At Your Command

“Less coffee,” she told herself, straightening the pin at her collar.

The paranoia made her convinced that she’d seen the same man twice during her lunchtime walk around the building, standing by the grease truck in the parking lot, watching her. But when she looked back, he was gone.

“You need more sleep,” she told herself. “Time to switch to decaf.”

Be careful, she thought she heard the voice whisper to her. Be careful.

“Zan? “Rose, who worked in the cubicle across the hallway from her, was staring at her as though she’d just done something unexpected. “You okay?”

She put her sandwich and soda down on her desk, then looked over at her friend. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“You just told me to shut up, and I hadn’t said anything.”

Mortified, Susannah clapped a hand over her mouth, then dropped into her chair, and apologized. “I’m so sorry I was … talking to myself. I’m totally stressed over the campaign, and the stupid e-mails keep coming …”

Rose laughed, turning back to her own computer terminal. “Yeah, everyone’s got their tighty-whities in a twist. Hang in there. When they finish this assignment it will be all highfives and cocktails—until it starts up again.”

“Gee, that makes me feel ever so much better …”

Her sandwich tasted like dust, and she put it aside. By midafternoon, the whispers were a near-constant; never again loud enough to be understood, never intrusive and, after that one time, never enough that she was tempted to talk back, but it was keeping her from concentrating.

The dreams, the weird whisper… Rose was right, it would all go away once they put this project to bed, and she could take a few days off.

By the time she got home that night, it was well past dusk, and all she wanted to do was collapse. Thankfully, Max had been a good boy, so there was no unpleasant surprise waiting for her on the floor.

“As much as I love you, boyo,” she said, sinking onto the sofa, his large brown eyes intent on hers, “sometimes I think a cat would have been a better choice. Or a goldfish.” She groaned, leaning back and wiggling her toes, freed from her heels, and reached up to touch the brooch again, meaning to unhook it from her blouse. “And I really wish we had someone else around to make dinner. That would make me happy.”

“Your command, Madame.”

Her startled yelp could probably have been heard through the walls of her unit, all the way down the block, and she wouldn’t even pretend that her scramble off the sofa was anything close to dignified, but the man standing in front of her didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. He stood there in her living room like it wasn’t a problem at all, as cool and calm as if he were an old friend who’d been invited in.

Susannah looked around wildly. The door was still closed, a dozen paces behind him. She had not heard him come in, had not seen him—had he been there all along? Had he broken in, been waiting? Why hadn’t Max alerted her?

Susannah stared at the stranger, her heart pounding a hundred miles an hour, her previous exhaustion gone under the rush of adrenaline and fear. The fact that he didn’t look like a psychotic rapist/murderer wasn’t at all soothing; she’d watched enough crime drama to know that it was always the decent-looking ones who were really dangerous. And the figure in front of her was more than decent: taller than she was, so he had to be at least five-eleven, and dressed in a sober, almost old-fashioned looking brown suit that showed off broad shoulders and slender hips, all the way down to spit-polished leather shoes and up to sleekly-styled brown hair over a face that was just a shade too rough to be called handsome, with impossibly long lashes over dark blue eyes. If she’d seen him in the street she’d probably wonder what commercial she’d seen him in; he had that kind of not-handsome-but-interesting face.

All that ran through her head in an instant, a purely feminine assessment, even as she was trying to decide if she could get past him and out the door, having rejected the cell phone as being out of reach and therefore useless. Would anyone hear her or come investigate if she screamed?

“Would you prefer red meat or fish?”

The question was so absurd, she forgot about screaming and stared at him.

“What?”

He tilted his head, as though surprised at having to repeat such a basic question. “Your dinner, Madame.” He had a hint of an accent, but she couldn’t quite place it. “Would you prefer red meat or fish? Or perhaps coq au vin, although it is a bit late in the evening to begin …”

The thought that Rose was right, that she’d finally broken down and was hallucinating occurred to Susannah, especially when she looked down and saw Max, not lunging at this stranger, or even growling, but sitting contentedly between the two of them, looking from one to the other as though the stranger was a welcome friend.

“What the hell, Max?” she asked him, her voice sharp, and he just wagged his tail once, as though to say “don’t worry, everything’s fine.”

Her watchdog, who distrusted everyone until she introduced them, was acting as though this guy had been around for years.

Some of the panic faded, enough that she was able to go on the defensive, pretty sure that if the stranger tried anything violent, Max wouldn’t stay nice. “How the hell did you… Who the hell are you?”

A look of puzzlement crossed his face. “You summoned me, Madame.”

The world tilted, in some way she couldn’t determine. “I … summoned you.”

“Yes, Madame.” His voice was polite, almost deferential, to match the calm expression on his face, but she could pick up a hint of exasperation behind it, as though he thought she was mocking him somehow. “You wished for dinner. If you would inform me as to your preferences, I will prepare it for you.”

“I … wished …”

“Madame? Were you not informed as to the terms of your bequest?”

Susannah’s legs gave way, and she sat on the sofa in an unlovely pile, making Max get up and shove his nose under her hand, worriedly. Tilted, hell: the world had gone down the rabbit hole while she wasn’t looking, that was the only possible explanation. “You … dinner … the brooch?”

He seemed to suddenly understand something she didn’t, and his posture relaxed a hint: still at attention, but no longer quite so tense. “My name is Anthony, Madame. As you are now owner of the brooch that holds me, it is my duty to serve your pleasure.”

Once upon a time, Susannah had been fanciful. She had read romantic novels, and sighed over heroes she now recognized were flawed and possibly dangerous. She had devoured fantasy novels where magic saved the day, and mysteries where the heroine unraveled plots to put the villain away.

But faced with a man in her apartment who was telling her that he was a … a genie, for lack of a better word, bound to serve the owner of the brooch her great-aunt had willed to her… . Susannah’s practical side revolted.

She had taken the pin off her blouse, almost pricking her fingers in her haste, and started to throw it across the room, but something stopped her, keeping her fingers closed around the tiny bar.

Whatever else, it was valuable, if it was real. You didn’t throw valuable things away. And … she had already become fond of it, in one day. It was a link to a family she never knew, an unexpected present.

“You can’t be serious.” Her usually generous mouth was set firmly, and she crossed her arms across her chest as she glared at him. “I am not going to let you … what?” It was too insane to even consider. And yet …

She had heard his voice before. All day, whispering in her ear, the hint of an accent—French, she realized—at odds with the crisper tones underneath. American, but not local.

Great-Aunt Zannah had lived in Paris.

No. Impossible.

“Madame, you must accept the inheritance.” His calm voice broke slightly, showing a hint of near desperation, as though he expected the world to end if she refused.

“Don’t call me that. My name is Susannah.” It was a delaying action, and she knew it. Why was she arguing with this man? Good-looking, with a voice that was just sexy enough to make her toes curl, saying he was here to do whatever it took to make her happy. Your command, had been his actual words. Whatever she asked for …

“You show up here, break into my house and offer to cook me dinner …” It was insane. Worse, it was absurd. And yet, it happened. This was either the most elaborate practical joke she had ever seen, or—

Or it was real.

“Madame.” He sounded slightly offended. “I did not break in. You signed for me.”

The package. The delivery guy. Genies came parcel post? And who said he was allowed to have a sense of humor? Because that was definitely the hint of a smile on his lips, and his eyes had a crinkle of laughter in them, quickly.