by Meg Tilly
“As I stated when you arrived on my doorstep, I want a male assistant.”
Well, that’s too damn bad. Welcome to the twenty-first century. “You can’t not hire me on the basis of my sex, at least not in the great state of California,” she informed him sweetly. If he did, that would be classified as sexual discrimination. Which she was sure was a can of worms he’d rather not open. The expression on his face was hilarious. She could see him grinding his teeth. That’s right. Think of the negative publicity. Sarah beamed at him in a helpful sort of manner. “So, I think it’s best if we set gender aside. I am a highly qualified assistant. On a good day, I can type one hundred words per minute. I am well versed in Excel, financial software, bookkeeping, accounts receivable, and—”
“Look. The employment agency must not have represented the scope of what is required of you. Yes, the skills you mentioned are needed for this post. However, I write whenever the muse strikes. Sometimes an idea or the solution to whatever project I’m working on drops into my brain—maybe it’s a more effective way to shoot a scene or a dialogue change. The muse doesn’t care if it’s two a.m. Often I am most creative in the wee hours of the morn. Which means you would be required to drag yourself out of bed, come to the main house, and take notes. Without complaining or bellyaching about how late it is or how tired you are, because frankly, I won’t give a damn.”
Sarah almost laughed out loud. The man had no idea of the kind of shit she’d had to put up with for the last seven years of her life. Hell, forget about going back that far. One month ago she had been kidnapped and was trapped on a yacht with a psychopathic serial killer who was convinced she was his long-lost dead sister. Oh yeah, and he was an “artiste,” who incorporated his victims’ blood into his paintings, and I was to be a part of his next masterpiece. So don’t try to scare me off with your talk of “the muse.” Typing notes at two a.m. is a frikkin’ walk in the park. “Understood,” she said, as harmless as old dishwater. “I can do that.”
“I’m not finished.” Rather than looking pleased that she was willing to work at his beck and call, he seemed irritated. “I would want those notes typed up, printed, and put on a USB drive before you returned to bed. These would be placed on the entryway table by the front door so I could bring them into work.”
“Fine. Not a problem.”
The arrogant bastard held up a tanned well-shaped finger. He had nice hands—she’d give him that. “But that’s not all,” he continued. “Seeing as how I already have an extremely well-qualified executive secretary at my office who handles the bulk of my paperwork and scheduling, the position I am presently filling requires more than secretarial skills. Did the Windham Employment Agency mention that? I thought not. What I need is a ‘personal assistant.’ ”
Sarah’s breath caught in her throat. Images flashed through her mind, her on all fours taking it from behind, her dropping to her knees, unzipping his fly, wrapping her mouth around his cock. He did say he’d require you to come over in the middle of the night. Was that a feeler he sent out to see how far you’d be willing to go? Sarah might have been on the run for four years, but that didn’t mean she’d been living in a bubble. She had access to magazines and the Internet, which were awash with stories of how corrupt and perverted Hollywood was. Stay calm. Don’t panic. Use your words. “And what exactly does being a ‘personal assistant’ entail?”
* * *
* * *
A few years ago, Mick might have found the wary expression in her startlingly blue eyes hilarious. Now it made him want to punch something—a wall, or the person who’d made her expect the worst from men. “No,” he said pointedly. “Not that. I have no need or desire to be serviced by my employees. What kind of animal do you think I am?”
She opened her mouth, then shut it. Clearly, she couldn’t refute the erroneous conclusion she had leaped to. This woman, with all her preconceived ideas and uptight judgments, was never going to work out. He felt a flare of anger, tired of constantly being painted by an old paintbrush. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Ms. Jones. No. As depraved as Hollywood is, if someone is employed by me—or another reputable person with any semblance of morals—a personal assistant does not assist in all personal needs. It’s a glorified term for a gofer.”
“A gofer?”
“That’s right. On top of the office skills that are required day and night as a personal assistant, if your employer says jump, you say, ‘How high?’ I really can’t see you voluntarily agreeing to that.”
