The Masterpiece

by Francine Rivers

  Silence returned. The interloper had probably gotten the message and left.

  Roman tried to go back to sleep. When the chimes started again, he shouted in frustration and stood up. A wave of weakness surged again. Knocking over a half-empty bottle of water and the alarm clock, he caught himself before he pitched face-first onto the floor. Three times in less than twenty-four hours. He might have to resort to prescription drugs to get the rest he needed. But right now, all he wanted to do was unleash his temper on the intruder who was ringing his bell.

  Pulling on sweats, Roman grabbed a wrinkled T-shirt off the carpet and headed barefoot down the hall. Whoever stood on the other side of his front door was going to wish they’d never set foot on his property. The chimes started in again just as he yanked open the door. A young woman glanced up in surprise and then backed away when he stepped over the threshold.

  “Can’t you read?” He jabbed a finger at the sign posted next to the front door. “No solicitors!”

  Brown eyes wide, she put her hands up in a conciliatory gesture.

  Her dark, curly hair was cropped short, and her black blazer, white blouse, and pearls screamed office worker. A faint recollection flickered in his mind, but Roman dismissed it. “Get lost!” He stepped back and slammed the door. He hadn’t gotten far when she knocked lightly. Yanking the door open again, he glared at her. “What is wrong with you?”

  She looked scared enough to run, but stood her ground. “I’m here on your orders, Mr. Velasco.”

  His orders? “Like I want a woman on my doorstep first thing in the morning.”

  “Mrs. Sandoval said nine o’clock. I’m Grace Moore. From the temp agency.”

  He spit a four-letter word. Her eyes flickered, and her cheeks filled with color. His anger dissolved like salt in water. Great. Just great. “I forgot you were coming.”

  She looked like she’d rather be any place but here, not that he could blame her. He debated telling her to come back tomorrow, but knew she wouldn’t. He was up now. He might as well stay up. Jerking his head, he let the door drift open. “Come on in.”

  He’d gone through four temps in the last month. Mrs. Sandoval was losing patience faster than he was. “I’ll send you one more, Mr. Velasco, and if she doesn’t work out, I’ll give you the name of my competitor.”

  He was looking for someone to field calls and handle the mundane details of correspondence, bills, scheduling. He didn’t want a drill sergeant, a maiden aunt, or an amateur psychologist to analyze his artist’s psyche. Nor did he need a curvy blonde in a low-cut blouse who pushed papers around, but didn’t have a clue where to file them. She had ideas about what an artist might want besides a woman with office skills. He might have taken her up on her offer if he hadn’t had enough experience with women like her. She lasted three days.

  Not hearing any footsteps behind him, Roman paused and looked back. The girl was still standing outside. “What’re you waiting for? An engraved invitation?”

  She entered and closed the door quietly behind her. She looked ready to bolt.

  He offered an apologetic smile. “Long night.”

  She murmured something he didn’t catch, and he decided not to ask her to repeat it. He felt the onset of a headache, and the click of her high heels on the stone-tile floor wasn’t helping. He was thirsty and needed caffeine. He went into the kitchen adjoining the living room. She stopped at the edge of his sunken living room and gaped at the cathedral ceilings and wall of glass overlooking Topanga Canyon. Sunlight streamed through the windows, reminding him most people were serving time on their nine-to-fives by now.

  Opening the stainless steel refrigerator, Roman grabbed a bottle of orange juice. He removed the cap, drank from the bottle, and lowered it. “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Grace Moore.”

  She had the right look for the job—cool, calm, collected. Pretty, midtwenties, trim and fit, but not his type. He liked voluptuous blondes who knew the score.

  Feeling his perusal, she looked at him. Women usually did, but not with her guarded expression. “You have a beautiful view, Mr. Velasco.”

  “Yeah, well, everything gets old eventually.” He put the bottle of orange juice on the counter. She looked uncomfortable. Understandable, considering his less-than-friendly greeting. He smiled slightly. She looked back at him without expression. Good. He needed a worker bee, not a girlfriend. Would she take offense at his first request?

