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Her heart sank. He was going to tell her not to discuss the job. “What condition?”
“That you’ll allow me to take you to dinner.”
She laughed, relieved. “Sam—”
“I know what you’re going to say, but let’s not have a big argument over it, shall we?”
“Okay,” she said obediently. It didn’t matter to her who took whom. What mattered was that they sat at the same table and that she had his undivided attention.
“Excellent,” he said. “How about tonight?”
Tonight. He wasn’t wasting any time. “Tonight is good,” she said.
His sister, Yasmina, indeed. Sam grinned as he put down the phone, still hearing the echo of Kim’s bright, singsong voice. He’d known it was her, of course—Marcus’s gregarious sister with the wild blond curls, the Renaissance woman who was comfortable in cyber space, who was not afraid of snakes and who could cook “real” food. And, reckless and impulsive as ever, she wanted to come to Java and set up house for him.
It wasn’t going to happen.
He glanced down at the file on the desk in front of him and couldn’t for the world remember what he had been doing before her call had come through.
Ever since he’d seen her in Marcus’s office a few days ago, she’d been on his mind, which he’d found distracting in the extreme. He was busy and it had interfered with his concentration. When she’d called the first time, asking about the job, he’d been short with her, mostly because he’d been irritated with himself for his inability to stop thinking about her.
And now she had called him again and he knew he wasn’t going to get her out of mind.
Marcus’s lovable, feisty little sister, all grown-up.
It hadn’t taken great powers of observation to see she hadn’t changed much. Spontaneous, vivacious and as charming as ever.
And tonight he was having dinner with her. It would certainly be interesting.
Kim stood in front of her bedroom closet and scrutinized the kaleidoscopic contents in despair. Her clothes were all so hopelessly unsuitable, but she had no time to run out and buy something new.
She loved clothes, but not the formal variety, which were fortunately not required for her work as a freelance commercial designer. She preferred fun, casual clothes, bright colors, playful designs. But for dinner tonight she needed something seriously sophisticated. She groaned with frustration as she rummaged frantically through the hangers hoping to find something halfway acceptable.
And there it was, in the very back: a neat little black suit—sober, proper, bought for the funeral of Great-Uncle Amos last year. She lunged for it with a sigh of relief and put it on the bed. From the back of the closet she excavated a pair of black pumps. Her jewelry box yielded simple gold earrings and a matching chain necklace, a birthday present from her conservative father. She was set.
Now her hair. She’d wear it up, out of her face. She grinned at herself. Boy, was she going to impress Mr. Samiir Rasheed with her businesslike image!
He came for her in a long, sleek limousine.
She was waiting outside the door to her building. The ancient cage elevator was out of order and she wanted to spare him climbing the stairs to the top floor.
The uniformed driver held the door open for her with a flourish and she slipped in beside Sam, taking in the television, computer, phone, fax machine, refrigerator and bar. A company vehicle, designed so the busy executives could continue doing their business while being transported from airports to offices to hotel suites, or perhaps their girlfriends’ apartments.
“Hi,” she said, trying not to sound too bright and peppy. Wearing conservative tan slacks and a deep blue blazer, he managed to look stunning, setting all her nerve endings atingle. She imagined that Sam would look stunning no matter what he wore.
She was sitting close enough to see the fine lines next to his eyes, to notice that his square chin was freshly shaven. Close enough to see sparks of mirth in the depth of his dark eyes.
“I hardly recognized you,” Sam said. “You, in black.”
“Actually I hardly recognized myself.” Kim smoothed her skirt over her thighs. “I only wore this suit once, to a funeral and—” She stopped herself, and heard him laugh.
“A funeral? I hope wearing it now is not an indication of how you feel about having dinner with me.”
“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “I hardly ever feel funereal about anything. It’s too depressing.”
“And you’re not a depressed sort of person,” he commented. “At least you weren’t as a girl.”
