief?

  Sean drew a pencil sketch of each of us, which he refused to show us until he finished them. Then he made a big show of revealing his art.

  "Remember, these are as I see you." He shot us the charming leer. "Candy first." He turned Candy’s picture for us to see, watching for our reaction.

  "That’s how you see me! Naked." Candy leaned in for a closer look.

  For a second there I thought she was going to clock him.

  He grinned, unfazed and apparently unaware of impending danger. "Nudes are what I do. I’m classically trained."

  "I bet," I said, realizing that when he leered, he was mentally undressing us with his eyes. Sean, of the X-ray vision. "And watched one too many Playboy videos."

  Posed up against a car and covered in suds, Candy looked like the centerfold of his dreams. The car was nice, too.

  Hank leaned in for a look, nearly spilling her beer. "Nice car."

  That’s what I thought.

  Calming down, Candy pointed to a spot below the bikini line. "I have a mole right here."

  "Regular and round or irregular and cancer-like?" Sean flashed her a killer grin. "Just checking up on your health."

  "Round and dark." She held up her fingers. "About this big."

  "I’ll just pencil that in." Which he did.

  He drew Hank athletic and toned. And me . . .

  "Why am I draped over a bed looking like I just had the orgasm of my life?" I shot Sean a severe look.

  "What can I say? Artistic interpretation. I think I’ll call this one ‘Leesa in Ecstasy.’"

  First I take a personality test that says I’m passionate and romantic. And now Sean sees me this way?

  I leaned in for a closer look. Oval face with a small, but definite chin, full lips slightly parted. He’d even made my ordinary nose look pert and sexy. Embarrassing as it was, his drawing did make me look good. No wonder guys appreciated that particular expression during sex. I reached for the sketch.

  He snatched it away.

  "Give that to me."

  "Not on your life. The drawing belongs to the artist." Then he grinned. "I’ll gift it to you at an appropriate time."

  Yeah, that’s what worried me.

  Chapter 15

  Job-free days: 57

  August Unemployment Log

  Jobless days left: 4

  Goals: Work harder on the patience goal. I’m feeling impatience slipping in everywhere. I want the Howard job and I want it now! And is Ryne ever going to contact me again? I know he’s busy and traveling a lot, but . . .

  * * *

  My cell phone rang, raising me from the fog of sleep. My head pounded. A hangover. I’d always been a lightweight.

  The guys used to tease me in college. Said I’d be the first student in the history of the university to actually flunk fluids lab. Could I help it if hanging out with the profs and drinking beer wasn’t my specialty? Most of the guys had a fifty to eighty pound advantage on me in the first place.

  Labs had never been my strong suit. I hated them.

  My heart leaped into overdrive. It was probably Cara, calling to bawl me out about Barn. When I saw who was calling, my heart really flipped.

  "Ryne?"

  "Hey, Leesa. Sorry to disturb you so early on a Saturday morning. Hope I didn’t wake you." There was a tease in his voice. He didn’t sound sorry in the least.

  "Wake me! Are you kidding?" I said, rubbing my eyes as my heart tripped over itself. "I had to get up to answer the phone."

  We both laughed.

  "So what’s up?" I asked.

  "I’m hoping to call in a favor. My laptop died on me and I can’t reach any of my tech guys. I’m at Seatac. My flight leaves in an hour and a half and I need this damned machine for a presentation I have to make tomorrow afternoon. So I called the only engineering genius I know. Think you can help?"

  "A dead laptop? That’s tricky. Describe the symptoms." I had my fingers crossed it was a problem I knew something about.

  "The screen’s dead, but it sounds like the processor’s running."

  Sigh of relief. "I’m not a technician. No promises, but if it’s just a dead screen, I think I can fix it."

  "You’ll come?"

  "Only if you’ll pay for my parking."

  "You got it. You work cheap."

  "What can I say? I don’t want to blow my unemployment."

  "Meet you at the Starbucks in the main concourse." He told me to call him on his cell if I had trouble finding him.

  I had no time to shower. Instead, I gave myself a French bath with a little of Julie’s hundred dollar an ounce perfume, took two ibuprofen, and dressed in one of Julie’s tight summer tops and a pair of low ride stretch denim shorts without too many ember holes evident.

  As I dressed, I realized this was the perfect opportunity to try out my NLP skills on Ryne. Only thing was, I hadn’t completely memorized that smiley face chart. I’d need a cheat sheet. I could write it on my palm, but that would be obvious.
>
  I remembered a box of retro bandages I’d seen in Julie’s bathroom when I was scrounging for the ibuprofen and a nice shade of pink lipstick. Peace signs. Smiley faces. Who knew why she had them? Probably because of their bright color. Lots of purple. Anyway, they were perfect for my purpose.

  I grabbed one of the bandages and drew the key on the smiley face. Now, to adhere it to a fake injury. The palm? No, wouldn’t stick. The wrist? Uh, uh, not the most common place for a cut; looked like I’d slashed one wrist and given up on suicide. Finger? Bingo.

  I grabbed my tools and ran downstairs and nearly straight into Dad.

  "Off somewhere?"

  "Er."

  "Meeting a boy?" Dadly disapproval. "Same guy you got drunk with last night?"

  Now how would he know I’d gotten drunk? "I was out with friends last night."

  Raised eyebrows.

  I hated living at home and being treated like a kid again.

  "Whatever you’ve been up to, you’d better lay off the brewskis, kid. You aren’t gaining weight, are you?"

  I glanced down at my body. Did I look fat? Too much of the chocolate goal?

  "What!"

  "You’re clothes aren’t fitting right. They seem a little tight up top."

  Whew! Relief. Very observant, Sherlock. Of course these clothes didn’t fit exactly right. They were Julie’s. I just shrugged, hoping he wouldn’t connect the dots and realize I’d been doing some unauthorized borrowing.

  "Where are you going?"

  More of the third degree.

  "To Seatac for an interview." I nodded, pleased with my lie. An interview would get Dad off my back. "A recruiter just called. He wants me to meet him at Seatac."

  Dad gave me a scrutinizing look. "Dressed like a slut in short shorts and a skintight top? That’s the way you intend to go to an interview?"

  "He said dress casual. Since the fire I don’t have many wardrobe choices."

  Dad’s body language and expression spoke nonbelief. "At the airport?"

  "All those metal detectors and scanners. It’s safe there isn’t it? A good place to meet with strangers."