“You have no idea how high I can or cannot jump. Try me.” She smiled at him blandly, her head slightly tilted, one elegant eyebrow arched upward. She was pretending to be subservient, passive, but he could feel the defiance in her simmering just under the skin. Stubbornness, too. However, it was her hands that did him in. There was something heartbreaking about how tightly they were gripped together in her lap.
“Fine,” he said, surprising himself. “We’ll give it a go. One week. Then we’ll reassess.”
She exhaled. “Thank you.” A flash of vulnerability streaked across her face.
Damn. He wished he hadn’t noticed. “Save your thanks. I’m not some bleeding-heart do-gooder. If you screw up, I will fire you so fast your head will spin.” He rose to his feet. “You’d do well to remember that.”
“Would you like me to start now?”
“No. God no. I just emptied my goddamned house. Start Monday. After I leave for work.
“And just so we’re clear, what I require from you, in addition to office skills, is a well-run household. I don’t want to have to think about plumbers, roofing repairs, when my dry cleaning is ready for pickup and where. I want to come home to food in the fridge, the garbage taken out, a clean house, clean clothes, and fresh linens. What I don’t want is someone looking over my shoulder, making holier-than-thou judgments, or disapproving of my lifestyle choices. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, rising to her feet as well. He had the feeling she was mocking him behind that inscrutable mask she was wearing.
“Mick,” he barked. “You can call me Mick.”
“All right”—she hesitated briefly—“Mick.” And God help him, he liked the sound of his name on her lips.
9
Monday morning Mr. High-and-Mighty hopped into his sleek, jet-black Porsche 911 Turbo S, which looked like something the devil would drive. What surprised Sarah was that Mick departed at dawn. He gunned the motor so it sounded like a ravenous beast calling her from the comfort of bed to crack the curtain open and peek out the window. “Oh my, you must be some kind of hotshot,” she murmured with a tinge of sarcasm. Nevertheless, she watched as his vehicle roared down the driveway, tires leaving a trail of burnt rubber, his engine popping exuberantly, as he disappeared from view. “Off to terrorize the rest of mankind, no doubt,” Sarah muttered as she let the curtain fall and then staggered bleary-eyed to the bathroom to take a shower. She got dressed, put a small handful of cat food on a saucer and fresh water in Charlie’s bowl, then headed to the big house ready to work. It had been lovely to have the weekend for her and Charlie to settle in. Such a luxury, not to be on the road, on the run, to sleep uninterrupted, to take a bath, have a cup of tea. Simple pleasures.
She rescued the abandoned lilies on the front step, carried them into the kitchen, and snipped off the ends of their stems. She emptied the old water into the sink and refilled the vase, ripped open the little plastic packet of flower food, and sprinkled it in for good measure. Then she carried the vase of flowers to the entryway and placed them on the mirrored entry armoire, which needed dusting. She glanced around and wrinkled her nose. Dusting was the least of it. There were half-spent liquor bottles, takeout containers, partially emptied pizza boxes. Even with the window wide open, the smell of stale booze and musty air permeated the place. As with his office, there was an inordinate amount of crumpled balls of paper and Post-its scribbled on and disca
rded or made into paper airplanes that littered the living room. There was an especially heavy profusion surrounding the metal wastepaper basket, which was full to overflowing. She could see dust bunnies congregating in the corners of the rooms and under the furniture. A vacuuming would help, but a thorough carpet cleaning would be even better. She felt momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer volume of housework that needed doing in the entry and living room alone. She found a roll of large garbage bags under the kitchen sink and returned to the living room. “Eww . . .” Someone had thrown up behind the sofa. She stared at the mess a little bit longer, then straightened her spine, shoved her squeamishness aside, cleaned up the vomit, then turned her focus toward making inroads with the rest of the mess.
