“I can’t take it.” Gregori gave her a desperate look. Darcy knew he was already regretting his offer to house Roman’s newly rejected harem. “It took me a week to move their luggage. Princess Joanna had fifty-two boxes. And Cora Lee had so many trunks—”
“Thirty-four,” Darcy muttered. “It’s all those hoop skirts she wears. They take up a lot of room.”
“Room I don’t have.” Gregori dragged a hand through his thick chestnut hair. “When I offered to take them in, I didn’t realize they would come with so much crap. And they’re acting like they plan to stay forever.”
“I understand. I’m stuck there, too.” Ten women squashed into two bedrooms, sharing one bathroom. It was a nightmare. But unfortunately, dealing with horror was nothing new to Darcy. “I’m sorry, Gregori, but I don’t know how I can help you.”
“You can show them how to get a life,” he whispered. “Encourage them to be independent.”
“They won’t listen to me. They consider me an outsider.”
“You can do it. Already Maggie is following your example.” He lay a hand on her shoulder. “I have faith in you.”
If only she had some in herself. There had been a time when she’d glowed with confidence. She took a deep breath. She needed that old Darcy back. She needed this job.
Gregori glanced at his watch. “I have an appointment in thirty minutes, so I’ll catch up with you later.” He looked around the room and grinned. “I think I see some babes I know.”
Darcy smiled as he sauntered off. Gregori was such a charmer. She never would have survived without his friendship.
Maggie sidled up close, a frown creasing her youthful face. “There are so many people here. And they look more…dramatic than me.”
“Don’t worry. You look adorable.” At the beginning of her confinement, Darcy had been shocked by the way the harem ladies dressed. Each one was trapped in an individual time warp, still clinging to the fashions they had experienced as mortals. She’d encouraged them to modernize their tastes, but only Maggie and Vanda had been willing to invent new looks for themselves. Maggie’s usual attire was a short plaid skirt, fishnet hose, and a tight black sweater to highlight her generous bosom.
Darcy turned to face the reception desk. It seemed a mile away. Clutching her portfolio to her chest, she weaved through the crowd with Maggie close behind. The Vamps had gathered into groups, chatting and gesturing wildly with their hands. Darcy passed one group, noting the heavy makeup and clothes that showed too much skin. Sheesh. Whatever happened to manly men? She turned to check out the females instead.
“What happened to Gregori?” Maggie looked over the crowd, her eyes wide with worry. Her short stature made it easy for her to lose people.
Darcy spotted him with a group of women, each with hair dyed an unnatural color. They arched around him like a rainbow. When he smiled and spoke to them, they tittered with laughter.
“He’s fine.” Maybe those women thought green, blue, and pink hair was wild and wicked, but Darcy thought they looked more like a cuddly clan of Care Bears. Hi! My name is TenderHeart Vamp. Do you need a hug? She suppressed the image with a shudder. Good God, she’d been cooped up for way too long.
The receptionist was painting her fingernails a glossy blood red to match the highlights in her hair. “If you’re here for the auditions, sign in and wait your turn.” She pointed a wet nail at a clipboard.
Maggie studied the clipboard, her eyes growing wider. “Sweet Mary, I’ll be number sixty-two.”
“Yeah, it’s like this every night.” The receptionist blew on her fingernails. “But you won’t have to wait very long.”
“Okay.” Maggie added her name on the bottom of the list.
“What about you?” The receptionist wrinkled her nose at Darcy’s conservative business suit.
“I have an appointment with Sylvester Bacchus.”
“Yeah, right. If you’re here for an acting job, you’ll have to wait your turn.” The receptionist pointed at the clipboard.
Darcy pasted a smile on her face. “I’m a professional journalist, and Mr. Bacchus is expecting me. My name is Darcy Newhart.”
The receptionist snorted to convey how under-whelmed she was, then checked a paper on her desk. Her mouth fell open. “No freakin’ way.”
“Excuse me?” Darcy asked.
“You’re on the list, but…” The receptionist narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure you’re Darcy Newhart?”
