Moldable and loyal.

  Perfect…if that’s true.

  “Are you going to stand there or talk to me about the cat?”

  She squares her shoulders, trying to look tall and proud, then tiptoes into the room. If she passes muster today, I’ll correct the mixed messages of her body language. For now, I let it slide. She sets her purse on the sofa at the end of my bed.

  “Take off the terrible sweater, too.”

  Savannah swallows…what? Her anger? Her pride? Then she sheds the gray woolen blob. That’s a point for her. She might actually know which battles are worth fighting and which aren’t.

  Finally, she approaches, hands clasped in front of her.

  I want to eat her whole. But I can’t. First, I don’t need the hassle. She’s a woman who would require entanglements. And second, maybe I’m having a rare twinge of conscience, but I could utterly destroy her. Under that hard-knock-life veneer lies Pollyanna. I won’t be the man who shatters her illusions. Let some other asshole take the blame for that.

  “Of course, Mr. Force. Let me first say it’s an honor to meet you.” She sticks out her hand.

  I take it. Her fingers are slender, her bones delicate, her skin soft, but her palms have calluses. She’s known hard work. Good. That will serve her well if she stays.

  I do my best to ignore the zip up my spine. My touch lingers longer than it should. My cock, the greedy bastard, throbs for more.

  “The cat?” I prompt impatiently.

  She’ll learn quickly I don’t waste time.

  “Of course. How can I help you?”

  “He’s overdue for his heartworm medicine. Give it to him.”

  A little frown settles between her brows. “How overdue?”

  How long ago did Miranda leave? “Six months, maybe more. Does it matter?”

  “It does. Have you tried and failed to give it to him or simply not tried at all?”

  I’m surprised—not unpleasantly—by how direct her question is. “I don’t fail at things, Ms. Blythe.”

  A polite curl of her lips tells me she’s annoyed and she thinks I’m an ass. Most people wouldn’t be able to decipher her expression, but I haven’t made a few billion dollars without learning to read a room. “Of course not. What I’m asking is if the cat has rejected it completely or whether you’ve simply been too busy to administer the medication.”

  Her recovery is decent. She’s quick on her feet.

  I smile back. “Some of both, actually. I did attempt several times. He refused it outright. It slipped my mind after that until a recent vet visit.”

  “Did the vet say there’s a problem? I mean, other than the cat needing his monthly pill?”

  “You’d have to ask my housekeeper, Wendy.”

  “And I take it she’s not here?”

  “No.” And even if she was, I’m not in the mood to share an instant of this delicious girl’s time or attention with anyone yet.

  “Have you noticed a change in his appearance or demeanor?”

  “I couldn’t tell you.”

  Her too-polite smile says she suspects I’m giving her the runaround. Her instincts are good.

  “You must have noticed something. He is your cat.”

  “He isn’t.”

  She cocks her head at me. Clearly, she thinks I’m arguing for the sake of arguing. This is one time she’d be wrong.

  “Obviously, the reputation of cats is that they don’t allow humans to own them, merely care for their whims, but surely you spend time with him—”

  “No, because he’s not my cat.”

  She frowns, seemingly perplexed. “He doesn’t live here? If not, why are you—”

  “He does.”

  “Mr. Force, did you or did you not adopt him?”

  “I didn’t. Someone left him here.”

  “Who?”

  I’ve been leading her down this conversational path, mostly for my amusement because she’s tenacious and more than slightly clever, but my next question will tell me whether she’s even remotely prepared to play in my league.

  Probably not, and I’m likely doomed to disappointment, but I’m savoring this last moment of anticipation. “I can’t answer that question unless you sign a nondisclosure form.”

  She’s surprised, but to her credit, she wipes her expression clean a heartbeat later and quickly chooses a different tactic. “Your demand is unreasonable for such a simple question. You know what I think?”

  “I’d love to hear.”

