“So, we’re good?”
“For two weeks.”
He gave a soft laugh. “Okay. We’ve both got work to do. Let’s take care of the order so you can get going on yours.”
ON THE LONG DRIVE HOME, Grace wondered if the temp job was a gift from heaven or more trouble on the rise. Mrs. Sandoval had told her about the temperamental Roman Velasco. He was an artist, after all. Mrs. Sandoval had neglected to tell Grace the man himself was a work of art. Even unshaven, barefoot, and wearing wrinkled sweats and a T-shirt, he could model for GQ. Long dark hair, café au lait skin, all muscle, not an ounce of fat on him. The minute he’d opened the door, her defenses had gone up. Patrick was handsome, too.
Her hands shifted on the steering wheel. It didn’t do any good to dredge up memories best left buried.
Day one. A rough start, but a start, nonetheless. Five minutes in Roman Velasco’s house had confirmed his need for a personal assistant. Her first task of making coffee hadn’t been much of a challenge, other than hunting down the coffee and filters he’d put in a drawer meant for pots and pans.
The self-guided tour was an eye-opener. The bathroom off the office was lovely with cream-colored marble, polished nickel fixtures, and white crown molding. The fancy toilet with a heated seat and the luxurious shower made it clear the house had never been meant for a bachelor.
The rest of the five thousand square feet was equally gorgeous and echoed with every step. One large room was furnished with a torturous home gym contraption to keep the man in shape. Another contained an unmade California-king bed, armoire, nightstands, and dirty clothing and towels on a red marble floor. The other bedrooms were large white cells without furniture or window treatments, each with a private bathroom with expensive polished nickel or burnished bronze fixtures.
Roman Velasco’s studio had been the biggest surprise. He’d turned what must have been the master suite into a cluttered work studio. Light streamed in from the bank of windows, undoubtedly the reason he’d chosen the space for work. He’d splattered paint all over the beautiful hardwood floor. Crumpled papers looked like monstrous dust bunnies scattered about the room. Didn’t the man own a wastebasket?
The air smelled of paint, oil, turpentine. A cheap bookcase held dozens of volumes on art and biographies of famous painters, as well as sketch pads. Brushes of various sizes stood in Yuban coffee cans. Tubes, spray cans, and jars of paint lined makeshift shelves constructed of boards and cinder blocks. He had several easels set up, each painting senseless and modernistic. She hadn’t seen any work framed or hanging anywhere in his house. Even if she didn’t like what he painted, he should be proud of his work.
And why would an artist use mud-colored paint to cover whatever he’d been doing on the back wall? A five-gallon bucket sat in the corner, along with a tray with a dried-up roller. He hadn’t bothered using a tarp.
He’d received three personal calls. All from women. He didn’t want to talk to any of them. One hung up; two left messages.
The first business-related call came from Talia Reisner, a Laguna Beach gallery owner who wanted to know if Roman was working or playing around.
“Mr. Velasco is in his studio.”
“Thank goodness you’re on board. I’ve been after the boy to hire an assistant for months!”
Grace almost laughed. The “boy” looked thirty, and all man.
Talia rushed on. “He’s been buried under minutiae. We don’t want anything slowing down his momentum. He’s hot right now and getting hotter. In my opinion, he’s just begun to tap his talent. I sold his last painting yesterday, and I’ve had two calls already this morning asking when he’s doing a show. Is he painting? I keep telling him he should be painting!”
Grace had walked to the studio while Talia talked. There must be an intercom system in a house that size, but she didn’t know where it was and doubted Roman knew either. She’d suggest a new phone system where she could put someone on hold and call him. He’d glanced at her when she entered his domain. “One moment please.” She held out the phone. “Talia Reisner. She says she’s your business associate.”
Roman took the phone, punched the button ending the call, and tossed it back. “I’m not her employee. If she calls back, tell her I’m working. That’ll make her greedy little heart happy. If Hector Espinoza calls, I’ll talk to him. Everyone else can go to—” He broke off abruptly with a sheepish smile.
What a first day on the job!