  “Do you know how to make coffee?”

  She looked over at the one-touch automatic coffee-and-espresso machine that could grind beans, heat milk, and make a latte in less than sixty seconds with the press of a pinkie.

  “Not a cup. A full pot of real coffee.” He left the kitchen to her. “Use the regular coffeemaker.”

  “Do you like it strong or weak?”

  “Strong.” He headed down the hall. “We’ll talk more after I get cleaned up.”

  Roman stepped into a shower big enough for three. Lathering himself, he added side jets to the overhead waterfall. If he hadn’t made such a bad first impression on Grace Moore, he’d let her wait while he had a twenty-minute, full-body water massage. Shutting off the tap, he stepped out, kicked aside used towels, and grabbed the last clean one off the cabinet shelf. Clothes spilled over the hamper. He had one pair of clean jeans left in the armoire. Pulling on a black T-shirt, he looked for shoes. He found the sneakers he’d worn the night before. No clean socks in the drawer.

  The coffee smelled good. She was rearranging everything in the dishwasher. “I didn’t tell you to clean the kitchen.”

  She straightened. “Would you rather I didn’t?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  She opened the lower cabinets and straightened again, perplexed. “Where do you keep your dishwashing soap?”

  “I’m out.”

  “Do you have a grocery list?”

  “You’re the personal assistant. Start one.” She’d already cleaned the granite counter. He hadn’t seen it that shiny since he moved in. “Where’s the OJ?”

  “You said you wanted coffee.” She filled a mug and set it in front of him. “If you use cream or sugar, you’ll have to tell me where you hide them.”

  No sarcasm. He liked her tentative smile. “I take it black.” He took a sip. She’d passed the first test. “Not bad.” Better than Starbucks, but he didn’t want to hand out compliments too soon. There was more to the job than making coffee—a lot more. He hoped she’d be more amenable to a variety of duties than the others Mrs. Sandoval had sent. One told him he could make his own coffee.

  “I’ll show you where you’ll be working.” He led her down the east wing and opened a door. “It’s all yours.” He didn’t have to look inside to know what she faced.

  The other temps all had something to say about it, but none seemed capable of knowing where and how to start. Would this girl be up to the task?

  Grace Moore stood silent for a few seconds, then carefully stepped past him. She picked her way to the center of the room and looked around at the stacks of papers. The closet doors were open, revealing cardboard storage boxes, most unlabeled.

  Roman debated leaving, but knew there would be the inevitable questions. “Think you can bring order to my chaos?” The girl was silent so long, he felt defensive. “Are you going to say something?”

  “It’ll take longer than a week to organize all this.”

  “I never said it had to be done in a week.”

  She looked back at him. “That’s the longest you’ve kept a personal assistant, isn’t it?”

  The staffing manager must have warned her. “Yeah. That’s about right, I guess. The last one left after three days, but then she thought all an artist needed was a nude model.”

  Grace Moore blushed crimson. “I don’t model.”

  “Not a problem.” Roman gave her a swift once-over and leaned against the doorjamb. “That’s not what I’m after.” She looked nervous again. He didn’t want to scare this one awa
y. “I need someone detail-oriented.”

  “Do you have a specific way you want your—” her gesture encompassed the mess—“information sorted?”

  “If I did, the place wouldn’t be such a mess.”

  She frowned slightly as she surveyed the room. “You’ll want some kind of easily maintained system, I would imagine.”

  “If there is such a thing. Think you can do it?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d like to try. I’ll have a better idea of what you need after I go through all this.”

  Roman relaxed. She was frank and honest. He liked that. He had the feeling this girl would know exactly what to do and how to get it done quickly. The sooner, the better. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He finished his coffee. “You might last longer than all the rest.” He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile and headed down the hall.