“No.” This was dangerous territory. She didn’t want him to think of her as the silly girl she’d been, the naive girl madly in love with him. That girl would no doubt have worn red tonight. Kim had the perfect dress in her closet—a deep, rich passionate red to express her real feelings about having dinner with Samiir Rasheed, the man who gave her foolish little heart the flutters, the man who rescued her from a tragic death in her fantasies. Of course they’d never been out to dinner together then, not just the two of them. They’d hardly ever been alone together anyplace, except that one time, in the garden of her parents’ house, at night.
Not a good train of thought. She pushed it aside and glanced out the window at the neon lights, the billboards, the buses and taxis and people rushing along, all of it like a silent movie behind the dark glass of the air-conditioned limousine. An oasis of calm in the turmoil of the city.
Only she didn’t feel calm. She had never before been aware of the power of the past, the pull of memories. It made her angry with herself. She’d been a stupid teenager, for Pete’s sake! What she had been feeling then had no relevance to the present; she was no longer the same person. She was a grown woman now and she was not romantically interested in this cool, enigmatic man in his expensive clothes—no matter how drop-dead attractive and sexy he appeared. At the time Sam had been exotic to her, a volcano of controlled passion, ready to erupt….
She was aware of the faint scent of his aftershave, aware of sitting very close to him. It would be so easy to touch him—his arm, his hand, his thigh. Oh, good Lord what was she thinking? He was just another rich, workaholic businessman, a man who only knew about making money and had no talent for warm, intimate relationships with friends and lovers. He was most likely just a boring human being, a man without a wife and without a social life. He probably played solitaire at night while watching the stock market news on CNN.
Sure, a little voice teased her.
Mercifully it was not a long drive to the restaurant, a very upmarket place she’d never had the good fortune to visit.
“This is great,” she said, studying the wonderful modern decor, the interesting art on the walls. The aromas wafting around were promising; the menu alone was a piece of art.
A waiter in a black suit came to take their drink orders. He talked with a French accent, a real one even.
Kim requested Chardonnay, and caught the dark gleam in Sam’s eyes.
“Ah, yes,” he said evenly, “it’s legal for you to drink now.”
She knew instantly what he was referring to. She’d been well underage when she’d known him, which hadn’t kept her from secretly partaking of a couple of glasses of champagne at her father’s fiftieth birthday party. And Sam had been there. It took an effort to force down the heat of embarrassment that threatened to flush her face.
The champagne had made her brave and wanton. She’d more or less lured Sam into the garden, behind the big hemlock tree, and thrown herself at him, or tried anyway. She wasn’t very practiced at that sort of thing. It was mortifying even to remember it.
However, she was no longer a silly teenager. She was twenty-six, a mature adult, and she had to convince Sam of that so he’d give her the job.
“That was eleven years ago,” she said with a dismissive little shrug, fiddling with her napkin so she didn’t have to look at him.
“Indeed,” he said smoothly, not pursuing the matter like a true gentleman. “So tell me, what has happened with you in these past eleven years, apart from the obvious?”
“Oh, well, in a nutshell?” She laughed. “I argued with my father a lot, went to art school anyway, argued some more, went to graduate school, argued some more and then got a terrific job with an advertising agency until I got bored working on soap campaigns and decided to go freelance to have more artistic freedom.” She stopped to take a breath. “My father keeps thinking that I’m never going to have a real career, but all in all I’m doing quite well, and I enjoy my work. I’m good at what I’m doing and I’ve gotten great contracts. I’m working with architects and artists and interior decorators and—” She was off and rolling, telling him about her work, and every time she wanted to stop, for politeness’ sake—after all he had to get bored just listening to her—he kept asking more questions.
“And now,” he said finally, “you’re ready to give all this up to come to Java for a temporary job finding me a house, buying bath mats and hiring servants?”
“Oh, but it’s so much more than just that.” It could be, anyway. “You make it sound so…prosaic.”
“Setting up house usually is.” No inflection in his voice.
