‘She seems smart and highly qualified,’ I say, hoping my tone sounds as sniffy as I feel. ‘And the job pays well, so I don’t see why she’d be too good for it.’

I ignore her point about Marlowe being gorgeous. I’m not touching that with a bargepole, no matter how true it is, because her looks shouldn’t be relevant to her role as far as anyone else is concerned.

I’m aware my sister’s trying to get a rise out of me, but Athena’s comment has pissed me off. I did her a favour, for fuck’s sake, gave her friend a job. I’m a big deal. Just take a look at Tatler or GQ or The Financial Times. I’m not some bum who’s punching above his weight. On the contrary, I’m one of London’s most eligible bachelors, and my extended family would do well to cut me some fucking slack every now and again.

None of that is to detract from the truth that Marlowe is gorgeous, and that, even on a Saturday night when my mind should be squarely on what mischief I can make later, I’m growing increasingly impatient for Monday morning.

I’ve had Plain Elaine, who is vocally happy about the prospect of having the EA portion of her admittedly onerous job taken off her plate, block out the morning in my diary for Marlowe’s onboarding. Fuck, that sounds dirty when I consider that it will most likely involve bending her over my desk.

But first, I’ve told her we have an appointment with the personal shopping team at Selfridges. I’ll meet her in town first thing so we can get her kitted out in precisely the way I want. Camille at Seraph has assured me it’s not necessary—that with the salary these women command, their work wardrobe is their problem.

It’s not about what’s necessary for me, though. It’s about having the maximum amount of fun with my new favourite toy. It’ll make the pleasure of showing up for work even more intense, knowing that this woman will be waiting for me in the sexiest looks, her exquisite body showcased in the finest lingerie money can buy.

We’ll grab more items along the lines of the pink dress she wore for her interview while veering into Sexy Miss Moneypenny territory as firmly as I can get away with.

That’s my new favourite fantasy.

Marlowe, swathed in an ivory silk blouse and tight pencil skirt, all that long, golden hair pinned primly up, with knockout lace right below the surface. It’ll make plundering her or showing her off or ordering her to her knees all the sweeter.

Shopping for this stuff will be a damn sight more engaging than picking out linen swatches for my fucking catamaran, that’s for sure.

In fact, it’ll feel like extended foreplay.