Thankfully, she’d passed the interview and tests with the temp agency and been added to their list. Mrs. Sandoval had a job opening. “I’ve sent this man four highly qualified people, and he rejected every one. I don’t think he knows what he needs. It’s the only work I can offer you right now.”
Grace would have agreed to work for the devil himself if it meant a regular paycheck.
The sound of chimes pulled Roman up out of the darkness. Had he dreamed he was in Westminster Abbey? He rolled over. His body had just relaxed when the chimes started again. Someone had pushed the doorbell. He’d like to get his hands on the owner who installed the blasted system. Cursing, Roman pulled a pillow over his head, hoping to muffle the song that could be heard from one end of the five-thousand-square-foot house to the other.
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?”