Darcy jumped when the cell phone inside her portfolio started to ring. It was a new phone, a gift from Gregori, so she'd be able to call him if she needed him.
Maggie drew close. "I wonder who's calling?"
"I don't know. Hardly anyone knows this number." Darcy fumbled in her portfolio and found the phone. "Hello?"
"Darcy!" Vanda's loud voice sounded frantic. "I'm coming over. Is it safe?"
"You mean you're teleporting? It's safe enough, but this isn't a good time." Darcy could hear screeching voices in the background. "Vanda? What's going on?"
"Is something wrong?" Maggie asked.
"I don't know." Darcy closed her phone when Vanda materialized in the room. "What are you doing here?"
Vanda looked around. "Great. You haven't started yet."
"You shouldn't be here," Darcy insisted. "You're the only one I have for the reality show, and you're not supposed to see the guys beforehand."
"Don't worry. I'll behave." Vanda adjusted the black whip she wore around her waist as a belt.
"Besides, I had to get out of that apartment. It's a war zone."
"What happened?" Maggie asked.
"Everyone was grumbling at Cora Lee because her stupid hoop skirts take up all the closet space. Then Cora Lee said" — Vanda affected a southern accent— "I do declare the female form looks more beguiling in the corsets and hoop skirts of the Victorian era than any other style in the entire history of the world."
Darcy made a face. "If you enjoy being tortured."
"Right." Vanda ran a hand through her short, spiky, purple hair. "Then, Maria Consuela said medieval gowns were much more attractive, and Cora Lee's hoop skirts could go to El Diablo."
"Sweet Mary and Joseph." Maggie crossed herself.
Vanda grinned. "Then, Lady Pamela Smythe-Worthing put on her snooty face and announced that the most elegant gowns ever created were the ones worn in Regency England. And that's when Cora Lee said that the high waistlines on Lady Pamela's gowns make her look as wide as the side of a barn."
Darcy winced. "And that's when the fight started?"
"Not quite. Lady Pamela screamed she was so dreadfully overset that she was flying into some boughs, or something like that. Then, she zipped over to the closet, grabbed one of Cora Lee's hoop skirts, and stuffed it into the fireplace."
"Oh, my!" Maggie pressed a hand to her chest. "And that's when the fight started?"
"Not quite. The skirt caught fire, but being a hoop skirt, it popped back out of the fireplace and landed on Princess Joanna's velvet cape."
Darcy gasped. "Not the red one lined in ermine? It's worth a fortune."
"That's the one." Vanda raised her hands dramatically. "And that's when all hell broke loose."
Maggie sighed. "That was Princess Joanna's favorite cape."
"I know," Vanda agreed. "And the really sad thing was that she was wearing it at the time."
"What?" Darcy squeaked. "Is she all right?"
"She's a little on the crispy side. But she'll be fine after a good day's sleep."
Darcy collapsed into a chair. "This is terrible! Those ladies are going to kill each other."
"I know. You've never seen the princess so steamed." Vanda snorted. "Or rather, she was smokin'."
The conference door opened, and Ms. Stein peeked inside. "Are you ready?" Her mouth fell open at the sight of Vanda. She glanced around the room, then looked behind her at the empty hall. "How— how did—I thought there were only two of you."
Darcy stood and smiled like nothing odd had happened. "This is Vanda Barkowski. She's my… second assistant."
Ms. Stein's eyes widened as she took in Vanda's purple hair and black spandex catsuit. "Okay. We, uh, we're ready to begin. My secretary, Michelle, will bring each candidate to you."
"Thank you, Ms. Stein." Darcy rounded the table so she would be facing the door.
Ms. Stein backed out of the room, closing the door.
Darcy took a seat at the center of the table, then removed a pad of paper and pen from her portfolio.
Vanda sat on her right. "So, we're looking for the most handsome men? That's easy. They're tall, dark, and mysterious."
"You mean like Don Orlando." Maggie sat on Darcy's left. "He would be my choice for the sexiest man on earth."
Vanda propped an elbow on the table. "What about you, Darcy? What do you think is sexy?"
"Well, let me think." She recalled her sunny, carefree days on the beaches of southern California. Which guys had made her heart rush like the pounding surf? "He would be intelligent, kind, honest, and have a bright sense of humor."
"Boring." Vanda yawned. "Tell us what he looks like."
Darcy narrowed her eyes, envisioning the perfect man. "He'd be tall with broad shoulders and golden skin bronzed by the sun. His hair would be blond, no, light brown, but with blond streaks, bleached by the sun. He'd have blue eyes that sparkle like a lake when the sun is setting. And his smile would be bright—"
"Let me guess," Vanda muttered. "Like the sun?"
Darcy grinned sheepishly. "Well, you asked. That's my idea of the perfect man."
Maggie shook her head. "Darlin', that's not a man. That's Apollo, the sun god."
Vanda snorted with laughter.
Apollo, the sun god? Darcy groaned. Maybe the perfect man was a myth, a false hope that would never see the light of day.
A knock sounded on the door. A young woman peeked in. "Hi, I'm Michelle." With her nice suit and her brown hair pulled back into a bun, it was obvious the secretary was emulating her boss.
"Your first applicant is ready. Bobby Streisand."
Darcy picked up her pen to take notes, then froze. A tall woman with broad shoulders had entered the room. Her red evening gown sparkled with sequins. She flipped a red feather boa over one shoulder and struck a dramatic pose.
What? Darcy's mouth fell open. Didn't Ms. Stein know she was like the army—looking for a few good men? "I'm sorry, but we're looking for a male—"
"He is male," Vanda whispered.
Darcy blinked and looked more closely. Oh, dear.
Bobby sauntered toward them, his hips swaying in the tight red dress. "I'm all male, darling," he said in a deep, husky voice. "Would you like to hear me sing? My rendition of 'Memories' is guaranteed to make you cry." He set an eight-by-ten glossy autographed photo on the table and patted it gently. His red nail polish was an exact match to his dress.
Darcy stared at her, or him, for a moment. How could this happen? She'd made it clear that they were searching for the sexiest man on earth. "I–I'm afraid you won't be suitable for the role we have in mind."
Bobby's face crumbled. Sniffling, he drew a lace-trimmed hanky from the bosom of his evening gown. "It's always the same. People never understand me."
Darcy groaned inwardly. Shoot, now he was going to cry.
"I only want the chance to prove myself. Is that too much to ask?" Bobby dabbed at his eyes. "Why can't I be considered for a leading male role?"
"It might help if you dressed like a male," Vanda muttered.
"But I am male. I'm all male," Bobby insisted, then leaned toward Darcy. "Is my mascara running?"
"No, you look… great."
"Thank you." Bobby smiled sadly, his red lips trembling. "Don't worry about me." He held up a hand as if to ward off their sympathy. "Somehow, I will survive. I'll continue the struggle. After all, I'm an artiste. And I must never sacrifice my personal style."
"Of course not, Mr. Streisand. If I need someone with your… style, I'll be sure to give you a call."
Bobby raised the hanky high into the air, then yanked his arm down to clutch the hanky against his chest. "I thank you." He glided out the door.
Darcy shook her head. "It's gotta get better than this."