Guests are due to start arriving in thirty minutes and my office looks like it’s been ransacked. Crates and packing material are scattered everywhere, thanks to all the auction pieces that have been unwrapped and transported upstairs.

Well, not quite all.

I roll my eyes as I glance at the open crate labeled Extremely Fragile—Break It and You Die. Gregor Standish, the artist who donated it, has been a pain in my ass since the day he decided to get involved with this Mary’s House event. As grateful as I am that we’re going to raise even more money because of his contribution, part of me wishes he would just come pick up the monstrosity. It looks like a cactus made of blobs of yellow wax left out in the sun too long.

New Orleans Rising, he calls it.

It looks like New Orleans melting, if you ask me, but then again, what do I know? The kind of art I like isn’t what inspires people to gather in groups and talk about how it makes them question their existential crisis, not that I know what that means either.

My kind of art is raw and obvious. The kind that lacks subtlety and punches you in the gut when you see it. Maybe that’s because I wasn’t raised sophisticated enough to be the existential-crisis type.

My gaze shifts to the sculpture in the opposite corner of my office—one that won’t be in the auction because no one would ever ask its artist to donate. The fleur de lis stands five feet tall, made of welded reclaimed metal objects.

Junk art. At least, that’s what my daddy used to call my creations. I can still hear his voice telling me that we’d be better off getting the scrap money from the metal than letting me play with it.

Just one more reason it’s hard to be sad he’s gone.

I turn away from the crate and the sculpture and reach for the dress hanging on the back of my door. It wouldn’t do for the COO of Seven Sinners to arrive in a blouse covered in smudges of dust and dirt from all the manual labor I put in this afternoon ensuring every piece was perfectly arranged upstairs.

But, of course, I’m not allowed to move New Orleans Rising until the artist, Gregor Standish, arrives tonight, and he’s late.

Putting Mr. Standish’s problem with punctuality out of my mind for two minutes, I kick off my shoes, adjust my thigh-highs, and pull the little black dress, flattering yet completely professional, off the hanger.

I step into it and reach around for the zipper. It’s about three inches above my ass when my arm cramps and someone knocks on my office door, the door I didn’t remember to lock before stripping to change.

“Shit,” I whisper, hopping on one foot and attempting to contort my arm so I can reach the zipper I’ve lost my grip on. “Hold on, please.”

The door opens and a man sticks his head inside.

“Oh. So sorry. I didn’t mean to catch you in a state of undress.”

It’s Ronnie Lyle, another donor for the fundraiser’s auction, who gave me the creeps earlier this week when he dropped off his nude painting. Not that I have anything against nudes, just this guy.

“If you could please step out for a moment, Mr. Lyle, I’ll be right with you.”

His half smile widens, and my creep-o-meter climbs. “Or I could give you a hand with that zipper you seem not to be able to reach. After all, that’s what a gentleman would do.”

“I’ve got it.”

“I’m sure you do, but everyone could use an extra hand now and again.” He steps inside my office and closes the door.

Gritting my teeth to keep my placid expression in place, I have to force myself not to tell him to open the door right this second. If he tries to make a move, I’ll break his fingers.

“I appreciate your gentlemanly offer.” I almost choke on the words, but he doesn’t seem to hear anything after I give him my back. Probably hasn’t seen a woman in a state of undress in the last decade. Then again, he flaunts his money and power, so I’m probably wrong. Blech.

His shoes scuff on the concrete floor as he strides closer, and I tense with every scrape.

“You’re a very beautiful woman, Ms. Ransom,” he says, and I do my best not to cringe.

His breath on my ear gives me the urge to bolt, but I keep my stocking-covered feet firmly in place. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he creeps me out so much. That would give him too much power, and I refuse to allow it.

The zipper begins to inch its way upward, but he stops around the area where the band of my bra would be.

“You know, I have a limo coming to pick me up after the event, and I’d be happy to take you—”

I whip around, yanking the zipper out of his hold and reaching behind my back to tug it up the last couple of inches.

“I got it from here. Thanks so much. Feel free to show yourself upstairs. The bar should be serving shortly.”

My office door opens again.

“Temperance, did you need help . . .” Keira’s voice trails off when she realizes I’m not alone—and not wearing any shoes. “Mr. Lyle, I didn’t realize you had business with Ms. Ransom. Is there something I can help you with?”

Lyle steps back and clears his throat. “No. Not at all. I was just telling Ms. Ransom what a wonderful job y’all have done so far, and how excited I am to see what kind of money Mary’s House is able to raise to help those poor women.”

The lies roll off his tongue so easily, making my creep-o-meter ding again like someone hit the jackpot.

“I’m sure it will be absolutely fabulous,” Keira says, and I can’t help but wonder if she senses my unease. “Would you like to accompany me up to the restaurant so you can personally taste the Phoenix label I know you’ve been wanting to purchase? I think Ms. Ransom would like some privacy so she can finish getting ready.”

Lyle turns back to me and his gaze traces my body. “Of course. I’ll see you soon, Ms. Ransom.”