Goddess of Light (Goddess Summoning #3)(9)

"E. D. Faust! Wow!" said a breathless man who rushed up to Eddie, knocked aside the glaring teenagers and pumped his hand vigorously. "I have all your books."

"I applaud your taste in literature, sir!"

Eddie's tone was jovial, but there was no mistaking the pained look he gave James.

"There are more instructions in the briefcase, as well as contact numbers if you need to reach us before Monday. Now I must tend to him," James finished quickly.

Pamela watched as James maneuvered through the growing crowd to Eddie's side and announced that Mr. Faust must be going, he had an important interview for which he could not be late. Eddie lifted his bulk from the bench, winked at Pamela, and began making his way with well-practiced reluctance to the exit. The crowd followed him, still vying for him to sign a T-shirt or even the back of a hand.

Left behind, Pamela shook her head slowly in amazement. She looked at the crowd as it moved away down the pretend street after the fantasy author, and she felt a little like Alice after she'd fallen down the hole. And the crowd kept growing, mostly teenage boys and men with comb-overs who wore white socks pulled up to their knees. They were mobbing him, and Pamela could see James's tall figure hustling his boss forward while the author's distinctive laughter drifted back to her. Eddie was like a rock star - a dorky rock star, but a rock star nonetheless. It was amazing. She'd had no idea.

Her gaze shifted back to the atrocious fountain that was at the moment, thankfully, silent. She sighed. One step at a time, she reminded herself. She'd go to her room, freshen up, check in with Vernelle, then come back down here for dinner and - she thought about what the statue had said - she'd catch the evening show. It couldn't possibly be any-worse than what she'd already seen.

"Say again, Pammy, I couldn't have heard you right."

"You heard me right, V. The horrid thing talks. And lights up in honest-to-God neon colors. And he wants one like it in his courtyard." Sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed in her opulent suite, Pamela pulled off one of her stiletto pumps and rubbed the arch of her foot.

"The courtyard in the gorgeous Italian villa-like home?"

"The very same."

"Bloody buggering hell."

"My thoughts exactly," Pamela said.

"It's worse than Venus rising." V snorted. "Silly tripod."

The term made Pamela laugh, as it always did. Tripod, Vernelle had explained to her when they had begun working together three years ago, was a lesbian slang word for a man. V was most definitely a lesbian. Not a man-hating, cynical lesbian. Vernelle Wilson liked men. She just didn't like sleeping with them. She had explained it to Pamela like this: "Men bore me. After I've been with one for a little while I think I'd rather blow my brains out than wake up next to him and listen to his inane, manly blather for the rest of my life. Now women..." Her hazel eyes had sparkled and her grin had turned her face pixielike. "Women I can listen to forever."

And that was one of Vernelle's many strengths: listening to women. She never rushed a decision from any female client, and she seemed to innately understand exactly what one meant when she wanted "that purpley-blue shade somewhere between the night sky and a pansy."

Although not formally educated in interior design, Vernelle was a professional artist and graphic designer - as Ruby Slipper's amazing Web site and unique logo could attest to. She had an eye for color and texture, as well as being a sharp businesswoman. Hiring V as her assistant had been the first of many savvy decisions Pamela had made when she began her own business. V liked to say that it showed how highly evolved Pamela was that she had chosen her over the bevy of g*y guys who had applied for the job.

Pamela stifled her laughter before it became hysterical. "I don't know, V. This may be the job that I can't turn tasteful. I mean, please. He wants Roman Liberace. Totally tacky."

"Hey, it's too early to give up. And remember, it's Friday night, and you're in Vegas."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. More importantly, how is the Katherine Graham project coming? You're obviously still breathing, so she must not have driven you to suicide yet."

"Hey, give me some credit. I like the old broad."

"Sure, like as in you like going to the dentist," Pamela said.

V laughed. "No, really. She's growing on me. I still hate her zillions of cats, and I have no idea how a woman who chain smokes and drinks brandy like it's water can still be alive and kicking at eighty-seven, but her raunchy sense of humor has become almost charming."

"And her color scheme is..."

"I've talked her out of the purples and pinks. We've practically decided on yellow, sage green, and a hint of red. When we get done with the exterior, that gihugic Victorian will look like it's ten years old rather than one hundred and ten."

"Then we'll get to work on the inside."

Together, Pamela and Vernelle sighed.

"So, that's going well. How about the Starnes reupholster job?"

"It's fine, Pamela. And so is the flooring for the Bates formal living room and the window treatments for the Thackerys. Would you please not worry about work? You tied up all the loose ends before you left - and I can take care of the ongoing jobs. If I get stuck on anything new, I'll call you."