Since Sarah was already on a garbage run, she made the rounds through the remainder of the house. By the time she was done, there were two bags stuffed full of garbage, another of recyclable paper, and a final one of empty booze bottles. She lugged it all to the back door off the kitchen, turned the dead bolt, so the door couldn’t swing shut and lock her out. She found a plethora of garbage cans in a shed off the garage and deposited the contents of her garbage bags in their proper containers.
She swung by her apartment and checked on Charlie, who was sleeping contentedly on her bed, then returned to the house. Sarah found the cleaning supplies in a cupboard in the utility room, rolled up her sleeves, turned the stereo on, music blasting, and set to work.
* * *
* * *
It was a little after eight p.m. by the time Mick returned home. He and the cast had just wrapped a grueling all-day press extravaganza. Round robins in the morning, then the ten-minute one-on-one TV interviews. Answering the same damn questions over and over. Exhausting. His voice was ragged from all the nonstop talking, and tomorrow—God help him—it was rinse-and-repeat. He parked, shut off the engine, and exited his vehicle. First thing he was going to do was pour himself two fingers of good whiskey. Maybe he’d crash in front of the TV, watch something mindless, then go to bed.
The moment he approached his house, he could feel the difference. The porch light had been turned on. Usually, when he came home after dark, he’d fumble around a bit before his key found the lock. He couldn’t park in the garage. The battery in his opener had bit the dust while he was in the throes of post-production for Retribution, and he hadn’t had a spare minute to purchase a new one. As he exited his car and walked toward the front door, he could see light spilling from under the closed curtains in the apartment above the garage. She was up there. In a way, it made him feel less alone and yet more aware of how lonely he was at the same time.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside, and it was as if some sort of magical spell had been woven over the place. The bone-deep weariness seemed to be draining out of him and some unfamiliar sensation taking its place. A large vase of long-stemmed white flowers graced the entryway. The floors and furniture gleamed, and the air smelled clean and fresh, with a faint hint of lemon. For a moment, he was tempted to turn around, jump back in his car, and drive far and fast to outrun the cautious hope that maybe, finally, he’d have a home instead of the pigsty it had become. Why had he allowed the place to get so bad? Yes, he was busy and hadn’t noticed as the slow slide into disreputable took root. Why didn’t you ask Lois to hire a cleaning service months ago? And on the heels of that thought came another. Is it because deep down, a cesspit is all you feel you’re worth? The thought resonated throughout him like a clarion bell, and in that moment Mick made a vow. Once he scared Rachel off, he would have Lois set up somebody to come in and clean.
Mick shut the door softly behind him and continued into the living room. Not only was it spotless, but it felt welcoming, too. Homey. Reminded him of how it had looked when he’d first purchased the place six months ago. Fully furnished, right down to the dessert cutlery and rolls of thick toilet paper in the johns. He’d bought the property in an all-cash deal. Had moved out of his suite at the Chateau Marmont and into the house two weeks later. Paid an arm and a leg for all the little personal flourishes. Didn’t care if the previous owners had spent a lifetime accumulating the various decorative pieces. If one paid enough, anything was for sale, and he’d wanted a home with a sense of history. A place that looked like what he’d imagined home was while growing up. But it hadn’t worked out. Didn’t matter how often or long he washed, or how successful he became, the dirt and dissipation had been bred into his bones. In a matter of six months, the place had looked like a larger version of the series of tacked-together semi-wides that he, his grandma, and the twelve women who worked at Desert Rose Ranch had called home.
He rotated slowly, taking in the room. The garbage was gone. Obviously. He should have done it himself before he’d left for work that morning. He felt his face heat up. Was glad he was alone. He continued his perusal. The layer of dust that had coated everything had been eradicated. Everything gleamed. The cushions on the sofas had been fluffed, enticing one to sit down. On the steel and wooden coffee table, she’d put more flowers in a low round vase. This arrangement was more informal, a tumble of greenery and flowers clearly pilfered from his garden, which warmed the room and added color and light. On the side table, in a delicate china dish, rested the old-fashioned lemon drops that had been opened and lying on the kitchen counter. He’d removed them from a giant gift basket that Columbia had sent over last week, along with a note and a script that they were hoping he’d take a look at.
