“You only have to make one trip. Send the food up the dumbwaiter, along with a bottle of wine.”
She frowns. “Should you be drinking if you’re taking pain medication?”
Her attempt to protect me is surprising. “Should you be questioning my judgment?”
“You don’t want me interested in your safety?”
Touché. “What if I told you I would fire you unless you retract that question?”
Savannah pauses the split second it takes to smooth away her alarm. “Obviously, that’s not what I want, but at least I’ll know I tried my best to look out for you.”
Her answer has me suppressing a smile. “The wine is for you.”
“I don’t need—”
“Unless I’m way off, you’ve had a rough time lately.”
She stiffens. “I’m fine.”
Savannah is only saying that because she’s a fighter who doesn’t want my pity. I respect that. But I want to help her, too. “You’re also entitled to a glass of liquid relaxation.”
She cocks her head. “Have you been told that you can be difficult?”
“Not today. Are you rectifying that?”
“Absolutely. If the rest of your staff has been remiss, that might be why you need me.”
My grin widens. Working with Savannah would never be dull. “You might be right.”
With a shake of her head, she crosses my room and opens the door to my closet, then emerges with the card table. She sets it up by my bedside, then drags my office chair closer. “I’ll send the food up and be back shortly.”
“You’ll find the dumbwaiter—”
“I’ll figure it out. You rest.”
If she was auditioning to be something other than my assistant, I’d spank her for her sassiness. But I like it. She’d be an interesting woman to spar with between the sheets.
A few minutes later, Savannah rushes back up the stairs, carrying napkins, silverware, and an open bottle of wine. She plunks everything on the table. Then she exits again, searching the floor until she finds the dumbwaiter. She returns with our food, a bottle of water, and an empty wineglass.
Dinner smells amazing, and the first bite is like heaven. “This is fantastic. Thank you for cooking.”
She pours herself a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and sips. “You’re welcome.”
“You cook much?”
Her face closes up. “I used to.”
“When?”
She stalls by taking a bite, then going back for another drink of her vino. “As a kid, I cooked a lot for my grandmother. I enjoyed it.”
“Did you stop when you went away to college?”
“No, when she died five years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
Savannah tries to shrug off her pain. “She was old. I wasn’t surprised when her heart gave out.”
But I can tell she was devastated. It’s all I can do to resist giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “How old were you?”
“Not quite seventeen. After she passed away, I didn’t have any other family willing to take me in, so I went to live with my best friend, Renee, and her parents. They were great. Very supportive.”
“What about your parents?”
Her face closes up. “I don’t discuss them.”
I change tactics. “Are you and Renee still friends?”
“Yes. She’s the one who convinced me to move here after my graduation in December. I had other opportunities back in Indiana—”
“But none of them could give you the professional advancement you wanted.” It’s not a question; I know the answer.
“Exactly.” As I fork in another bite, she cocks her head. “Why the personal questions?”
“It’s important to know the person I might spend seventy hours a week with, don’t you think?”
She nods. “Fair point.”
“You can’t convince me you didn’t come to this interview prepared. You know far more about me.”
“But I don’t know what makes you tick.”
“Profit.”
She scoffs. “You inherited enough money to make Midas jealous. It’s the hunt you enjoy. It’s the kill.”
A slow smile creeps up my face. This woman gets me. “What if I do?”
She swallows a bite of chicken, then washes it down with wine. “We’re a lot alike.”
Yes, she has a similar instinct. I have the advantage of experience. She has the benefit of being underestimated. I won’t make that mistake. “You’re right.”
“Why haven’t you ever married?”
I shrug. “Not a priority.”
Savannah rolls her eyes. “I’m calling BS. According to the press, you’re a notorious loner who barely dates.”
True. “What’s your point?”
Maybe the wine has made her bold, because she finishes off the glass, despite the fact she’s hardly touched her food. “You’re the kind of person who will insist on spending your life with someone who shares your passions. You just haven’t found her yet.”
“Are you insinuating I’ve never known passion?”
“I’m sure you have, but I’m not talking about the physical kind. You won’t be happy with someone who’s not your intellectual equal.”
“How do you know? Opposites attract.”
“That kind of attraction doesn’t last.” She leans in, warming to her subject. “I’ve cut every one of my exes loose because they couldn’t keep up with me intellectually and didn’t want to try. Tell me you haven’t been down the same road.”
“I can’t without lying.”
This is another reason it will be so fucking difficult to resist Savannah if I hire her. She’s gorgeous, ambitious, and smarter than hell. It’s a rare combination. But she needs a job and I need an assistant far more than either of us needs a romp in bed.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
I have a feeling she could be so much more, though. In fact, I’m seeing an opportunity to have the best of both worlds… But I need more information before I decide whether to proceed.
“What do you think about Marcus?” I change the subject.
Her face shutters so fast it’s almost dizzying. “I don’t know him.”
“First impressions. Gut instinct.”
“I’d rather not speak until my opinion is fully formed. Excuse me. I forgot something in the kitchen. Do you need anything else?”
She’s lying, but I let it slide…for now. The evening is young. Savannah is sharp, no denying. But she’s not used to playing with the big boys. I’ll win.
Savannah
Downstairs, I take a deep breath and press a hand to my chest. I hope I didn’t just make a huge mistake. Mr. Force gave me an opening to tell him about Marcus Hunt’s duplicity and I didn’t. My gut told me he wasn’t ready to listen.
But I need to confront this situation. Nothing good will come of waiting.
With ideas floating through my head, I grab the salad bowl and the bottle of dressing, then head back upstairs. Mr. Force is still at the table, his plate mostly finished. He’s poured me another glass of wine.