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door. Assuming it was Steve coming to apologise again, she didn’t bother with the chain.
    ‘Good morning, Miss Manderly,’ Brad Garwood’s impersonal tones greeted her surprised countenance.
    In the daylight, she wasn’t certain if it was the startling green of his eyes or the sharp definition of his features that was the most fascinating. But only in an artistic sense, she qualified mentally.
    ‘You’re staring at me again,’ he reprimanded as if speaking to a child.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered, then chided herself for letting the man unnerve her once again.
    ‘Are you going to ask me in, or do we conduct our business on your doorstep?’ he continued in an indulgent vein.
    ‘I didn’t know we had any business,’ she said coolly, regaining her equilibrium.
    Ignoring her less-than-hospitable manner, he completed his entrance, closing the door behind him. ‘I want to apologise for the trouble I caused you last night. I’m sure finding another place to live can be a nuisance.’
    ‘You could call it that,’ she replied, trailing after him into the living room, infuriated with the way he made himself at home. Then remembering her manners even if he had forgotten his, she added, ‘However, your apology is accepted. After all, I suppose I do owe you my life. I could have been seriously injured falling on to that brick courtyard.’
    ‘I’m glad you realise that.’ He was regarding her with a darkly shuttered gaze she found disquieting, and her back stiffened defensively. ‘I gather you don’t work for your brother on a regular basis.’
    ‘I don’t work for my brother at all,’ she corrected sharply. ‘Last night was the first and last time I’ll help him. I would have refused to do even that, but he’s normally so overly protective of me I felt certain he had to be seriously concerned to ask for such a favour. I had no way of knowing that his concern was unfounded.’
    He stared at her coolly for a long moment as if weighing her words, then said, ‘Although I find your artistic skill to my liking, I’ve always been under the impression that it’s difficult for an artist to support himself or herself on their art alone.’
    ‘Excluding wealthy sponsors or a developed reputation, you’re correct.’ As she caught the suggestive edge in his voice, a hostile flush began to redden her checks.
    ‘Could it be that one of the reasons you succumbed to your brother’s request that you attend the ball last night was that you thought you might meet someone who would be willing to sponsor you?’
    ‘No!’ she glared up at him, brown fury meeting green ice. ‘I prefer to take care of myself.’
    ‘And what exactly do you do to take care of yourself?' he persisted, his attitude one of a person who has come for a purpose.
    ‘What exactly do you think I do?’ Sara challenged, her pride keeping her chin high and her back straight.
    ‘I was wondering if you cooked.’
    ‘Cooked?’ She stared at him incredulously.
    ‘I’m in need of a housekeeper,’ he elaborated. ‘The person wouldn’t have to do any heavy cleaning—I have a service that comes in once a week for that. But I need someone to see that the rooms are kept straightened, the laundry is done on time, and to prepare meals.’
    ‘I would think you could find any number of suitable people for the position,’ Sara remarked suspiciously.
    ‘It’s a live-in position,’ he continued, disregarding her comment. ‘There’s a bedroom with a private bath off the kitchen, and the person has to be willing to adjust to an irregular schedule.’
    Sara had the distinct impression that they were discussing something quite different from cooking and cleaning. ‘Like I said, I would think there would be any number of people willing, to take the job.’
    ‘I’m willing to pay you six hundred dollars a month plus bed and board. You’ll have Thursday evenings and every other weekend off. There’s a room on the third floor with a skylight which