Despite the noise level, the plumed heads of the four stylists tilted toward the front. Their venomous looks would turn a lesser woman into a pillar of salt. Max was made of stronger stuff.
Her host, however, scanned her from hair to chest to hips, then back up, with a lingering glance at her breasts. Finally, his gaze rose to meet her eyes. The man had no shame. Neither did Max. His perusal had not been a construction-worker wolf-whistle equivalent. She’d just been totally appreciated in a manner which only a man who truly loves women could bestow. And Max was flattered.
Despite the survey, the man was all business. “We’ll need references and five years work history.”
Five years? For a receptionist? The guy might be a consummate flatterer, but he was out of his mind. Max thought fast. “I’m divorced. I’ve only been working for two. Does housewife count?”
Homemaker was the last thing she would have excelled at. She didn’t know how to cook, hated cleaning, and the words ironing board had never crossed her lips. Cameron’s concurring laughter floated on the air, cutting through the cacophony.
While most people talked while looking at a person’s mouth or the nose or anywhere but directly into the eyes, this man held Max’s gaze steadily. He smiled without showing teeth. “Have you done time as a receptionist?”
She’d done time as many things, from CPA to lost soul. She figured one of them was close enough to cover receptionist duties. “Yes. I’ve done temp assignments for The Wright Agency.”
He reached under the cosmetics counter, which seemed to do equal time as the reception desk, pulled out a pad and handed it to her. “My name is Miles Lamont. I own this establishment.” He waved a hand to encompass the shop, the accoutrements, and the four stylists. “And I’m desperate.”
Max hadn’t expected him to be so up front. Under normal circumstances, his desperation would have given her room to negotiate an adequate wage. Money wasn’t, however, her primary concern.
What she wanted was the truth. All of it. Every dirty detail of Tiffany’s last day on earth. Had she worked the day of her death? If so, what phone calls had she received? Made? Had she talked about her plans for the night? Had she told anyone she planned to get laid at the Round Up in front of a hungry male crowd?
Miles Lamont handed her a pen. “Fill this out. If everything checks”—his hypnotic gaze whisked over her once more—“you can start tomorrow.”
Wondering about the fate of the previous receptionist, Max took the pen and employment application to a seat by the latticed front window. She took her time filling it out, mostly using her powers of observation rather than her writing skills. The right-side stations were occupied by three young women with identical laughter. Max had difficulty telling the voices apart. Their attention snapped back to their clients as Miles Lamont’s eyes flashed across them like flame-throwers. On the left, a blonde bleached the gray roots of her customer, rubbing her nose with the back of a latex-covered hand. She didn’t laugh as openly or as regularly as the three across the room. Each station was decorated in a different motif, Max began to catalogue them ...
Lamont turned, eyed Max, looked from her application to the clock on the wall and back to Max again. He was timing her, and she obviously wasn’t writing fast enough.
She finished the paperwork, handed it back, smiled, and straightened her shoulders beneath the strength of his gaze.
He held out his hand, glancing down at the application. “Nice to meet you, Max Starr.”
His hand was warm, a tad damp, but strong. He hung on a moment longer than polite or necessary. Looking down at her wedding ring, he asked, “Do you go by Miss or Mrs.?”
“Mrs.”
What was he fishing for? She’d already told him she was divorced. There was something in his glance and the redundancy of his question, but Max couldn’t say what. So much for her newly acknowledged psychic skills.
“By the way, Mrs. Starr,” he emphasized the title. “I really will have to insist on giving you a new style before you begin.”
She touched her short, uneven hair. She knew she needed it and had the sense not to get pissed at him. She also found the temerity to unapologetically say, “Only if it’s on the house, Mr. Lamont. I’m on a budget.”
“Please, call me Miles. And Max,” he paused while she noted his increased familiarity. “I am desperate. You’ve got the job. You can start tomorrow. And of course, the cut will be on the house and with my personal attention. You’ll find I can be very generous.”
Ah, she caught the first whiff of a psychic burst. Miles Lamont was desperate for more than just a receptionist.
*
From her second floor window, Max watched Witt pull into the gravel drive that evening in a black and red Sport Ram truck exactly like the one in her dream.
“I’m going to kill you, Cameron.”
“I’m already dead.”
She’d kill him anyway. “You nudged him. I know you did.”
“Nudged him about what?”
“Dammit, DeWitt Quentin Long is not a Ram kind of guy.”