Midnight Rhythms. Karen Van Der Zee

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СКАЧАТЬ long-suffering sigh floated down the phone line. “Your aspirations are all very commendable, Sam, but surely you can fit in a little fun with a handsome guy once in a while, before all your hormones dry up?”

      Now, that sounded lovely. “No, I have no time,” she said stubbornly. “It will have to wait.”

      “Is he rich?”

      “Is he rich?” Sam groaned and rolled her eyes. Gina, in one of her pretend shallow moods. “I have no idea.” Being one of the McMillan clan, he probably was, but she hadn’t given it a thought.

      “Well, does he look rich?”

      “Like how?”

      Gina sighed. “You’re hopeless. His clothes, his car, his watch, his briefcase—you know, that sort of thing.”

      Sam pushed her cold coffee aside. “I haven’t seen a briefcase. I’ve paid no attention to his watch and, besides, I wouldn’t know a designer watch from a dime store special. And he just wears shorts and T-shirts and he doesn’t have a car. He’s buying one, he says.”

      “What kind?”

      “I didn’t ask! Sheesh, Gina, what’s with you?”

      “This floor is no fun today—my patients are not responding to my tender loving care by getting better and waltzing out of here, so I’m in serious need of a fantasy to keep me from wallowing in despair. And this sounds like a really good one, so work with me, will you?”

      “Having a rough day?”

      “Nothing but tragedy. You don’t want to hear about it, believe you me. So, tell me, what type is this David? I mean, what kind of car do you think he belongs in?”

      Sam contemplated this for a moment. “A fancy sports car, I suppose. Something low and sleek and very expensive.”

      “Cool. Just my kind of man. If you don’t want him, I might come over and have a look at him. By the way, is he married, or attached?”

      “Last time I heard, you were attached,” Sam said dryly. “Engaged to be married, in fact. To the most wonderful man in the world.”

      Another sigh. “Oh, right. I forgot.”

      An old pick-up truck lounged in the driveway when Sam arrived home at ten that evening. It was a garish red and had a dent in one of the fenders. A purple bumper sticker proclaimed that the end of the world was near and it was time to repent.

      “Whose pick-up is that?” she asked when she found David watching the international news on television.

      “Mine. I bought it today.”

      “Wow,” she said, dropping her purse and book bag. “And I had you pegged as a Ferrari type.”

      “Really?” Again the spark of humor in his eyes. “I’m more of a Maserati man. But I had to be practical.”

      “Practical?” Now this was getting good. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

      He nodded. “I had to consider the fact that I’ll be transporting construction material rather than loose, empty-headed blondes with long flowing hair.”

      “How depressing,” she said mockingly. “You’ll never get them into that truck.”

      He sighed. “I know. I suppose I’d better get myself a Maserati as well.”

      “Why did you buy a used car instead of a new one?”

      He shrugged. “I don’t need a new one. I’m only going to use it for a few months. Besides, I just happened to see it sitting by the road with a ‘For Sale’ sign on it and it spoke to me.”

      “It spoke to you?”

      “Yes. It has…character, a certain je ne sais quoi with that sexy dent, and that passionate red color and that purple sticker.”

      She laughed; she couldn’t help it.

      “And I think it looks just perfect parked next to that lurid green car of yours.”

      “Don’t offend my car.”

      “Okay,” he said amiably, and leaped off the couch again, the way he had the night before. He might be a laid-back sort of person, but there certainly was plenty of energy hiding in that body.

      An image flashed through her mind—a tiger lounging on a tree branch. The vision so surprised her, she almost laughed out loud.

      David switched off the television set. “There’s a fax from Susan for you,” he told her. “It’s in Andrew’s office.”

      And so there was. Sam read it standing up by the fax machine. Susan said they’d been stuck in a remote Turkish mountain village with car trouble, but they’d had a wonderful time. She waxed lyrical about the food, the people, the beauty of the landscape. They’d just returned to their hotel in Istanbul and David had called them on the phone. She was very sorry they’d been out of reach for the last few days and had been unable to reassure her that David truly was Andrew’s beloved cousin and an honorable, trustworthy human being, if a bit off-center at times, which was to be expected of people roaming the globe and sojourning in exotic places.

      Sam grinned. Off-center. Well, that would explain that red truck.

      David, Susan went on to explain, had been expected to stay with them in the fall, to build himself a cabin on the north end of their property. But, since his plans had changed, Susan hoped sincerely Sam didn’t mind if he stayed at the house while she was there.

      Since she and Andrew would be asleep by the time Sam would come home, she’d written the fax instead of calling later.

      Sam read the fax twice. Well, there it was. Just as he had told her. Except he hadn’t said anything about building a cabin—but then she hadn’t asked, either. That was why he had bought the pick-up truck, she realized.

      There was something odd about it all, though. Why was David McMillan building a cabin? The McMillan family was wealthy; she knew that from Susan’s stories about her in-laws. Why not build a proper house? Why not buy a house?

      She’d seen him naked, but she knew very little about this man—his life, his work, his character. Nothing except that he wasn’t a criminal on the loose, and that he was going to share the house with her.

      She didn’t like it. She wanted peace and quiet. She wanted the house to herself. It was not to be. She looked down at the fax in her hand, crumpled, her hands clenched into fists.

      Back in the living room, she found David with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Music undulated through the room, something vibrant and seductive—Brazilian jazz? David McMillan seemed to have a thing for sensuous music.

      “Shall we celebrate?” he asked, filling the glasses.

      “Celebrate what?” There wasn’t anything to celebrate as far as she was concerned. On the contrary; she felt like mourning the loss of her precious privacy and isolation.

      “The СКАЧАТЬ