“I was told this was a live-in position.” She could smell the fragrance wafting up from the huge vase of white trumpet lilies that was sitting on the front doorstep. As she’d approached the mansion, she had noticed flowers with the small envelope with Mick Talford scrawled in gold cursive nestled among the blooms. Before ringing the doorbell, Sarah had bent over and inhaled deeply, savoring their scent as she let memories of a happier time wash over her. Her mother had always placed a vase of fresh lilies in the entryway. At the thought of her mother, the longing and loss stiffened Sarah’s spine. “If you would please direct me to my quarters so I can settle in? Once you’ve made yourself presentable, I’d be happy to meet with you and discuss what my duties will be.”

“I’m sorry. The agency made a mistake. I requested a male.” His voice was flat. Dismissive. As if life were always that easy. As if he were choosing between a pair of shoes. He started to shut the door. She should have let him, the chauvinist pig. No one in their right mind would want to work for this dickhead. But instead of letting logic have its way, anger had her jamming her body into the doorway. Making it impossible for him to close the door, unless he was prepared to knock her off her feet. “Well, too bad.” She reached out and snagged her suitcase in case the madman decided to pitch it into the flora and fauna. “You got me.”

“It’s not up for discussion. This is a bachelor’s residence. I’m not going to pussyfoot around my own home to avoid offending your ‘womanly sensibilities.’ Furthermore”—he slid his gaze down her body and then back up again, the expression on his face one of distaste, as if he’d found her lacking—“quite honestly, I don’t need the distraction.”

Sarah’s hand itched to fly out and smack that condescending look off his face.

“Hey, Mick?” A redheaded woman poked her head out of a doorway down the hall. “You enjoy your dip?”

A platinum-blonde head appeared over the redhead’s shoulder. “You’re all wet, and we’re lonely.” The blonde made a moue with her mouth.

“Look, Mr. Talford,” Sarah said, using the tone of someone speaking to a not-very-bright five-year-old. “There’s Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Female, from the looks of it.” She smiled at him brightly. “So, that makes mincemeat of your paltry objection to anyone of the female persuasion gracing these hallowed halls.”