Midnight Rhythms. Karen Van Der Zee
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“I do. I just can’t make myself.”
She looked tired. “Go to bed, then.”
“I think maybe I’ll have that glass of wine you mentioned.”
He took the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc out of the fridge and poured her a glass, then had himself a whiskey. He sat down at the table with her.
“So, how was your day?” he asked.
She took a sip of the wine. “I don’t want to talk about it. Tell me about yours.”
“I had a good day, two good days. Visited with my parents, took care of a little business problem, and that’s about it.”
“What kind of company is it your family has? Susan said something about commodities, but I can’t remember.”
“The company deals in commodities, buying and selling on the world market—cacao, sugar, soy beans, rubber, buying and selling futures, crops that have not yet been planted.”
“Seems strange,” she said. “I mean, making money buying and selling stuff that doesn’t even exist.”
Her observation pleased him. “Yes, to me, too. But my brother Anthony loves the game, as he calls it. He seems to thrive on the challenge, the hair-raising stress of it.”
A half-a-cent drop in price could lose them a fortune. A half-a-cent increase could make them one.
“But you don’t?” she asked. “You’re not really working for the McMillan company, are you?”
“No, I just do odd jobs here and there.” He took a drink. “I’ve never been interested in numbers on computer screens. I want to touch things with my hands, build, construct, create a final product.”
“Like bridges and dams?”
“Yeah.” He loved the challenge of doing this in the most difficult of circumstances—dynamiting tunnels through mountainsides, carving roads through seemingly impassable terrain. And in the end he loved the satisfaction of knowing that the structure he’d designed, fought over, struggled with and completed would improve the lives of the people who used it. That decades, maybe even a century from now, it would still be there.
He gave a crooked grin. “Numbers on paper are just dead stuff.”
She rubbed her forehead. “Numbers on papers represent money, or the lack thereof,” she said.
“You’re right. But it just doesn’t do a thing for me.”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “You don’t like money?”
He grinned. “I don’t like the numbers game. I like money itself just fine.” It could buy you things—luxury items, physical comfort, people’s time. What it couldn’t do was buy you happiness, love, inner contentment. A lesson he’d had to learn the hard way. He watched Samantha, practically falling asleep as she sat there. She’d drunk only half her wine.
He came to his feet and reached for her hand. “Come on, you need to go to bed,” he said.
She stared at him fuzzily. “I’m not going to bed with you.”
He almost laughed. “Why not? It would be nice.”
She sighed. “It would be stupid.”
“You’re too hard on yourself, and much too serious.”
She pulled her hand free from his and straightened in her chair. “Meaning?” She looked quite awake now.
“A little relaxation is good for the soul. A little recreational lovemaking is good for the soul.”
She gave him a scathing look. “I’m honored you’re so concerned for the welfare of my soul, and so eager to be of assistance.”
He laughed. He couldn’t help it. “I live to serve,” he said.
Samantha was trying to think how they’d arrived at this topic, but couldn’t. She glowered at him. “Is there anything at all that you take serious in life?” she asked, exasperated. What was the matter with this man? He treated everything as a joke, or as inconsequential.
“Not much,” he said amiably, “but some things, yes.”
“Like what? Please tell.”
“A good meal is important. And my health. I take that very seriously. And having friends. And, of course, the agreeable company of a good woman.”
The agreeable company of a good woman? Now she was impressed! “Is that what you’re looking for? The agreeable company of a good woman?” she asked with mild mockery.
He gave a weary sigh. “Yes, but it’s not a simple quest. Good women aren’t easy to find.” He held her gaze and smiled wickedly. “I’m thinking you might be one,” he said slowly.
“Me? Are you out of your mind?”
“Aren’t you a good woman?”
She gave a derisive little laugh. “But I’m not agreeable.”
He gave her a considering look. “You’d be good for me.”
“Me? Hah! Why would I be good for you?”
“You make me laugh.”
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