“Yes.” Who else would she be? Darcy’s smile withered away.
“Well, that’s freakin’ weird. I guess you might as well see him. Third door on the left.”
“Thank you.” Not a good start. Darcy squelched a feeling of doom. She rounded the desk and strode down the hall.
“You’d better knock first,” the receptionist yelled in her nasal voice. “He may be in the middle of an audition.”
Darcy glanced back. The receptionist was lolling back in her chair, wiggling fingers in the air while she admired her nail polish. Maggie gave Darcy an encouraging smile. She smiled weakly back, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a gruff voice hollered.
She entered the room and turned to close the door. Behind her, she heard a curious sound. A zipper?
She pivoted to face Sylvester Bacchus. He looked about fifty in mortal years, though there was no way she could estimate his age as a vampire. Mostly bald, he had embraced the condition by keeping the rest of his hair buzzed short. His moustache and beard were closely cropped and well-groomed, dark hair sprinkled with gray. His brown eyes immediately checked her out, focusing on her chest for far too long.
She lifted her leather portfolio to block his view. “How do you do? I’m—”
“You’re new.” His gaze drifted to her hips. “Not bad.”
Her face heated up as she debated the long-range ramifications of starting a job interview by slapping the prospective employer in the face. Her dilemma was cut short when she noticed a blond head slowly rising from behind the desk.
“I’m sorry.” Darcy retreated toward the door. “I didn’t realize you were busy.”
“No problem.” Mr. Bacchus glanced at the blonde. “That’ll be all, Tiffany. You can…polish my shoes another day.”
She tilted her head. “You want me to do your shoes, too?”
“No,” he grumbled. “Just come back in a week.”
Darcy realized the zipper she’d heard was real. Good God, if this was how auditions were conducted, she needed to warn Maggie. She’d always been under the impression that vampires preferred vampire sex, a purely mental exercise that was considered superior to sloppy and sweaty mortal sex. Obviously, Mr. Bacchus possessed a more open mind. And a more open zipper.
Meanwhile, Tiffany had jumped to her feet and was pressing her hands to her plump breasts. “You mean I’m being recalled?”
“Sure.” Mr. Bacchus patted her on the rump. “Off you go.”
“Yes, Mr. Bacchus.” Tiffany executed an amazing walk toward the door, managing to sway her hips and jiggle her breasts all at the same time. She leaned over to turn the door knob, jutting out her derrière and arching her back as if the act of opening a door could spiral her into fits of orgasmic ecstasy. She paused halfway out the door to toss a seductive smile back at Mr. Bacchus, then slithered down the hall.
Darcy kept her face carefully blank so her simmering anger wouldn’t show. She should have known the Digital Vampire Network would adhere to archaic, chauvinistic rules of behavior. It was the same way throughout the vampire world. Most of the female Vamps were at least a hundred years old. Many were centuries old, so they didn’t know about the advances mortal women had made. They didn’t want to know. They were so sure their own world was vastly superior.
The end result was tragic. Female Vamps had no idea how poorly they were treated. They simply accepted their lot as normal. Darcy had told the harem ladies about the brave women who had suffered in order to obtain the vote. Her pass
ionate tribute had been dismissed as ridiculous hogwash. No one voted for coven masters in the vampire world. How dreadfully plebian.
But this was the world she was stuck with. And since DVN was the only television network in the vampire world, it provided her only chance for the type of job she desperately wanted. And the independence she craved. So she had to be polite to Mr. Bacchus. Even if he was a sexist pig.
“Come on in. Don’t be shy.” Mr. Bacchus lounged back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. “And shut the door, so we can have some privacy.” He winked.
Darcy’s eye twitched, and she prayed it hadn’t looked like she was winking back. She shut the door and approached his desk. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Bacchus. I’m Darcy Newhart, a professional television journalist.” She removed the résumé from her portfolio and placed it on his desk. “As you can see—”
“What?” He lowered his feet to the floor. “You’re Darcy Newhart?”