  “You don’t really want help with the cat. If you did, you wouldn’t have played such ridiculous games of semantics or demanded I sign an NDA. As such, I’d like to move on and talk about your open executive assistant position. I’ve brought an extra copy of my résumé and I’m happily prepared to discuss any questions you may have about my education or—”

  “You’re wrong.”

  Savannah raises a dark brow. “In what way?”

  “I really do want help with the cat. I simply can’t answer your question without legal protection.”

  “Won’t, not can’t.”

  I shrug. “Sign the form, and I’ll tell you everything.”

  “You’ve said nothing that even remotely compels me to sign a legal document meant to muzzle me, especially since I’m sure you’ve had the city’s finest lawyers draft it to your very great advantage.”

  “Actually, the country’s best lawyers. Boston’s best were merely passable.”

  Her smile turns tight. “Of course. What’s your cat’s name?”

  “Hades.”

  “As in the ruler of the underworld?”

  “You know your Greek mythology?”

  Now she looks insulted. “I know a great many things, Mr. Force, including how to feed Hades his medicine. Do I need to sign a nondisclosure form for you to tell me whether I can find his cat food in the kitchen?”

  I try not to smile, but she’s proving to be more interesting than at first glance. “What if I said yes?”

  “I’d tell you I’ll figure it out myself. Shall I see to it?”

  “By all means.” I gesture her to the door. “If you can find the little black bastard of a puffball, you’re welcome to tangle with him. Something of note, Ms. Blythe, if I may?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “He still has all his claws.”

  “So do I. If I manage this in the next fifteen minutes, you’ll give me a fair interview?”

  I admire her for negotiating so forthrightly on her behalf. “Absolutely. I’m starting your timer…now.”

  Savannah

  I rush out of the man’s bedroom and down the stairs, trying to shove aside how much he rattles me and how strangely enjoyable it is to spar with him.

  Verbal foreplay.

  That thought is particularly unhelpful since I feel a dangerous tingle brewing between my legs as I jog to the first floor. I find the kitchen and start flinging open doors. After a few missteps, I locate a walk-in pantry, which seems like the most logical place to find Hades’s things. I hope. If the cat has a special room all to himself in this huge-ass mansion, I’ll never locate it in time.

  Luckily, I spot canned cat food and a box of heartworm pills beside it on a shelf, along with a few treats. It’s hard not to gape at the fact that even the damn pantry is opulent, complete with a chandelier, but now isn’t the time. I’m putting the five years I volunteered at the local animal shelter back home to good use. The lady who managed the adoption center called me the cat whisperer, and I’ve always had an affinity with felines. It better not fail me now.

  First, I need to see what motivates Hades. For most cats, it’s food, affection, or play.

  Since I’ve administered this medicine before, though admittedly not in a while, I know most cats don’t like the smell or taste of it, so my best bet is to disguise it in food. On the pristine marble counters of the masculine kitchen, I spot a butcher block of very expensive knives and frantically search for a cutting board until I find a polished wooden slab inside one of the walnut cabinets, then make quick work of dicing a pill into the finest powder I can.

  After a glance around, I spot Hades’s bowl in a corner of the room on a placemat, wash it out, and dump the ground-up medicine inside. Then I grab a can of food, stand at the base of the stairs, and pop open the lid.

  The ball of black fur comes charging toward me and runs full force into the kitchen.

  Hades is definitely motivated by food.

  I mix some of the wet stuff with the powdered medicine and set it on his placemat. He looks at it, then looks at me expectantly. What the devil is he waiting for?

  A moment later I realize he’s testing me—just like his wily owner.

  “No wonder you two don’t get along. You’re too much alike.”

  But how do I get him to eat? I’ve only got a few minutes left. Worse, I maybe have seconds before Hades loses interest.

  Cats also like affection and play, so I’ll start there.

  Quickly, I snag a spoon from a drawer in the kitchen and race back to Hades, who’s still staring at me like he’s getting impatient. I crouch down until I’m level with his wary amber-eyed stare. He backs up a step, so I slowly extend my hand between us. He shuffles closer, sniffs me, then butts my hand with his head and starts to purr.