She took a sip of wine and put the glass down. “You told Marcus you wanted a home. You said you wanted something more than just a place to live. That you’re tired of sterile hotel rooms and impersonal furnished apartments.”
He scowled down at his glass. “Yes. I’ve been living like a damned nomad for the last ten years.”
Not in a lean-to or a tent, she was sure. No doubt he’d resided quite comfortably in expensive surroundings. But not in places he’d considered home apparently. It was hard to imagine. Even the shabby little apartment she’d had before she’d been lucky enough to get the loft, had been home. She’d simply made it that way, even buying in the beginning secondhand furniture. It had taken time and effort, but it had still been home—her things, her colors, her decorations and her choice of art on the walls.
“How long will you be living in Indonesia?”
“Five years, probably. Perhaps longer. And this time I’ve decided to get myself a place I can call home, not to rent someone else’s house with someone else’s furniture.”
Only he did not have the time to invest in doing what was necessary—find a house, furniture, servants— Marcus had told her. Setting up a new company, managing and staffing it was going to take all his energies.
What he really needed was a wife, but Kim decided not to point this out to him; it might not be news to him.
So here she was in a classy restaurant in her funeral dress, trying to convince Sam that, since he didn’t have a wife, she was the next perfect person for the setting-up-house job. She stared at his tie, a very nice one, thinking she might as well go straight for it. Just as she was about to launch into her appeal, the waiter came to take their order.
They ordered a first course, something duck-liverish that was artfully arranged on a big white plate and garnished elegantly.
“Food as art, I love it,” Kim said. “It’s almost too beautiful to eat—but I will!” She put her fork in the culinary art piece carefully and took a delicate little bite. It was delicious.
“Okay,” she said, having finished it a while later, “give me the job and I will find you a wonderful house with a great veranda and furnish it and decorate it to your taste and specifications. I will hire you the perfect servants. And if you wish, I will even put on a big dinner or cocktail party when it’s all done so you can show off your new home to your business connections and friends. I will do a fabulous job for you. I am very good at this sort of thing.”
He observed her with a kind of curious speculation. “And your instincts tell you that leaving behind what you’ve built up in New York and trotting off to do this job for me will somehow further your career?”
“I never trot,” she said, “But to answer your question, yes, in a way it will.”
“In a way?” One eyebrow cocked, suspicions raised.
She fiddled idly with the little hoop earring in her left ear. “I have ulterior motives,” she said with a bit of drama.
“Ah,” he said meaningfully. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
So she told him how much she wanted to go back to the Far East, how she loved Java, how there was nothing on earth greener than rice paddies, nothing better than… She went on for far too long, and he was quiet, listening intently as she told him of the wonderful art, the batik of Solo, the carved wood of Jepara, the fascinating wayang plays that went on all night, the delicious food. She explained how good for her creativity it would be to live there, how much inspiration she would get. And when she finally stopped, she could feel her face, flushed and warm, and knew she must look like an excited child. She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and glanced down at her food, as yet uneaten. She felt his dark gaze on her as if it were a touch.
“Fascinating,” he said.
She glanced up and saw him smile.
“All right,” he said, “you’ve got the job.”
Kim locked the door behind her and made a triumphant little dance through the living room. She’d done it! She waltzed into the bedroom and began to undress. And tomorrow she would see Sam again. They’d made plans for her to meet him at his office at six, since she’d be right in the area, and together they’d go to her loft, so he could see what she had done with the decorating and to discuss things further.
She caught her smiling reflection in the mirror. And she had suggested, since it was evening, that he might as well stay and she’d cook them some dinner.
Too excited to sleep, Kim prowled around the living room in her peacock colored kimono, replaying the evening with Sam in her head as if it were a movie, recounting the conversation, seeing Sam’s handsome face in her mind’s eye.
“Why did you never settle down?” she’d asked. He didn’t even own an apartment in New York, but lived in the company penthouse when in town.