“Yes. You will notice on my résumé that I have—”
“But you’re a woman.”
Her eye twitched again. “Yes, I am, and as you can see”—she pointed to a section on her résumé—“I worked several years at a local news station here in the city—”
“Goddammit!” Mr. Bacchus pounded a fist onto his desk. “You were supposed to be a man.”
“I assure you, I’ve been a female all my life.”
“With a name like Darcy? Who the hell names a girl Darcy?”
“My mother did. She was very fond of Jane Austen—”
“Then why didn’t she name you Jane? Shit.” Mr. Bacchus leaned back in his chair to glower at the ceiling.
“If you could look at my résumé, you would see that I’m more than qualified for a position on the Nightly News.”
“You’re not qualified,” he muttered. “You’re a woman.”
“I fail to see how my gender has anything to—”
He rocked forward suddenly, pinning her with a glare. “Have you ever seen a woman on the Nightly News?”
“No, but this would be an ideal opportunity for you to rectify that error.” Oops. Poor choice of words.
“Error? Are you crazy? Women don’t do the news.”
“I did.” She tapped a finger on her résumé.
He glanced down. “That’s the mortal world. What the hell do they know? Their world’s a mess.” He crumbled up her paper and tossed it aside.
Darcy’s heart fell into her stomach. “You could hire me for a month on a probationary status, so I could prove my ability—”
“No way. Stone would tear this place apart if I tried to pair him up with a female co-anchor.”
“I understand. He’s an excellent news anchor.” Dull as a rock was more like it. “But Stone does all the stories, droning—I mean, talking for the entire thirty minutes.”
“So?”
“The Nightly News would be more exciting and faster paced if you included reports from correspondents in the field. That was my specialty, and I would be delighted to—”
“I was considering doing that. And I was thinking about hiring you, but you turned out to be a woman.”
Her heart dropped a few inches lower. “I fail to see—”
“News is serious business. We can’t have females doing it. People would miss something important, ’cause they were looking at your perky little breasts.”
Her shoulders slumped, taking her perky little breasts with them. This was it—the impenetrable wall of male vampire chauvinism, and once more, she’d slammed right into it. If only she could take a sledgehammer to it. Or a baseball bat to Mr. Bacchus’s egg-shaped head. “I could work behind the scenes. I used to write my own—”
“You can write?”
“Yes.”
“Can you be entertaining?”
“Yes.” Her reports had been considered humorous.
He studied her. “You strike me as somewhat intelligent.”
Her eye twitched. “Thank you.”
“We’re flooded every night with the flashy ones who want to be in front of the camera. Finding someone with intelligence and experience to work behind the scenes is a major problem.”
“I’m very good at solving problems.”
“Are you? Then I’ll tell you what I really need at DVN.” He leaned forward. “I need a big hit.”
With a baseball bat? “You mean a new show?”
“Yeah.” Mr. Bacchus stood and wandered toward a dry-erase board on the wall. “Do you realize that since DVN has been on the air, our lineup of shows has never changed?”
“Everyone loves your shows. Especially the soap operas.”
“It’s boring! Look at this.” He pointed at the board where DVN’s schedule was displayed. “Every freaking night, it’s the same thing. We start at eight o’clock with the Nightly News with Stone Cauffyn. Then, at eight-thirty, it’s Live with the Undead, our celebrity gossip magazine.”
“With Corky Courrant. I saw her a few weeks ago at the Gala Opening Ball.”
Mr. Bacchus pivoted toward her, his eyes wide. “You were invited to the ball?”
“Yes. I…used to be associated with Roman Draganesti.”
“How?”
“I worked part time at Romatech.” She’d refused to take an allowance from Roman, so Gregori had arranged for her to work in a back room at Romatech a few nights a week. Roman had okayed it, as long as no mortal ever saw her.
“Draganesti is one of our top sponsors.” Mr. Bacchus watched her, scratching his beard. “How well do you know him?”
A blush crept up to her cheeks. “I…lived in his house.”