  Hades loves to be loved.

  I smile as I dip my spoon in the food and offer it to him. He looks at me skeptically…but eases closer, sniffs, then starts eating his laced chow with gusto.

  He finishes that spoonful, followed by another, and another, then the last one. I reward him with more head rubs before he gives me his most dramatic meow, clearly indicating that he wants more food.

  Happily, I give him the rest of the can and set it in front of him with another pet, then I dart back upstairs and look at the clock on Mr. Force’s nightstand with a smile. “I’m done with two minutes to spare.”

  “How do I know that for sure?”

  “Because I’m not a liar, and you’ll find there’s one less can of cat food in your pantry.”

  “What makes you think I count them?”

  The bastard is patronizing me. “Because I don’t think anything escapes your notice.”

  “Smart, resourceful, and efficient. All right, pull up a chair, and we’ll begin the interview.”

  I glance around. The one chair in the room is too big for me to lug. The sofa faces the fireplace. If I sat there, I’d have my back to him. His smug expression tells me that he not only knows this, but he wants to see how I’ll react.

  None of this would bother me if I wasn’t attracted to him. If my rebellious gaze wasn’t stupidly stuck on his sharp, gleaming eyes. If I didn’t admire his strong, square jaw. If I didn’t want to know what a kiss from his fleshy slash of a mouth felt like. If I didn’t feel drawn to touch his steely shoulders and sink against his wide chest…

  But I’m here for an interview, not a hookup. I need a chair, and I suspect Chad Force is waiting on me to think outside the box.

  “I’ll be right back with one.”

  His smile as I exit and turn the corner tells me I made the right choice in not whining about the lack of a seat or wasting his time by asking. I’m following directions while solving the problem.

  The bedroom across the hall is a mirror image of his in terms of layout, but the décor is decidedly feminine. Still elegant, of course. I doubt Mr. Force would allow anything less in his domain. But I’m deeply curious why the single CEO has a bedroom clearly intended for a woman beside his.

  It’s not important now. Since I don’t see a chair that suits my purposes, I tiptoe down a floor and venture up the hall. I find a stylish, entirely masculine home office. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in black dominate an entire wall of the space, built around a matching modular desk, accented by sleek pulls. A giant iMac sits in the alcove. Two of the office walls are painted pristine white, which is only broken up with canvases of subdued abstracts in gray. In the middle of the room sits a sleek writing desk with geometric gold legs, a glossy black top, and a desk lamp with a base that doubles as a globe. Behind it sits a tufted chair in a shade of blue that reminds me of a rainy day. It’s big and it will be hell to lug, but it’s on wheels.

  Not indulging the fear that I’m somehow desecrating Mr. Force’s personal space, I roll the office chair down the hall, grunt as I lift it up the stairs, then drag it behind me back into the man’s bedroom.

  “You found it, I see.”

  I position it a few feet from the bed, sit, then cross my legs. “Yes.”

  “It’s heavy.”

  “But not unmanageable.”

  “You carried it up alone.”

  I eye him. Why is he stating the obvious? Probably to shove me down some conversational rabbit hole he wants me to fall into. “I’m not easily deterred.”

  His smile creeps a little higher. “You didn’t ask permission.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it. But I also solved a simple problem on my own. I see no reason to disturb people, especially busy ones, when I can handle something myself.”

  The rise of his brow tells me he’s impressed, but he’s not going to give me the satisfaction of admitting that out loud. This is some kind of game to him, and it frustrates me. He’s amused, while I need to eat and find a place to sleep.

  “Tell me about you,” he begins, glancing at the sheet of paper in his hands. “Not what’s on your résumé. None of this tells me what I really need to know.”

  I wonder what he’s after, but nothing in his face gives his thoughts away. “I love the financial world because I’m addicted to puzzles and I strive every day to understand what really makes the world turn.”

