Midnight Rhythms

“I don’t want him in the same house!”

“It could be such pleasant distraction, Sam, think about it.”

“I can’t afford to think about it! I’ve got to study. I’ve got to get my degree!”

Next year she’d be thirty. No longer young, but at least educated.

She felt a sudden, treacherous longing. She wanted to be young and have some fun, go places, do things, not worry so much, be free. Being the mother of a small child, she hadn’t had much of that in her twenties—and she wasn’t going to have much of it for the rest of her life if she didn’t take charge of her future—get educated, get a career. First.

Gina’s 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 truth,” said David. “That I am a man with only the purest of intentions.”

“Susan didn’t say that. She said you were a tad off-center.”

His brows arched. “She said I was off-center?”

“Didn’t you read the fax?”

“Certainly not. It wasn’t addressed to me.” He handed her a glass, then took his own and lifted it. “To a pleasant cohabitation,” he toasted.

She had no choice but to lift her glass and clink it with his and meet his eyes. Brown eyes with the devil dancing in them.

A pleasant cohabitation. Oh, please! What a nightmare!

And then it got worse. He invited her to dinner on Saturday night when she had no classes, and she said, no, she didn’t have time, she had to prepare for a test and do some grocery shopping. And, as she was saying this, a small voice somewhere inside her inquired if she were insane. Here was a handsome man with pure intentions inviting her to dinner and when was the last time she’d come across a man with pure intentions?

She took a sip of the champagne, felt the music stroke her senses, triggering images and feelings. She’d never known music could be so…intoxicating.

She took another close look at David’s handsome face, the gleam in his brown eyes. Pure intentions, my foot, she thought.

Sam’s heart made a crazy little leap when David appeared in the kitchen the next morning. She was standing up at the counter, eating a piece of toast, and she almost dropped the knife.

Dressed in a suit and tie, David looked like a different man. Formal, imposing, dynamic…intimidating. Sharp creases in his trousers, high gloss on his black leather shoes. His suit jacket fitted perfectly over his broad shoulders, and his white shirt practically blinded her. A modern god of business and high finance, dressed for battle.

She swallowed her food; she’d stopped chewing as she’d stared at him, practically awestruck.

“Nice tie,” she managed.

“Thank you.” He gave her a crooked smile and reached for the coffee pot.

“I take it you’re not playing construction worker today,” she commented, gathering composure.

He poured coffee in his cup and put the pot down. “No, not today. Have to take care of a little family business this afternoon.”

She wondered what kind of family business required a suit and tie, but thought it better not to ask. She glanced at the clock, put her plate and knife in the dishwasher and picked up her purse and book bag. “Well, I’d better go and help Grandpa.”

He moved toward her unexpectedly, put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “Don’t work too hard. Take care of yourself,” he said, moving away.

She stared at him, heart galloping. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I wanted to and it seemed like a nice thing to do.” He smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Samantha.”

“Tomorrow? You’re not coming home tonight?”

He grinned. “Don’t look so delighted.”

She shrugged. “Just wondering.”

As she dashed out the door, a sleek, silver-gray limousine glided up the driveway. She caught a glimpse of a chauffeur in uniform.

She sucked in a deep breath. “Oh, boy,” she muttered. She climbed into her ugly green car and drove to work.

Before leaving the house, David glanced in the mirror and adjusted his tie, smiling as he remembered Samantha’s expression at seeing him dressed in a suit. Whenever he thought of her, he found himself smiling.

It had been a while since he’d last worn a suit. He grimaced. Well, he was on family business now and he’d better wear the appropriate costume. Meeting with one of the outside shareholders and convincing the man of the error of his ways was hardly a big job, and a small price to pay for family happiness. He knew how to talk to people, how to get them to do things, how to change their minds and, although he was not involved in the day-to-day running of the company, his talents in the verbal-persuasion department were sometimes called upon.

He found good old Lester waiting for him with the limousine and he smiled in greeting. The man must be a hundred years old by now, he thought with affection. Lester had been around when David had been a little boy roaming the woods of his father’s property, pretending to be an explorer in the jungles of Africa.