“Really? You were in his harem?”
“I—you could say that.” But she never would.
“Hmm.” Mr. Bacchus’s heated gaze wandered over her body. Clearly, her non-writing abilities were being reassessed.
She lifted her chin. “You were describing the schedule?”
“Oh, yeah.” He turned back to the board. “In the nine o’clock slot, we have As the Vampire Turns, starring Don Orlando de Corazon. Then at ten, we have All My Vampires, and at eleven, General Morgue. But what happens at midnight?” He jabbed a finger at the dry-erase board.
Darcy frowned. There was nothing there. What did come on at midnight? By then, she was usually at Romatech, immersed to her ears in boring paperwork.
“Nothing!” Mr. Bacchus yelled. “We start over again and repeat the whole damned schedule. It’s pathetic! The midnight hour should be our greatest show ever, the pièce de résistance. But we have…nothing.” He trudged back to his desk.
Darcy took a deep breath. This was her chance to show her true worth. “You need a new show, but not another soap opera.”
“That’s right.” Mr. Bacchus paced behind his desk. “Maybe a cop show. A vampire cop. We could call it Blood and Disorder. That would be different. What do you think we should do?”
Gulp. She racked her brain. What had been the rage before her world had fallen apart? “How about a reality show?”
He whirled around to face her. “I like it! What could be more real than vampires? But what would be the premise?”
Her mind went completely blank. Damn. She sat in a chair and arranged her portfolio across her lap to buy herself some time. A reality show. What was real? The harem’s new dilemma? “How about an expelled harem in need of a new master?”
“Not bad.” Mr. Bacchus nodded. “Damned good, actually. Hey, wasn’t Draganesti’s harem just kicked out?”
“Yes. Corky did a feature about it on Live with the Undead.” But none of the ladies had participated. It was too humiliating.
“You know, some of those harem ladies are famous. Could you get them to do the show?”
“I—I believe so.”
“You know Draganesti really well, right?” Mr. Bacchus’s mouth twisted with a knowing smirk. “Could you get him to rent us a big, fancy penthouse for the show? You know, one of those glitzy ones with a swimming pool on the roof.”
“I—I suppose.” Maybe Gregori could figure something out.
“It’s gotta have a hot tub. Can’t have a reality show without a hot tub.”
“I understand.”
“And you have experience in television?”
“Yes.” Darcy glanced at the trash can that now held her neatly typed résumé. “I graduated in television journalism at the University of Southern California and worked in that region for several years before moving to New York and a position at Local Four News—”
“Fine, fine.” Mr. Bacchus waved a hand to shut her up. “Look, I want this reality show. If you can get us a fancy location and guarantee that Draganesti’s old harem will participate, then you’ve got a job. Director.”
Her heart lurched. Director of a reality show? Okay. She could handle this. She had to. It was this or nothing.
“So can you do it? Deliver the penthouse and the harem?”
“Yes.” She clenched her portfolio with a white-knuckled grip. “I’d be delighted.” God help her.
“And don’t forget the hot tub.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Great! I’ll have an office ready for you tomorrow night. What do you want to call the show?”
Her mind raced, searching for a pithy title. How to Dig Your Own Grave in Less than Five Minutes? “Well, the women will be selecting the perfect man to be their new master.”
Mr. Bacchus perched on the corner of his desk and scratched at his beard. “The Perfect Man? Or The Perfect Master?”
Not exciting enough. Darcy closed her eyes briefly to concentrate. Maggie would think Don Orlando was the perfect man. What had she called him? “How about The Sexiest Man on Earth?”
“Excellent!” Mr. Bacchus grinned. “And call me Sly. It’s short for Sylvester.”
“Thank you…Sly.”
“This has gotta be a hit. Not just an ordinary show, but one with twists and surprises.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Auditions will be easy. As you can see in the lobby, there’ll be lots of male Vamps trying out for the show.”
Darcy winced. Somehow her idea of the world’s sexiest man didn’t include makeup. “Do they all have to be Vamps?”