He glanced at his watch. Five minutes to two. If Janeen Cuthbert wasn’t here at two on the dot then she could just turn around again and march straight back home. She might at least have worked in a caf'e, but he needed someone who would take this job seriously. He needed someone fully committed to making this caf'e work.

For the next five minutes he drummed his fingers against his desk. He didn’t turn to look out of his window at the busy Hobart thoroughfare below. His wasn’t one of the offices that afforded a glimpse of the harbour. As he was rarely in his office, however, he didn’t much care. As a project manager, he didn’t even have his own secretary. He had to share Lisle with two other governmental project officers. He didn’t much care about that either. He’d long since come to the conclusion that if you wanted a job done, you did it yourself.

He glanced at his watch. Two p.m.

He went to push the button on the intercom, but Lisle beat him to it. ‘Janeen Cuthbert is here for her two o’clock appointment, Rico.’

He gritted his teeth and swallowed. ‘Send her in.’

He counted to three. A soft knock sounded on his door. He swore under his breath. That knock was too soft. It was the kind of knock that lacked backbone. His hands fisted. Darn it! He’d had enough of sweet and nice and inefficient to last him a lifetime.

He tried to uncurl his lip. ‘Come in.’

When he clapped eyes on his penultimate interviewee, however, he immediately reassessed his prior judgement. Ms Cuthbert didn’t look as if she lacked a backbone. In fact, she looked boiling mad, as if she were about to explode. She hid it well, but he’d spent too many hours working with troubled youths not to recognise the signs—the glitter in her eyes, the colour high on her cheekbones and the flared nostrils. Even if it was all tucked away beneath a polite smile.

He stared at her and his shoulders unhitched a fraction. She might be a lot of things, but he was suddenly certain the one thing she wasn’t was meek and mild.

‘Mr D’Angelo?’

He kicked himself forward from behind his desk. ‘Yes.’

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Neen Cuthbert.’

She strode across to him, hand extended. It was bright red, as if it had recently been scrubbed to within an inch of its life. He briefly clasped it and then stepped back. She wasn’t wearing pantyhose and her knees were bright red too.

It wasn’t her hands or her knees that held his attention, though. Her dove-grey suit sported four equidistant pawprints—two on her thighs and two just above her breasts. No amount of scrubbing could hide those. For the first time in two days he found himself biting back a smile.

When his gaze returned to her face, her chin went up a notch, as if daring him to say one word about those pawprints.

‘I’m pleased to meet you, Neen.’ He kept his voice even and some of the glitter eased from her eyes. He pursed his lips and then shook his head. ‘I suspect your afternoon has been as stressful as mine.’

A flash of humour lit up her face. ‘It’s that obvious, huh?’ She glanced down at the pawprints, her lips twisting. ‘It has been something of a trial,’ she allowed.

‘Please, take a seat.’ He motioned to a chair. Moving back around his desk, he stabbed a finger to his intercom. ‘I know it’s going above and beyond, Lisle, but could we possibly have coffee in here?’

‘Coming right up,’ she shot back cheerfully.

To his mind, the other two project managers took thorough advantage of their shared secretary. Rico didn’t see coffee making as part of Lisle’s duties. In this instance, though, he was prepared to make an exception.

‘That was kind of you.’ Neen’s glance was direct. ‘Truly, though, you didn’t have to do that on my account.’

He waved that away. ‘You may not thank me once you’ve tasted it.’ It wouldn’t be caf'e standard by any means. ‘But, to be perfectly frank, I could do with a hit of caffeine.’

‘I take it your interviews aren’t going well?’

He stiffened at her question, realising how unprofessional he must appear. He shifted on his chair, fighting a frown. He’d let his guard down. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.

He shook his head. He needed a holiday.

He shook it again. He didn’t have time for a holiday.

‘It’s hardly surprising, though, is it?’ she said, obviously misinterpreting the shaking of his head. ‘You want a highly qualified and experienced restaurant manager, but the wage you’re offering is hardly attractive.’

‘And yet you applied.’

She pointed to her file on his desk. ‘As you’ll have no doubt ascertained from my r'esum'e, I’m not what you’d call highly experienced.’