“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.