She came to a halt just under the surprisingly tasteful sign that read 'Manchester Enquirer,' and tugged at her turtleneck, picked fitfully at imaginary lint on her blazer, and rubbed the toes of her boots on the backs of her calves. She furtively crossed her fingers and muttered, "Break a leg, Cass." Then she rapped on the door of the newspaper to attract the attention of the security guard, flashing her nicest smile and turning on all the charm she could summon.

Naturally it worked. The guard hustled right over and pulled open the door. He was all attention-men always were when she exerted herself, and often even when she didn't. It made life...interesting.

"I have an appointment," she said helpfully, "with Jonathan McOwen, the Editor-in-Chief." The aging man never even hesitated. Anything to keep that radiant smile on that woman's face. "Certainly," he replied promptly, "Just let me call up and let him know you're here; I'd show you up myself, but I can't leave my post."

'I just bet you would, you old pervert,' Cass thought to herself. 'And cop a feel on the way, too.' The smile never wavered, though she felt that if she widened it any, her facial muscles were going to over-exert themselves and look like an old rubberband once she quit grinning like a chimp in heat. Out loud, she said, "No matter, I know my way up-I know he's busy, and I wouldn't want to interrupt him." She looked him in the eye now and suggested, "Don't worry about me." There, that ought to cover her wandering around the building without a badge.

The guard nodded, waved her toward the elevators, and then turned away to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee. Cass walked sedately away until she was out of range of both security guard and cameras trained on the lobby, and then scampered for the stairs, giggling in a very undignified fashion. 'Easier than I thought-maybe I really can pull it off after all,' she thought to herself. She exited the stairwell on the proper floor (someone had so-thoughtfully put a sign indicating where all offices on that floor were located), and furtively peeped into McOwen's office. Good, he was inside. She turned the knob and slipped inside.

He didn't even turn around when she opened the door. Just growled, "That article better be ready, Crantz, or you're fired this time." That was her cue: "Hiring, are you?" she questioned sweetly, gathering herself again, and shamelessly. That made him turn around, and that's when he was sunk. He belonged to her now. His jaw dropped. She almost felt sorry for him-it just wasn't fair, really. Then she blinked, and the thought wafted away into nothingness. "I'm looking for a job," she stated bluntly.

"Not hiring," he returned brusquely, though he was staring at her-and not just her fair features, either-with something akin to awe. "Sure?" she questioned. "I'd really like a job. I'm a good editor..." It was important to hit exactly the right note here. It would not be good to actually have to tell him to offer her a job-better to let him convince himself he really did want to hire her, so that once she left he wouldn't just hit himself in the forehead and deliver her a pink slip before she ever even reported for work. "...And I'm available for reporting for the shit hours." She didn't even wince over the profanity, though it wasn't her style at all. She was deep into her role now.

Abruptly, McOwen swallowed hard and questioned, "What's your name?"

"Cassandra Monmouth," she replied readily enough, and didn't volunteer any more information. She figured he probably didn't like women who volunteered too much about themselves-it destroyed any fantasies he might have built up around them.

"Right, then," he said. "Talent doesn't really matter here-it just matters if we can turn out a well-edited paper. The stories are garbage, but idiots buy them, so don't fuss over facts any. Just make sure there aren't typographical, spelling, or blatant grammatical errors. I expect you to be fussy over them. I happen to need a reliable editor right now." Cass was almost disappointed. It was too easy. She'd expected to have to do some fast talking, but she had obviously underestimated the appeal to a chauvinistic male ego that a beautiful woman arriving unexpectedly in the dead of night to ask for a job-and-who-knew-what-else might have.

"When can I start?" she asked quickly.

"How's about now strike you?" he returned. She apparently passed some sort of test by not wincing. "Not a problem," she replied. "Whatcha got?" She dropped into more conventional speech without too much effort.

McOwen slid a sheaf of papers across the desk to her. "Some stuff by a fellow by the name of Wyatt Chaser," he said, watching her for a reaction. She kept her expression neutral with an effort. Not even a twitch of the lips at her triumph. "I'll give it my best shot," she replied, reaching for the papers.

Then she shamelessly resorted to a little bit of...reinforcement. "You hired me as an editor," she said bluntly, putting her best effort into the persuasion-as she liked to think of it. "You've got confidence in my judgement, and won't question how I do things unless you speak to me about it first."

The man across the desk from her nodded, a slightly glazed look in his eyes. Then Cass dropped all efforts at persuasion, stood up, and walked out of the building, carrying the latest Chaser articles with her.