The kitchen. Suddenly it felt of the utmost importance that he get to the kitchen as quickly as possible. Who knew what magic Ms. Rachel Jones had wrought there? Maybe there was a pie.
As a boy, he used to slip into the school library at the end of the day and head straight for the P section. Then, when no one was looking, he’d slide one of Peggy Parrish’s Amelia Bedelia books inside his sweatshirt, and out he’d saunter, no one the wiser. He’d hop on the school bus, glare at anyone who attempted to sit next to him, scare them off, his secret warming against his skin. He’d loved those books, even though Amelia Bedelia was a girl. Amelia seemed like a perfectly normal person, but she was always goofing up, making mistakes, and yet her wondrous apple pie at the end always solved her every problem. Once a mouthful of that delicious pie was popped into their mouths, Mr. and Mrs. Rogers forgave all her mess-ups. Amelia didn’t know how normal people saw and did things. Maybe she had grown up in a brothel, too.
His mouth was watering by the time he pushed open the swinging doors. Should have known disappointment awaited him. Should have known better than to start building castles in the sky, because, yes, the kitchen was spotless, but there was no tasty treat on the counter. Maybe she tucked something delicious in the fridge? He moved to the refrigerator and opened it. Empty shelves of gleaming glass and chrome stared back at him mockingly. And suddenly he was back on the school playground again. Shane Endicott had grabbed Mick’s brown paper lunch bag and was dangling it in his big meaty hand over Mick’s head. Didn’t matter how high Mick jumped, he couldn’t reach it. All the kids jostling, gathered around, laughing their stupid heads off. “And what do we have today?” Shane would call out every time. And like a call-and-response, the other kids, with their fancy lunches stuffed with Hostess Twinkies and barbecue potato chips, would shout, “Peanut butter sandwiches!” as they fell about laughing.
“Goddammit.” Mick slammed the fridge door shut. He could feel the heat rising up his neck and ears. “What the hell am I supposed to eat?”
10
Sarah lay on the sofa. Her stomach growled hungrily, but she was reluctant to move. It would be different if a feast awaited her, but she was carefully rationing the remainder of the peanut butter Ritz crackers and carrots. Had three of her crackers this morning with half a withered carrot. Would have three more and the other half of the carrot tonight. She had to make her food last until she got paid. Charlie had gobbled his kibble the second it hit the bowl and was now in a happy stupor. He’d wedged t
he lower half of his body between her arm and her body, and the upper half of his torso was draped across her chest. He kneaded her softly, purring up a storm while he nuzzled his face against her neck. Charlie had ignored her when she’d returned to the apartment. Pretended he could care less whether she came or went. But after he was fed and she’d flopped on the sofa, he’d jumped up, snuggled in, the day’s abandonment forgiven.
She’d heard his royal highness’s car arrive a few minutes ago. Found she was holding her breath slightly, hoping he’d like what she had done. She’d worked like a dog. Would be aching tomorrow, for sure, but it had been worth it. There was something satisfying about making his home shine. She’d felt almost as if the house were thanking her. She yawned, rolled her shoulders to release some of the tension. Charlie was not amused. Stopped purring, gave a little warning growl, unsheathing his claws to hold her in place.
Boom . . . boom . . . boom! Someone knocked on the door, startling the two of them. Charlie’s claws went from partially extended to clamping on. “Ouch, Charlie!” Sarah disengaged his sharp nails and dumped him unceremoniously onto the floor.
Boom . . . boom . . . boom . . .
“Hold your horses,” Sarah muttered, rising to her feet. “What do you want to bet,” she said to Charlie as she crossed to the door, “that he’s not here to thank me most graciously for the work I’ve done?” She swung the door open. Mick was standing on the landing, surrounded by darkness. There was an angry, wounded look in his eyes, like a wild creature caught in the leg trap. “Yes?”
