“We’re in here,” he said, with a jerk of his head toward his study. Aware that his voice was gruffer than it should be. He followed the gentle sway of her body into the room, leaving a healthy distance between them, so she wouldn’t be spooked. There was an innate grace to the way she moved. Perhaps she had studied ballet as a girl. Easy to imagine, long, lean legs encased in pastel-colored tights. Who was she before the world had left those ever-present shadows in her eyes? Once in his study, she turned and looked at him from where he was hovering in the doorway. The room that had seemed like a trap five minutes ago suddenly felt inviting. Intimate. He stayed where he was, propped against the doorframe. “I need you to take notes.”

“Very well. I’ll need a pad of paper and a pen.” Her face looked different without the skillful application of subtle makeup. She looked younger, more vulnerable behind those dark-framed glasses. There was a slight imprint along the left side of her face. She must have been sleeping on her side when he woke her.

“Right.” He pushed away from the safety of the doorway and ambled across the room as if her presence was having no effect on him whatsoever. He crossed to his desk, rummaged through a drawer, found a pad of paper and a pen and slid them across his mahogany desk. He was aware of a hint of the scent of lemon and wax rising from the desk’s freshly polished surface. That was the bass note of comfort and home, but the melody was all her. The faintest scent of her warm skin clad in freshly washed light-blue cotton pajamas with a white piping trim. The worn pale-pink robe with buttons, which was both fanciful and yet elegant. There was something about her that dangled the impossible promise of hope and redemption. “Dammit,” he muttered.

“Pardon?” She looked at him inquiringly.

“I apologize.” His voice sounded stiff, slightly pissed off. Better that than drooling on her. “I hadn’t thought it through. Should have given you time to get dressed. With my previous assistants, always men, it didn’t . . .” He shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. “Anyway, next time, even if I sound grouchy, take the time you need to get dressed.” He wasn’t used to apologizing. Mick busied himself gathering the scattered Post-it notes. He was going to toss them across the desk, but Rachel extended her hand. She had elegant fingers. Perhaps she’d played piano or some other musical instrument. Maybe a cello cradled against her body, held in place with her thighs. A light grasp of her fingers holding the bow as she drew it across the strings, filling the listener with sweet melancholy music.

“Oh.” She started to withdraw her hand. “I’m sorry. I thought those were for me.”