  His smile tells me he likes my answer. “Go on.”

  “School was a way of gathering fundamental information so I could get my foot in the door, but bottom line? I believe that working at Force Financial could genuinely teach me what I need to know to excel.”

  “I have no doubt of that, but what’s in it for me?”

  The primary rule of any sales pitch: Tell the customer why you can be the answer to their problems. I can’t really answer that without more information.

  “Why are you looking for a new assistant?”

  “Because my last one quit.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Apparently, I’m a workaholic bastard. Who knew?”

  “Well, I have no interest in bars, parties, mobile games, or whatever the rest of my peers are into since I’m a workaholic, too. I’m assuming you’d prefer someone like that at your side.”

  “Yes, but that’s not all I need in an assistant.”

  I try not to squirm in my seat. If he’s looking for sex, I know it’s not smart, but I’m leaning toward sign me up. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t risk his billion-dollar-plus empire for a sexual harassment suit and a piece of ass.

  “You require other qualities.”

  “Yes.”

  And he’s not going to tell me what they are. “You want me to figure them out.”

  “Astute of you.” He looks pleased.

  Hades chooses that moment to wander into the bedroom with a meow, rub up against me, then leap onto the bed before nudging Mr. Force’s hand, demanding attention. I’m fascinated when the man pets the sleek black animal, who looks back at his human with an expression that suggests he should be grateful for the attention. Then the feline walks in a circle, curls up against Mr. Force’s thigh, and closes his eyes.

  “He’s your cat.”

  “No. He glommed on to me out of necessity. I tolerate him because he’s a good foot warmer in winter.”

  That’s not true, but getting Mr. Force to admit it is pointless. I need to keep driving until I find out what he wants in an assistant. So far, he likes the fact I’m persistent and dedicated, I problem solve, and I have gumption. If he didn’t, I’d already be gone. But there’s something more. I need to figure it out.

  “Tell me about the duties this job entails. I’ll be able to better tell you how I can help.”

  His crafty stare hints that he’s plotting something. “Let’s do this. Rather than waste time on trite questions and answers, I’ll give you an opportunity to actually prove your worth. A test drive, if you will. If you last forty-eight hours, you’re hired.”

  “It’s that simple?”

  He laughs. “You won’t find it simple.”

  “Are you going to be difficult on purpose?”

  “No. But I’ll be myself.”

  In other words, he’ll be difficult without even trying. Roundabout and hard to read. Suspicious and constantly testing me.

  It’s a good thing I’m up for the challenge since I need this opportunity.

  “If you make it the entire forty-eight hours, I’ll pay you twenty-five hundred dollars. Deal?”

  Has he gone mental? “Over a hundred fifty-six dollars an hour?”

  “Good to know your math skills work. If you merely worked eight hours for each of the next two days, you would be correct. But that’s not realistic for the needs of my business. The world economy is constantly turning, Ms. Blythe, so this is an every-hour-of-every-day job. That breaks down to roughly fifty-two dollars an hour for each of the next forty-eight hours. What do you have to say to that?”

  He thinks I’m going to object, and he’s dead wrong. I’ll need to get more credits on my phone if he’s going to call me at all hours of the day and night. And I’ll need to find a place to live. A meal might be nice, too. As much as I hate it, I’m going to have to eat through the last of my savings, but if that’s what it takes to stick it out for the next two days, I will.

  “That sounds fine. I’ll give you my number, and you can call me as soon as you have a project or assignment—”

  “No. You’ll need to stay here.”

  Is this some lewd come-on after all? Not that I’d want to object if he made a pass at me, but trying to coerce me is a hard no. “Mr. Force?”

  He smiles at the sharpness of my tone. “Since I had my knee scoped last week, I’m too unsteady on my feet to get back and forth to my office. My housekeeper has been on vacation since before the surgery. I need assistance that’s not merely the traditional office kind.”