Page 71 of Midnight Enemy

I purse my lips. Then I walk around the desk and open the large drawer at the bottom. She joins me and bends down to look into it. Lightly, she runs her fingers over my twenty or so poetry journals, and then examines the folders beside them. Three of them—printed copies of the manuscripts I’ve written.

“Orson,” she says softly, “you’ve written three books?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of stories?”

She sounds so fascinated and impressed that it unlocks the heart I keep tightly padlocked. “Sad books,” I say, my lips quirking up.

She stands and closes the drawer, not asking to see them, which I appreciate, then rests her butt on the table. “Sad in what way?”

“I don’t know. They always seem to end up melancholy. Stories about loss. I don’t know why, I don’t think I’m a melancholy person.”

She thinks about that while she studies me. Her brown eyes are very dark and passionate. “Have you read Harry Potter?” she asks.

“Yeah, many years ago.”

“You know how Voldemort stored parts of his soul in objects called Horcruxes?”

“Yeah.”

“I feel that’s what happens when we’re creative. The more soul we have, the more we need to store it in creative projects—writing and making art and music. I’m relieved you feel you have a soul to store. I was beginning to think you were a robot.”

I give her a wry look, but the sentiment warms me through.

She giggles, walks over to the leather sofa, and lowers onto it. “Do you sit here in the evenings and look out over the city?”

“Yeah. And think about you.”

She rolls her eyes. “You do not.”

“I do. I imagine doing this.” I sit next to her, then, before she can say anything, I pull her onto my lap, turn, and lie back with her on top of me.

She squeals, and I laugh and release her, but she doesn’t get up. Instead, she looks down at me with eyes filled with wonder.

“I can’t believe I’m here,” she says, looking puzzled again. “You’re one of the richest men in the city, if not the whole country, and you’re young and gorgeous and fit and extremely sexy. And you write poetry, which I adore, even if it’s bad. And… you want me. I don’t get it.”

I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. “Get what?”

“Why you want me?”

The city lights behind her make her look as if she has a halo. “Because I feel as if I’ve been living in a city filled with smog, and now I’m standing on top of a hillside in the middle of the country. You’re a breath of fresh air, Scarlett. Completely natural.”

“I don’t know what to say to your compliments,” she says, frowning.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“Are you trying to get around me?”

I run my fingers down her back, following her curves beneath the soft dress. “In what way?”

“To get a better price for the Waiora?”

“I’ve already told you, I’m willing to pay full price. Let’s not talk business. Business is dull.”

“I thought you loved business.”

“Not right now. I have other things on my mind.”

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