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“I don’t sleep where I fuck,” I explained. Reasonably, I thought.

“You won’t even let them into your real bedroom? I think you’ve taken your promiscuity to a disturbing level,” she said every word with quiet revulsion and with just enough conviction to make me feel suddenly uncomfortable.

“Perhaps. What does it matter, anyway?” I asked shrugging it off. “Whether I fuck my way around the world, or lock myself away, we’re all just dust in the wind. I may as well enjoy myself.”

“Self-absorbed nihilist,” she muttered under her breath as she walked away.

Well, hell.

“You don’t know me well enough to get me this much.” Her insults were possibly my favorite thing about her so far. She was just too spot on accurate, and the delivery was the chef’s kiss on top.

I shook it off, showing her the en suite bathroom, or as I’d more appropriately named it, the bath hall.

“There’s the orgy shower,” I pointed out, watching her face. If anything in here was going to get another blush out of her, I figured that was it.

It worked. Her face flashed bright pink at the cheeks, the corners of her mouth went down, and she turned on her heel, her small form pacing out of the bathroom, and then the sex room, in record time.

I grinned. This was going to be fun.

“I feel sorry for them,” she said quietly when I joined her. She wasn’t looking at me, but I was studying her like a scientist would study a particularly odd specimen.

I was offended, I realized. That was hard to do. But I wasn’t accustomed or prepared for a female that felt sorry for the women I hooked up with. In general, I tended to encounter an opposite reaction.

“You shouldn’t feel sorry for any of the women I fuck. Trust me, they know the score, and I take good care of them.”

She just met my eyes, and shook her head, her expression managing to convey both condescension and pity.

The deluded girl thought I was the clueless one.

It was a bit infuriating, but I shrugged it all off.

It’s for the best, I told myself. Because of course it was. A prudish, judgmental girl that looked down on my unrepentant debauchery was hardly likely to tempt a guy like me, which was just what I’d been looking for in an assistant.

I showed her the kitchen next, though it was in the center of the house, impossible to miss, so I didn’t really need to. Still, I gave her thorough instructions on how best to make my coffee, because nothing’s more important to a writer on a deadline than caffeine, and I was very picky about just how I liked to take mine.

“I like to start the day with a cappuccino. After that, I tend to stick to espresso shots, usually doubles, though some days that varies with my mood. Pay very close attention to these measurements,” I said, pouring milk into the steamer. “A writer’s best weapon is a perfect cup of coffee, and the first cup of the day is the most critical.”

“Got it,” she said with confidence.

I nearly rolled my eyes. Everyone seemed to think coffee was so easy to get right, but I’d never had an assistant that didn’t botch it to the point that I ended up making it myself more often than not. Still, this one seemed more competent than my usual, so I’d give her the initial benefit of the doubt.

I showed her the outside of the property, as well. I never missed a good opportunity to show off the things I had earned for myself.

I showed her the pool, which was massive. It was closer to three pools, really, with a slide, diving board, and hidden grotto. It was made for parties, lined top to bottom with glass tiles that sparkled in the sun.

She didn’t seem impressed, so I just kept going, showing her my oversized garage full of cars and motorcycles.

That didn’t get a reaction, so I took her along my property line, letting her get the full scale of just how much land I owned.

“Those are some high walls,” she stated mildly as she followed me around the perimeter of the estate.

“I like privacy. If I want to take a walk naked on my own land, it’s my prerogative. One of the perks of having money.”

She snorted and it made me smile. “Yeah . . . walking. I’m sure that’s the naked activity that you were thinking about when you built this place.”

She was a wiseass. Thank God. We’d be spending a lot of time together, and it would have been torture if she didn’t have a personality.

After a much more extensive tour than I’d planned, we moved her into the house. She didn’t like it, but I insisted on carrying her things in from her car.