  She came out of the room. “Mr. Velasco, we need to talk about a few essentials.”

  He stopped, hoping nothing was about to spoil his sense of relief. “Essentials?”

  “A desk and office chair, for starters. Filing cabinets, a phone, and all the other supplies for any normal office.”

  He had said detail-oriented. “I’m an artist, in case you weren’t told. I don’t do normal. And that’s a lot of stuff you’re asking for on your first day on the job.”

  “I can’t sit on a folding chair eight hours a day, five days a week, and I’ll need something more than a card table to work on. There’s barely open space on the floor.” She peered back into the room. “Is there a phone in there somewhere?”

  “Yes. And a computer, unless the last temp girl walked off with it.”

  “I’ll find them.”

  “Do you really need all that?”

  “Yes, if you want your stuff filed properly, not jammed helter-skelter into cardboard boxes or piled up like a beaver dam.”

  Things weren’t looking as good as they had moments before. “There are contracts, sample sketches, letters of inquiry, the stuff of my business.” If Roman didn’t know the staffing manager would hang up on him, he’d tell Grace Moore where she could shove her list of essentials. Unfortunately, he knew what Mrs. Sandoval would do. He’d be right back to square one in this endless hunt for an assistant who was willing and able to do the job. Talia Reisner had planted the idea of hiring someone to take care of what she called “the mundane minutiae of life” so he could concentrate on his art.

  Grace Moore stood silent, not offering an apology. Did he have the right to expect one?

  “Get whatever you need.”

  “Where do you buy your office supplies?”

  “I don’t.” He lifted the mug and realized he’d already downed the coffee. “Find the computer and figure it out.” He needed another cup of coffee before he did anything else.

  “And you’ll be . . . ?”

  “In my studio!”

  “Which is where?”

  “Down the other hall, up the stairs on the right.” He paused and looked back at her. “Take a self-guided tour of the house and get your bearings.” He left her standing in the hall. Grabbing the thermal pot from the coffeemaker, he headed for his studio.

  Roman didn’t see his personal assistant for two hours. She tapped lightly at the doorframe and waited for permission to enter. She’d found the laptop. “I have the list and prices. If you have a credit card, I can place the order and have everything delivered by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Let’s get it done.” Tossing his pencil down, he dug in his back pocket and found it empty. He muttered a four-letter word. “Stay where you are. I’ll be right back.” His wallet wasn’t in or on the armoire or his bedside table. Angry now, he fished through his dirty laundry, checking pockets until he remembered he’d left it in the glove compartment of his car last night. Cursing loudly, he went to get it.

  Grace Moore stood exactly where he’d left her. She held out the laptop rather than taking the credit card he offered. “If you approve of everything I’ve listed, you can put in your credit card information.”

  “You do it!”

  She flinched and let out a soft breath. “It’s your financial information.”

  “Which you’re going to know if you do your job.” He took the laptop from her. Looking at the order total, he swore again. She headed for the door. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t work for you.” She sounded apologetic, but uncompromising.

  “Wait a minute!” He dumped the laptop on his drafting table and went after her.

  She hurried down the stairs.

  “Just hold on.” He followed her to the office, where she picked up her purse and looped the strap over her shoulder. She was pale, her eyes dark when she faced him. Had he scared her that badly?

  She stepped forward, her hand clenched around the leather strap. “Please move.”

  Roman saw she’d already cleared work space on the card table and made neat piles. He didn’t want this girl to leave. “Give me a hint why you’re quitting already.”

  “I could give you a list.”

  “Look.” He lifted his hands. “You’re catching me on a bad day.”

  “Mrs. Sandoval said you don’t have any good ones.” She took a shaky breath and met his gaze.

  She clearly regretted speaking so quickly, but he couldn’t argue. “Yeah, well, the people she sent weren’t a good fit. The whole process has been frustrating, to say the least.”

  “That’s not my fault, Mr. Velasco.”

