“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.”
“Do you have a specific way you want your—” her gesture encompassed the mess—“information sorted?”
“If I did, the place wouldn’t be such a mess.”