Page 57 of Megan's Mate
“Thinking’s enough.” He lifted her hand, kissed her palm. “Nearly.” To her surprise, he plucked her from the chair, sat himself down and nestled her in his lap. “But this is a whole lot better.”
It seemed foolish to disagree, so she rested her head on his shoulder.
“Everyone’s getting prepped for the big Fourth of July celebration,” she told him idly. “Coco and Dutch are arguing about recipes for barbecue sauce, and the kids are bitterly disappointed we won’t let them have small, colorful bombs to set off.”
“They’ll end up making two kinds of sauce and asking everyone to take sides.” It was nice sitting like this, he thought, alone and quiet at the end of the day. “And the kids won’t be disappointed after they see the fireworks display Trent organized.”
Kevin had talked of nothing else all evening, she remembered. “I’ve heard it’s going to be quite a show.”
“Count on it. This bunch won’t do anything halfway. Like fireworks, do you, sugar?”
“Almost as much as the kids.” She laughed and snuggled against him. “I can’t believe it’s July already. All I have to do is get about two dozen things out of the way so I can compete in the great barbecue showdown, keep the kids from setting themselves on fire and enjoy the show.”
“Business first,” he murmured. “Working on Fergus’s book?”
“Mmm-hmm... I had no idea how much of a fortune he’d amassed, or how little he considered people. Look here.” She tapped her finger to the page. “Whenever he made a note about Bianca, it’s as if she were a servant or, worse, a possession. He checked over the household accounts every day, to the penny. There’s a notation about how he docked the cook thirty-three cents for a kitchen discrepancy.”
“A lot of people think more of money than souls.” He flipped idly through the book. “I can be sure you’re not sitting on my lap because of my bank balance—since you know it down to the last nickel.”
“You’re in the black.”
“Barely.”
“Cash flow is usually thin the first few years in any business—and when you add in the outlay in equipment you’ve purchased, the down payment for the cottage, insurance premiums and licensing fees—”
“God, I love it when you talk profit and loss.” Letting the book close, he nipped playfully at her ear. “Talk to me about checks and balances, or quarterly returns. Quarterly returns make me crazy.”
“Then you’ll be happy to know you and Holt underestimated your federal payments.”
“Mmm...” He stopped, narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You owe the government another two hundred and thirty dollars, which can be added to your next quarter due, or, more wisely, I can file an amended return.”
He swore halfheartedly. “How come we have to pay them in advance, anyway?”
She gave him a light kiss in sympathy. “Because, Nathaniel, if you don’t, the IRS will make your life a living hell. I’m here to save you from them. I’m also, if your system can take the excitement, going to suggest you open a Keogh—a retirement account for the self-employed.”
“Retirement? Hell, Meg, I’m thirty-three.”
“And not getting a day younger. Do you know what the cost-of-living projections are for your golden years, Mr. Fury?”
“I changed my mind. I don’t like it when you talk accountant to me.”
“It’s also good tax sense,” she persisted. “The money you put in won’t be taxable until you’re of retirement age. When, usually, your bracket is lower. Besides, planning for the future might not be romantic, but it is rewarding.”
He slid a hand under the terry cloth. “I’d rather have instant gratification.”
Her pulse scrambled. “I have the necessary form.”
“Damn right you do.”
“For the Keogh. All you need to— Oh.” The terry cloth parted like water under his clever hands. She gasped, shuddered, melted. “How did you do that?”
“Come to bed.” He lifted her. “I’ll show you.”
Just past dawn, Nathaniel strolled down the curve of the terrace steps, his hands in his pockets and a whistle on his lips. Dutch, in a similar pose, descended the opposite curve, both men stopped dead when they met in the center.
They stared, swore.
