“He’s not a goat. He’s a child, and his name is Samuel.”
“Hey, Sammy . . .”
“I’d rather you called him Samuel.”
Her tone offered no compromise, and the look on her face made him wonder why such a little thing mattered. “What does Shanice call him?”
Grace looked confused. “She calls him ‘little man.’ That’s his nickname, not Sammy.” Her phone rang, distracting her. She rose quickly and went to the kitchen table. Roman could tell by her tone it wasn’t one of her girlfriends. “He’s tired, but fine. I had him slathered with sunblock.” Her tone had noticeably warmed. Why should that annoy him?
When Grace glanced at him, Roman stood. Time to go. Leaning down, he patted Samuel’s behind. “Have fun, buddy.” She asked the caller to wait a moment, no doubt wanting more privacy than she had right now. Roman didn’t give her a chance to say anything. “I’ll see you Monday morning.”
Back at the main house, Roman decided to toss his self-imposed celibacy to the wind and spend the rest of the evening at a club.
GRACE DIDN’T KNOW what was bothering Roman. He’d been different since his short trip to San Diego. He should be excited about the gallery show in Laguna Beach. Instead, he’d become quiet and introspective. He stayed in his studio sketching, but wasn’t making headway. She heard him swearing more than once, and the last time she’d entered his domain, wads of paper had lain helter-skelter around him. When she started picking them up, he told her to leave them.
The doorbell rang, a simple ding-dong rather than the melodious chimes that had irritated Roman. Grace hurried from the office, but slowed when she heard heavy metal music coming from Roman’s exercise room. He was running on his treadmill again. She expected to find Talia at the front door, eager to go over last-minute details for Roman’s show at the Laguna Beach gallery that evening. The poor woman had been as nervous as a backpacker facing a grizzly the last time she talked with Roman. The invitations had gone out, and responses flooded in. Talia would be serving champagne and canapés. Roman said he didn’t care if she handed out beer and pretzels. Talia had asked Grace what was eating him, but Grace had to admit she had no idea.
It wasn’t Talia ringing the bell, but a tall man with short white hair and intelligent hazel eyes. He had a suitcase in his hand and a look of surprise. “Well, hello.” He extended his hand. “I’m Jasper Hawley, and you are . . . ?”
“Grace Moore, Roman’s personal assistant.” The older gentleman had a firm handshake and an easy smile. “Come in. Please.” She stepped back. This must be the man who wanted a bed in the guest room.
“By the look on your face, Roman forgot to tell you I was coming for a visit.” He laughed low. “He also forgot to tell me about you.”
“He has a lot on his mind.”
“I’m sure that’s not the reason.” Jasper stopped in the living room. “Do I have a bed this time, or shall I get my sleeping bag and pillow out of my car?” She showed him down the hall to the guest room. “Holy cow! Look at this place! This is better than a suite in a high-class hotel.” He put his suitcase on the end of the king-size bed. “I think I’ll move in.”
“Don’t bet on it.” Roman stood in the doorway, toweling perspiration from his face. He looked like a professional athlete in his running shorts and wet T-shirt. Grace wished he had more clothes on—preferably, a sweatsuit that covered him completely. Roman’s gaze shifted to her. Her heart did an alarming flip.
Jasper looked around. “Bare walls? I thought you’d have every square inch painted by now.”
Grace found that a curious statement.
“I do enough painting on canvas these days, Hawley.”
Jasper ignored him and looked at Grace. “I’ll bet he’s never told you about his graffiti work.”
Grace looked at Roman. “Oh. Is that what you meant about tagging?”
Jasper raised his brows slightly and started to say something, but Roman gave him a quelling look. “Are you here to make trouble?”
Grace turned to go. She wanted to leave them alone to sort out whatever problem seemed to have reared its ugly head.
Roman put his hand on the doorframe, effectively blocking Grace’s exit. “Have you heard from Talia?” He was close enough for her to breathe in the scent of healthy male sweat.
“Not yet, but she said she’d probably come by this morning.”