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  She took a step back. “I’m not trying to make you angry.”

  Was that it? “I’m not angry with you. I’m just . . .” He muttered a foul word under his breath. “I don’t know what I want, but I think you’re what I need.”

  She probably came from a nice tidy life. Two parents, nice home in a nice suburb, private school, college. A class act. He hadn’t said anything worse than what she’d hear in a mall, but clearly, she found him offensive. He’d have to be more careful if he wanted to keep Grace Moore around. “You’ll be working in here. I’ll be in my studio. We won’t be around each other that much.”

  “A personal assistant has to work in close contact with her boss. It’s the nature of the job.”

  “Personal is a loaded word.” He let his smile turn rogue. Seeing that didn’t go over well, he removed any hint of innuendo. “Maybe I should call you something else.”

  “You can call me Ms. Moore.”

  She was unbending a little, but still setting boundaries. Okay. He’d honor them. “Ms. Moore it is.” He could be respectful . . . when the situation called for it. She frowned, studying him like a bug under glass. “At least give me two weeks before you quit.”

  Her shoulders drooped slightly. “Two weeks.” She made it sound like a lifetime, but she let the purse strap slip off her shoulder. “Please don’t swear at me again.”

  “If I swear, it won’t be aimed at you. But I’ll try to be careful when you’re around. Deal?” He held out his hand. She bit her lip before she accepted the gesture. Her hand was cold and trembled slightly before she withdrew it.

  “I’d better get back to work.”

  He got the hint. If she proved to be as efficient as she looked, things might just work out this time. He found himself curious. “Why a temp agency?”

  “It’s the only thing I could find.” She blushed.

  He felt on firmer ground. “Good to know you need this job as much as I need an assistant.” She didn’t say anything. He tilted his head, studying her. “Where did you work before the temp agency?”

  “At a public relations firm.”

  “And left because . . . ?”

  “I was redundant, as the British would say.” She glanced at him. “I have a letter of recommendation, if you’d like to see it.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Sandoval vetted you.”

  She took a deep breath. “I do need this job, Mr. Velasco, but I’m sure you understa
nd I’m looking for something better than temp work. I’ll give you my best while I’m here.” She gave a slight shrug, as if not holding much hope that her best would be good enough. “You’re a far cry from my last boss.”

  “A Philistine?” There was that blush again. He couldn’t remember having met a girl who blushed at all, let alone three times in a few hours.

  “He was a gentleman.”

  Meaning Roman wasn’t. He’d been taught to play the role when necessary. “Why aren’t you still with him?”

  “He retired and turned his business over to another firm. They were fully staffed.”

  Roman looked her over again. He wasn’t sure he liked anyone making rules in his house, but then this one had done more in two hours than the combined efforts of the other four. And he liked her. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was her complete lack of interest in him. Might be nice to have someone who did the work and didn’t ask too many questions.

  “So, we’re good?”

  “For two weeks.”

  He gave a soft laugh. “Okay. We’ve both got work to do. Let’s take care of the order so you can get going on yours.”

  ON THE LONG DRIVE HOME, Grace wondered if the temp job was a gift from heaven or more trouble on the rise. Mrs. Sandoval had told her about the temperamental Roman Velasco. He was an artist, after all. Mrs. Sandoval had neglected to tell Grace the man himself was a work of art. Even unshaven, barefoot, and wearing wrinkled sweats and a T-shirt, he could model for GQ. Long dark hair, café au lait skin, all muscle, not an ounce of fat on him. The minute he’d opened the door, her defenses had gone up. Patrick was handsome, too.

  Her hands shifted on the steering wheel. It didn’t do any good to dredge up memories best left buried.

  Day one. A rough start, but a start, nonetheless. Five minutes in Roman Velasco’s house had confirmed his need for a personal assistant. Her first task of making coffee hadn’t been much of a challenge, other than hunting down the coffee and filters he’d put in a drawer meant for pots and pans.