Page 36 of Sexy as Sin
“No. She said it was over, and I’m not sure how to bring it up again. She’s a bit... formidable.”
“I’ll tell you what. You tell her that you want to look things over and ask her for the login and password. No reasons, no excuses. You’re matter of fact, like it’s your right and it’s normal, because it’s both.”
“Aren’t there...” She felt stupid. “It’s always ‘books.’ Aren’t there books?”
He didn’t laugh, fortunately. “It’ll be electronic. A small outfit like this will almost certainly be using one of a few types of software. There’ll be invoices as well, but mostly, you want to see what’s going in and out.”
“I do?”
“Well, yeah. You do. If you asked the question, you do. Accounting worries, even little ones, are like problems with the IRS. They don’t get better by themselves. The first step is looking at the setup. They’re called ‘the books,’ and that’s what they’re like. You open the file, and you read the book.”
“I’m illiterate, then,” she muttered. He laughed, and she smiled reluctantly. “Rafe’s PA did the vetting for me when I bought into the business,” she admitted. “I told you, business classes would’ve been a good idea. I won’t even know what I’m looking at.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “But I will.”
He loved her soup. Was there anything more seductive than a man who enjoyed your cooking and appreciated your effort? They sat in the basket chairs outside, and he played Maria Callas for her out of a tiny speaker. The rich, golden voice soared, dipped, and rose again as the birds provided their sunset chorus, the sky turned an electric blue, the clouds were gradually splashed with pink and crimson, and the moon came up behind the lighthouse like a lantern. And Brett sat, his leg stuck out in front of him, ate her comforting, spicy, lemon-scented soup and Italian bread, and looked too much like what she wanted.
She asked, in the middle of talking about how many ranches there were in Montana—heaps, but not at his place in the mountains—“Is this how you see your new development, then? Obviously it’s more houses, but the feeling of it?”
She got his almost-smile again, and felt thattingof understanding once more. “Yes. This is it, though this feeling isn’t just the place.”
“Except that it’ll be filled with houses.”
He considered a minute. She liked that about him, that he thought things through before he talked, maybe because it was so different from how she operated. He was also the least defensive man she’d ever met. It wasn’t that he had no ego; it was that it was too strong to be easily threatened. “Don’t you think, though,” he said slowly, “that there’s something more democratic about that? This is great, obviously, the two of us here looking at all of this, but thereareonly the two of us. Is it really so wrong to bring it to more people? Isn’t the other way actually more elitist, if you’re saying that only the right people should be allowed to enjoy it?”
She started to say something, then stopped, and he smiled at her and said, “Yeah. Developers get a bad rap, and some of that’s probably deserved. But if you do it right, if you preserve enough open space and design thoughtfully for the environment, there could be some positives to it, too. What’s your favorite part of this, here and now? Or I’ll ask it another way. What’s the part that reminds you of the best times, of why you moved here?”
“You’re doing more of that listening again,” she pointed out, trying not to fall into the seduction of his deep, calm voice and his ever-present interest. And, no, she wasnottelling him the best part of this, here and now.
“I am,” he said. “Because I’d like to know.”
“It’s the sky. You’d think it was the sea, but it isn’t. It’s the sky.” Second-best, anyway. The blue had turned darker, the pink-tinged clouds more purple, and here and there, a star had appeared. She pointed westward. “Just there, two fists above the horizon. That’s Sirius. Brightest star in the Southern Hemisphere sky. My dad loved the stars. We’d eat dinner outside as well, just like this, on the veranda. My mum would read Arabic poetry aloud, as beautiful and... and complex as this song, and my dad would point out the stars as they rose. Not the same, of course, as it was the Northern Hemisphere, but the feeling’s the same. The warmth of the night, and the look of the sky.”
“The Dog Star,” Brett said. “When you look at it through a telescope, it’s like a purple star garnet, and the rays are just that bright. State gem of Idaho, by the way, if you’re taking notes. In India, it’s named after a dog, too, though the dog has a different name, I can’t remember what. Interesting, I always thought, that it would be the same animal. His story is associated with loyalty, and not what you’d expect, the dog’s to the man. It’s the loyalty of the man to the dog.”
“That’s good,” she said, knowing it was lame, but she didn’t have the right words, or she couldn’t say them. “And I can’t believe you happen to know the story of that star in Indian legend.”
“I didn’t remember the dog’s name, though. That could be a comfort.”
How could gray eyes be that warm? “So do you have a dog, then?” she asked. Is that why you remembered that?”
That drawing back again, as obviously as if you’d touched him and he’d retreated into his shell. “No.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. Lame again, but what did you say?
A long pause, where she looked at the moon and wished for the ease again, and Maria Callas sang something slow, sad, and heartbreakingly beautiful, her voice soaring across the folded hills like it had wings. And then Brett said, “I did once. A big black-and-white mutt named Scout. Stupid name. Great dog.”
She was very nearly holding her breath, willing him to go on, and finally, he did. “He was with my dad and me out on the boat. Out on the river. You can’t always put a dog in a boat, especially a small one, but like I said—he was a good dog.”
“And something happened to him,” Willow said.
His face was so bleak, she shivered despite the warmth in the air. “He died trying to hold my dad up. After I let go.”
Surely his chest hurt as much as hers right now. “And you didn’t get another dog?”
“No.” He half-stood, and she knew why. He’d gone where he hadn’t wanted to, and he needed to move, but he couldn’t. So she did instead, standing and collecting their plates, then handing him his crutches.
“I’ll go,” she said. “I have an early day tomorrow, and you’re tired. Your breakfast and lunch things are in the fridge, covered in cling film with the instructions on sticky notes.”
