Silence returned. The interloper had probably gotten the message and left.
Roman tried to go back to sleep. When the chimes started again, he shouted in frustration and stood up. A wave of weakness surged again. Knocking over a half-empty bottle of water and the alarm clock, he caught himself before he pitched face-first onto the floor. Three times in less than twenty-four hours. He might have to resort to prescription drugs to get the rest he needed. But right now, all he wanted to do was unleash his temper on the intruder who was ringing his bell.
Pulling on sweats, Roman grabbed a wrinkled T-shirt off the carpet and headed barefoot down the hall. Whoever stood on the other side of his front door was going to wish they’d never set foot on his property. The chimes started in again just as he yanked open the door. A young woman glanced up in surprise and then backed away when he stepped over the threshold.
“Can’t you read?” He jabbed a finger at the sign posted next to the front door. “No solicitors!”
Brown eyes wide, she put her hands up in a conciliatory gesture.
Her dark, curly hair was cropped short, and her black blazer, white blouse, and pearls screamed office worker. A faint recollection flickered in his mind, but Roman dismissed it. “Get lost!” He stepped back and slammed the door. He hadn’t gotten far when she knocked lightly. Yanking the door open again, he glared at her. “What is wrong with you?”
She looked scared enough to run, but stood her ground. “I’m here on your orders, Mr. Velasco.”
His orders? “Like I want a woman on my doorstep first thing in the morning.”
“Mrs. Sandoval said nine o’clock. I’m Grace Moore. From the temp agency.”
He spit a four-letter word. Her eyes flickered, and her cheeks filled with color. His anger dissolved like salt in water. Great. Just great. “I forgot you were coming.”
She looked like she’d rather be any place but here, not that he could blame her. He debated telling her to come back tomorrow, but knew she wouldn’t. He was up now. He might as well stay up. Jerking his head, he let the door drift open. “Come on in.”
He’d gone through four temps in the last month. Mrs. Sandoval was losing patience faster than he was. “I’ll send you one more, Mr. Velasco, and if she doesn’t work out, I’ll give you the name of my competitor.”
He was looking for someone to field calls and handle the mundane details of correspondence, bills, scheduling. He didn’t want a drill sergeant, a maiden aunt, or an amateur psychologist to analyze his artist’s psyche. Nor did he need a curvy blonde in a low-cut blouse who pushed papers around, but didn’t have a clue where to file them. She had ideas about what an artist might want besides a woman with office skills. He might have taken her up on her offer if he hadn’t had enough experience with women like her. She lasted three days.
Not hearing any footsteps behind him, Roman paused and looked back. The girl was still standing outside. “What’re you waiting for? An engraved invitation?”
She entered and closed the door quietly behind her. She looked ready to bolt.
He offered an apologetic smile. “Long night.”
She murmured something he didn’t catch, and he decided not to ask her to repeat it. He felt the onset of a headache, and the click of her high heels on the stone-tile floor wasn’t helping. He was thirsty and needed caffeine. He went into the kitchen adjoining the living room. She stopped at the edge of his sunken living room and gaped at the cathedral ceilings and wall of glass overlooking Topanga Canyon. Sunlight streamed through the windows, reminding him most people were serving time on their nine-to-fives by now.
Opening the stainless steel refrigerator, Roman grabbed a bottle of orange juice. He removed the cap, drank from the bottle, and lowered it. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Grace Moore.”
She had the right look for the job—cool, calm, collected. Pretty, midtwenties, trim and fit, but not his type. He liked voluptuous blondes who knew the score.
Feeling his perusal, she looked at him. Women usually did, but not with her guarded expression. “You have a beautiful view, Mr. Velasco.”
“Yeah, well, everything gets old eventually.” He put the bottle of orange juice on the counter. She looked uncomfortable. Understandable, considering his less-than-friendly greeting. He smiled slightly. She looked back at him without expression. Good. He needed a worker bee, not a girlfriend. Would she take offense at his first request?
“Do you know how to make coffee?”
She looked over at the one-touch automatic coffee-and-espresso machine that could grind beans, heat milk, and make a latte in less than sixty seconds with the press of a pinkie.
“Not a cup. A full pot of real coffee.” He left the kitchen to her. “Use the regular coffeemaker.”
“Do you like it strong or weak?”
“Strong.” He headed down the hall. “We’ll talk more after I get cleaned up.”
Roman stepped into a shower big enough for three. Lathering himself, he added side jets to the overhead waterfall. If he hadn’t made such a bad first impression on Grace Moore, he’d let her wait while he had a twenty-minute, full-body water massage. Shutting off the tap, he stepped out, kicked aside used towels, and grabbed the last clean one off the cabinet shelf. Clothes spilled over the hamper. He had one pair of clean jeans left in the armoire. Pulling on a black T-shirt, he looked for shoes. He found the sneakers he’d worn the night before. No clean socks in the drawer.
The coffee smelled good. She was rearranging everything in the dishwasher. “I didn’t tell you to clean the kitchen.”
She straightened. “Would you rather I didn’t?”
“Go right ahead.”
She opened the lower cabinets and straightened again, perplexed. “Where do you keep your dishwashing soap?”
“I’m out.”
“Do you have a grocery list?”
“You’re the personal assistant. Start one.” She’d already cleaned the granite counter. He hadn’t seen it that shiny since he moved in. “Where’s the OJ?”
“You said you wanted coffee.” She filled a mug and set it in front of him. “If you use cream or sugar, you’ll have to tell me where you hide them.”
No sarcasm. He liked her tentative smile. “I take it black.” He took a sip. She’d passed the first test. “Not bad.” Better than Starbucks, but he didn’t want to hand out compliments too soon. There was more to the job than making coffee—a lot more. He hoped she’d be more amenable to a variety of duties than the others Mrs. Sandoval had sent. One told him he could make his own coffee.
“I’ll show you where you’ll be working.” He led her down the east wing and opened a door. “It’s all yours.” He didn’t have to look inside to know what she faced.
The other temps all had something to say about it, but none seemed capable of knowing where and how to start. Would this girl be up to the task?
Grace Moore stood silent for a few seconds, then carefully stepped past him. She picked her way to the center of the room and looked around at the stacks of papers. The closet doors were open, revealing cardboard storage boxes, most unlabeled.
Roman debated leaving, but knew there would be the inevitable questions. “Think you can bring order to my chaos?” The girl was silent so long, he felt defensive. “Are you going to say something?”
“It’ll take longer than a week to organize all this.”
“I never said it had to be done in a week.”
She looked back at him. “That’s the longest you’ve kept a personal assistant, isn’t it?”
The staffing manager must have warned her. “Yeah. That’s about right, I guess. The last one left after three days, but then she thought all an artist needed was a nude model.”
Grace Moore blushed crimson. “I don’t model.”
“Not a problem.” Roman gave her a swift once-over and leaned against the doorjamb. “That’s not what I’m after.” She looked nervous again. He didn’t want to scare this one away. “I need someone detail-oriented.”