Those fine dark eyes gleamed. “You find the strangest things soothing.”
He almost allowed his gaze to stray downward to her breasts. “You have no idea.”
“I’m going to assume that when you clean your guns, you make sure they aren’t loaded first.”
“You assume correctly.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Anything else you find soothing while you work? Archery, maybe?”
“I haven’t used a bow and arrow in years, but it’s a thought.”
“So I should be prepared for that?”
“No. Knife throwing is my impalement art of choice.”
She hummed again, low in her throat. “That’s a real thing? Impalement art?”
“It’s usually referred to in the plural. Impalement arts. Strictly defined, impalement arts entail throwing dangerously sharp objects at a human target.”
She considered. He loved to watch her think. “Like at the circus.”
“That’s right. A circus knife-thrower is in the impalement arts. A circus archer, too. Hatchet-and spear-throwers, as well.” She reached out and brushed her fingers over the stacked leather washer handle of a full-size USMC KA-BAR straight edge. “That’s the most famous fixed blade knife in the world,” he said. “It was first used by our troops in World War Two.”
She slanted him a glance. He couldn’t tell if he’d amused her or she found the knives fascinating, or what. For a moment, neither of them spoke. He wasn’t big on extended eye contact as a rule. But he didn’t mind it so much with her.
She broke the connection first, her gaze sliding away.
He shook himself. “You ready, then?”
By way of an answer, she went to her desk and fired up the computer.
* * *
Jed threw a lot of knives that day. And he wrote a lot of pages. It was good. Really good. Elise took his knives in stride. She never turned a hair when he sent one flying. She just kept right on filling those blank screen pages with his words.
They worked until 1900, at which point he handed her a check for 2,832 dollars and told her she was officially hired.
She frowned at the check. “I thought we said fifteen hundred for the first three days.”
“I included payment for tomorrow and Saturday at your full rate. And after this week, I’ll pay you every Saturday at the end of the day.”
She rose. “Works for me.” She headed for the door to the hallway.
He caught himself with his mouth open, on the verge of calling her back and asking her to have dinner with him.
Not a good idea. She had her life. He had his. They met each morning for work and went their separate ways when the workday was through. He found her far too attractive to start sharing meals with her.
Fantasies involving her were fine—or rather, given that he was having them, he might as well roll with it. Fighting it too hard would only make him want her more.
But hanging around with her after hours?
Bad idea.
She lived in his house. It would be so easy to get more than professional. That would be stupid. Because when the heat between them burned out, the work would get strained. She would end up leaving.
And that couldn’t happen.
He was keeping her. She just didn’t know it yet. She thought she was quitting when this book was through. But she was wrong.
Before she had knocked on his door Monday, he’d been increasingly sure that his big-deal writing career was headed straight for the crapper. He’d spent way too many sleepless nights sweating bullets over his dawning realization that Anna had been a lucky fluke and he would never find the right assistant again. Now that he had found her, he would simply have to convince her to stay. So what if she seemed determined to go?
One way or another, whatever he had to offer her to keep her happy, he was keeping her.
And the best way to lose her was if they had a thing and then it ended—which it would. He’d never been any good at relationships. Sooner or later, most women wanted more than he knew how to give. Maybe Elise was different. Maybe she could have a good time and then have it be over and still sit down at the computer and type his words for him every day.
But he couldn’t afford to take a chance on finding out.
So he kept his damn mouth shut as she disappeared down the hall.
* * *
As they’d agreed when he hired her, Elise had Sunday off.
That Sunday, she left the house at 0905 hours. Jed knew the time exactly because he was standing on the balcony outside the master suite when she backed her car out of the garage.
Unlike the previous Monday, when she took off to get her cat and her clothes, he was okay with watching her go. Today, he felt zero anxiety as she drove away. They were getting on well together, after all, and he was paying her an arm and a leg. No reason she wouldn’t return.
Plus, he hadn’t seen the cat in the car. And if the cat was still here, she would have to come back.
An hour later, he headed for the shooting range, where he remained until lunchtime. He had a burger at a truck stop out on the state highway and got back to the house at 1400 hours.
Elise was still gone.
He put on workout gear and went down to the basement to use the StairMaster and then pump iron for a couple of hours. After his workout, he had a shower and found something to eat in the fridge. Then he went to his office and researched poisons until past 1900 hours. He had a lot of book left to write and that meant a lot of characters to kill.
Elise still hadn’t returned.
He wasn’t concerned. No reason to be. As long as she showed up at her desk on time in the morning, he couldn’t care less where she went or how long she stayed there.
But for some completely crazy reason, he was kind of worried about the damn cat. Had she taken the animal with her, after all? Or had she just left the poor thing alone in her room?
Yeah, he hated cats. But she shouldn’t just leave it locked up like that all day. Wasn’t that cat abuse?
Sure seemed like it to him.
An hour after he left his office, he wandered down the hallway that led to her room. He stood there in front of her door for several minutes and debated the acceptability of trying the handle, maybe letting the fur ball out—if it was in there and if she’d left the door unlocked.
But opening her door without her permission seemed like a really bad idea. She might get mad if he did that. And getting her mad was no way to keep her working for him.
In the end, he settled on putting his ear to her door, just to listen for the possibility of plaintive meowing.
“What are you doing, Jed?”
Luckily he had nerves of steel. He didn’t so much as flinch at the sound of her voice—even though he felt like a bad child caught with his grubby hand in the candy box.
Slowly, he pulled his ear away from her door and stood to his full height, turning to face her as he did it.
She watched him from the far end of the hallway, a stack of boxes in her arms. “Well?”
The best defense is always an offense. “Your damn cat. I was getting worried about it.” He strode toward her. “Here. Let me help you with those.”
She allowed him to take the boxes. “But you hate cats.”
“Open