“In here,” he called, settling back into his chair. She appeared in the doorway. He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

She sat. The sunshine caused her to squint slightly behind the thick frames of her glasses and highlighted the smooth, creamy luminescence of her skin.

“Right,” he said briskly, pulling his focus back to the business at hand. “Remind me your name? I was a trifle preoccupied when you first showed up.”

There was a barely discernible hesitation before she opened her lush, unadorned lips. “Rachel Jones,” she said.

His bullshit detector pinged, but about what? The director in him was slightly intrigued, but he shoved it aside. The hesitation was likely caused by her memory of him standing in the doorway stark naked. If not, what did he care? His objective wasn’t to understand the inner workings of her mind. He wanted this woman to make the sensible decision and recuse herself from working for him with no pesky bleating about sexual discrimination. A simple “we were incompatible” verbal agreement would suffice. They would shake hands, and she’d trot back to the employment agency and find another job.

“So, you want to work for me. Why?” Mick had the sense he had seen her before. Was she a wannabe actress? Had she auditioned for him?

“I need the job.” The timbre of her voice surprised him. She gave off a cool, contained “look, but don’t touch vibe.” Prim. Classy. Her vocabulary and manner were that of an intellectual elite. And then there was that voice—husky, almost raw-sounding—that conjured forth images of hot sex, silk sheets, good whiskey, with a drizzle of honey. He hadn’t paid attention to her voice before, had been distracted. But now? He could bathe in it. Yeah, with that voice, that face and killer bod, she had to be an actress. Kudos to her. It was a pretty novel ploy to get his attention. Dressing up like a librarian, applying to be his assistant. “I don’t see what is so funny about my desire for work.” There was a bite to her voice. He could see her back stiffen.

“I didn’t say it was funny.”

“You laughed.”

“Barely.” Might as well call her on it. “You an actress?”

“God no,” she said with distain, as if he’d asked if she worked weekends walking the Strip. Huh. So, she wasn’t an actress. A reporter, perhaps. Trying to get the inside scoop? She was glaring at him, which somehow made him feel rather happy. She wasn’t the kowtowing sort. He wouldn’t get “Yes, Mr. Talford. No, Mr. Talford. Whatever you say, Mr. Talford” from her. Which had gotten pretty damned boring.

“A reporter, then. Who do you work for?”

“No. One. That’s why. I’m here,” she said pointedly.