“Good morning, sir!” said Lester, his wrinkled face all smiles.

“Good morning, Lester. How are you?”

“Fine, sir, just fine.”

“And the arthritis?”

“Livin’ with it, sir. Just livin’ with it.”

Yes, thought David, some things you just learned to live with. For a fraction of a moment Celia’s face flashed through his mind, then it was gone. He settled himself in the back and opened his briefcase to look over his notes and get ready for his meeting.

Instead, he thought of Samantha, seeing her as she had left that morning to go to work in her grandfather’s store. She wore neat little skirts, ending just at the knee, and proper little blouses. She wore small gold hoops in her ears, and she fiddled with them when her hands were not doing something else. Her shoes were simple flats or low-heeled pumps and she gave a general impression of tidiness and neatness that drove him crazy. He wanted to ruffle her up a bit, loosen a button, hang some dangling earrings in her ears, take her hair down, run his hands through the curls and kiss her silly. She had the sexiest hair he’d seen in a long time, wild and untamable, doing its own thing, in total contrast to the rest of her prim and proper appearance. She obviously tried to tame it by gathering it in a band at the back of her neck, but curly strands were always escaping.

Yet all he had to do was look into those big blue eyes of hers and know that there was more to Sam than the neat package she presented to the world. There was a lot of not-so-tidy stuff churning inside her.

And for some unfathomable reason he felt the need to find out what. And the growing urge to put his arms around her and tell her to relax.

In the muted early-evening sunlight, the large, stone and wood plantation house looked as it always had—solid, immutable, yet with an elegant Southern charm. He had lived here all his childhood, as had his father and grandfather before him. His parents still occupied the house.

The place was surrounded by luxuriant, well-tended gardens beyond which stretched several hundred acres of un-spoiled woodland, all part of the property. His mother awaited him at the door and hugged him. “How did your meeting go?” she asked.

“Everything’s fine, Mother, don’t worry about a thing.”

He found his father in his study, a cigar in one hand and a whiskey in the other, both strictly against doctor’s orders. He was a handsome man with compelling dark eyes and a commanding presence.

“So tell me about your meeting with Sanchez,” his father said after David had poured himself a drink.

“Nothing but a misunderstanding blown out of all proportions. It’s all straightened out and he’ll drop the suit. We’ll need to accommodate him on a few points, but I don’t think it presents a problem.”

His father was pleased with the news, asked for further details and commended David on the way he had handled the affair. “You’re sure you don’t want to join us now that you’re back in the country?” he asked. It was almost a rhetorical question by now, posed whenever the occasion presented itself. The answer had always been no, as it was again today.

The intercom buzzed. “David, Tara is here to see you,” his mother’s voice announced. “She’s in the sitting room.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

Having finished his business with his father, David went in search of Tara.

She was sitting in a chair and leaped to her feet when he entered the room, her glossy black hair swinging loose around her shoulders. He had not seen her for a long time, but she was as gorgeous as ever.

He smiled at her. “Hello, Tara.”

“David!” She hugged him. “How’s my favorite cousin?”

He grinned at her. “I’m fine. How about you?”

“Oh, I’m all right.” She stepped back from him and looked him over. “Wow, a suit. You don’t look like you’ve just come out of the jungle.”

“It’s been a few days.”

She sat back down in her chair, crossing her long legs. “Did you manage to get that humongous bridge built?”

He sat down. “Yes, I did.” Against all odds. Every possible complication had presented itself. Still, in the end he’d left the country with the job completed.

“Of course you did.” Tara laughed. “Why did I even ask the question? What David McMillan starts, David McMillan finishes.”

“You make it sound like a character flaw,” he said dryly.

“No, I’m just jealous. You’re so disgustingly competent. I always screw everything up.”

An odd tone of voice, setting off a ripple of alarm in him. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing. Just a general statement.” Her voice was breezy. She stood up again. “Let’s find your mother and see if she’ll invite me to dinner.”

He came to his feet as well and put an arm around her shoulders. “You’re invited, Tara.”