“There was never much point,” he’d said with a faint shrug of his shoulders. “I was free to do the work overseas, and most of the time I enjoyed the experience. There was never a reason to stop.”
He had no brothers and sisters, she knew, and when his parents died when he was twenty, he’d lost his parental home. Kim remembered her mother being impressed by Sam’s courteous appreciation of their welcoming him into their home during weekends and holidays, how he’d always brought a thoughtful little gift for her mother to thank her for her hospitality. Kim hadn’t realized it then, but now, as she paced restlessly around the loft, she wondered if Sam had been lonely. Lonely for family and companionship.
And she wondered if he was lonely now, living like a global nomad.
Except for the widowed uncle who ran the company in New York, and one married Greek cousin, all his extended family lived in Jordan and Greece. Although he’d been thoroughly Americanized during his high school and college years, in his younger years he had lived and been educated in Jordan, but spending much time in Greece as well with his mother’s family.
“I don’t have a very strong sense of really belonging anyplace,” he’d said over dinner, and his dark eyes had suddenly been full of shadows. She’d wondered what had been hidden in those shadows. Loneliness? It was an odd thought to have about Sam, who had always seemed so self-reliant, so…together. Yet who could tell what dwelled in the deepest part of people’s souls?
Kim gave a little shiver. How awful it must be to not feel you belonged somewhere, to feel so rootless, to not even have a place to really call your own.
And now he wanted a house that was his, with everything in it belonging to him. A home.
And she was going to help him get it.
They met the next evening at Sam’s office to discuss the job in more detail, then headed home to Kim’s loft so she could show him what she’d done with her own place.
A clown in full circus costume was sitting on the doorstep when Kim and Sam arrived at her building. A sad clown, mouth curved downward, big fat tears painted on his face. He held a bouquet of huge rainbow-colored balloons. Several children had congregated and were laughing and teasing him.
It didn’t take long to figure out what he was doing there and it wasn’t a gig at a children’s birthday party. I Adore You, Kim! one of the balloons read. Please Be Mine, was on another.
“Kim!” he called out as she emerged from the limousine. “Oh, please, Kim, listen to me, my heart is breaking!”
Hers was sinking, like a ton of cement. She was aware of Sam next to her, tall, silent, observing the spectacle. She didn’t need this. A clown was not part of the plan.
“Tony,” she said coldly. “This is enough, d’you hear? It’s not funny anymore. Will you please just stop it?”
He began to sob, big, noisy, wet clown sobs. The children cheered.
“She doesn’t love me!” he wailed between convulsions of grief. “I’m going to die of a broken heart!” The children laughed harder.
Kim took her key and pushed it into the lock, saying no more. She felt Sam behind her, knew he was wondering who Tony was. “Don’t pay any attention to him,” she said casually, loud enough for Tony to hear. “He’s my stalker.”
“Your stalker?”
They got into the elevator. “It’s the newest craze, haven’t you heard?” she asked breezily.
Sam frowned. “Who is this guy? What does he want?”
“I met him at a party three weeks ago, and he sort of trapped me in the corner of a room and bored me with endless self-involved stories about how he is misunderstood as an artist and an actor and how the world owes him respect and admiration. I found it a little hard to take, but I was trying to be nice and I tried to listen, and I think he thought I was…eh—”
“Charming?”
She made a face. “Something like that. I didn’t want to charm him at all. What I really wanted to do was to get away from him.”
“You’re not having a lot of success,” Sam said dryly. “So what else does he do besides play the clown?”
She shrugged carelessly. “Oh, harmless stuff. He sends me things—flowers, paintings, poems, love boat tickets. He leaves sappy messages on my answering machine, nothing dangerous. He’s basically a frustrated, out-of-work, aspiring actor in need of a cause.”
“And he sends you cruise tickets?”
“He has a rich daddy.”
The clanging elevator struggled its way to the top floor. She wondered what Sam was thinking of the rattling old contraption, what he would think of her rather unusual living quarters.
