The Queen nodded curtly and, in a British accent I suspect she’d picked up from watching old Greer Garson movies, said, “Take a seat, please. Mr. Ferguson will see you shortly.”

I took a seat as instructed, reminding myself that under no circumstances was I to open my suit jacket and reveal my unbuttoned waistband.

Every time I thought about that waistband I wanted to strangle Prozac. It was all her fault that my tummy was hanging out in an unsightly roll. I’d planned on wearing a new pair of control-top pantyhose, one with a built-in “waist nipper.” I’d laid them out on my bed before I hopped into the shower that morning, but when I came out, they were gone.

Prozac hid them, of course. I could tell by the self-satisfied smirk on her face as she watched me search for the missing hose. I’d decided to put her back on her diet that morning, and clearly this was her way of getting revenge.

I’d checked under the bed and behind the sofa cushions, two of her favorite hiding places. No sign of the pantyhose. She probably buried them under her kitty litter. She did that once to my bra when she was mad at me for being late with her dinner. I couldn’t face the sight of my twenty-dollar pantyhose buried under cat poop, so I’d grabbed a pair of stretched-out knee highs, finished dressing, and hurried off to my meeting with Andrew Ferguson.

I checked my watch. Quarter past ten. Queen Elizabeth was staring off into space, avoiding my gaze, determined not to engage in idle chatter with the likes of me.

I should’ve used the time to go over my research on Union National, but I was too busy being irritated about the roll of fat pressing against my waistband that wouldn’t have been there if I’d been wearing my waist-nipper pantyhose.

“Ms. Austen?”

I looked up, and all thoughts of my flab flew out the window.

Standing before me was a dollburger of the highest order. Tall and slim, with the boyish good looks I have a particular weakness for. No studly guys with megamuscles for me. I prefer the sensitive, artistic, 99-pound weakling variety of guy. I guess it must be an Opposites Attract kind of thing. Anyhow, whatever I was attracted to, this guy had it in spades.

“I’m Andrew Ferguson,” he said, holding out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

I don’t know how long I stood there staring at his Adam’s apple before I realized I was supposed to be shaking his hand. But finally I caught on and murmured something exceptionally clever like, “Um. Me, too.”

I followed him back to his office, fascinated by the way his sandy brown hair curled at the nape of his neck.