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.