It was a pleasant evening. David enjoyed being with his parents, sitting at the familiar table, eating good food, and Tara, irrepressibly cheery, was always good company.

After dinner he excused himself for a few minutes to make a phone call. He dialed the number and a moment later Samantha picked up. She had no classes today, he knew, and she was home.

“Hi, it’s David,” he said.

A short silence. “Hi. Why are you calling?”

“To check up on you.”

“Check up on me?” Her tone of voice indicated she was not pleased with that news.

“To see if you’re home.” He grinned into the mouthpiece.

“Where else would I be?”

“By the side of the road, out of gas, or with a breakdown.”

“Very funny.”

“Not funny, because I’m all the way here and I couldn’t come and rescue you.”

“I don’t need any rescuing,” she said coolly.

“Good. I’m glad. Then I won’t keep you. Goodnight, Samantha.”

“Goodnight, David.”

He put the phone down. He didn’t like that old rattletrap of a car of hers, but she was home safe and sound. He went to the sitting room where the after-dinner coffee and liqueurs were served.

“How long will you be in the country this time?” his father wanted to know.

“For the rest of the summer.” He told them about a project in Mexico in the fall, and that he was building himself a cabin in the woods on a piece of property Susan and Andrew had sold him. It was clear this was news to them and the family grapevine had failed.

“You’re building a cabin?” Tara asked, wide-eyed.

“With my own bare hands,” he said with a grin.

Silence reigned. His mother stared at him. Tara stared at him. His father stared at him. “I thought you’d outgrown that by the time you turned twelve,” his father said finally.

David laughed. Building forts, tree houses and huts in the woods had been fun when he’d been a kid. It would be fun now, as an adult. It appealed to the pioneer in him.

“I think I’ll enjoy it. Using a hammer, saws, nails, elbow grease.” He picked up his coffee cup and smiled at the perplexed faces around the room.

His father gave a long-suffering sigh and closed his eyes briefly. “And I keep hoping you’ll turn out normal eventually.”

David laughed. “Give it up, Dad,” he said.

Sam was in the kitchen cleaning up spilled orange juice when David came home the next evening. She’d only just come home herself, had dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, grabbed the juice from the fridge and promptly dropped the carton.

He came striding through the door, wearing a different suit, equally impressive. He radiated power and energy, looking as if he’d conquered the world, or at least a piece of it. And here she was, barefoot, clutching a mop like a true Cinderella. Late in the day as it was, he still looked dynamic and…well…gorgeous. So gorgeous, in fact, that her breath caught in her throat and her heart skipped a beat at seeing all this male splendor.

Then she saw his smile, and the familiar gleam in his brown eyes. “Don’t look so awestruck, Sam. It’s just a suit.”

Of course it wasn’t just the suit. Thousands of men could wear that suit and not look the way he did. The suit only accentuated what was already part of David—she just hadn’t seen it before, at least not displayed in this way. She gathered her composure and gave him a breezy smile.

“Well, you look quite impressive to a simple country girl like me.”

He waved his hand. “It’s just packaging. Underneath I’m just a simple construction worker.”

Oh, sure. She laughed. “That’s a relief.”

“Why are you mopping the floor at this hour of the day?” he asked.

“I spilled orange juice. The carton slipped right out of my hand.”

“Maybe you weren’t supposed to have orange juice. How about a brandy? Or a glass of wine? I’ll slip into something comfortable and you can tell me about your day.” He said this with a straight face, but his eyes were laughing.

“I’ve got to study.”

“It’s past ten.”

“I know it’s past ten,” she said irritably. “Believe me, I know.” Every part of her body knew, including her brain.

“All right,” he said calmly, “I’ll see you in the morning, then.” He picked up his overnight bag and briefcase and strode down the hall to his room.

He changed into shorts and T-shirt and ambled back to the kitchen, where he kept his own bottle of whiskey for convenience’s sake. The wet bar was elsewhere in the house, well-stocked.

He found Samantha sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a bowl of fruit.

“I thought you had to study.” Her book bag lay on the floor, untouched.

“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.”