comfortable with who you are."
His brashness dumfounded her. " You're not comfortable with who I am?"
"I mean, it's bad enough that I have to come to a reactionary company like FBT with my hat in my hands."
Heresy was being uttered in Joel Faulconer's library. It should have made her furious, but instead it gave her a strange thrill of excitement. She beat the emotion away and paid penance for her disloyalty. "FBT is one of the most progressive and influential corporations in the world," she said, sounding nearly as pompous as her father.
"If it's so progressive, how come I can't get anybody in the whole, deadhead organization to talk to me?"
"Mr. Gamble, your obvious lack of credentials might explain the difficulty." Along with your leather jacket, she thought. And your motorcycle boots and long hair. And those jeans that show off far too much.
"Credentials are crap." He picked up his sample case and, looking edgy and restless, ran his hand through his hair. "Listen, I've got to sleep on this. You're sending me mixed signals, and I'm still not sure about you. I'll tell you what. If I decide you're okay, I'll meet you in the rotunda at the Palace of Fine Arts tomorrow around noon. If I don't show, you'll know I changed my mind." And he began to walk toward the library door.
She stared in astonishment at the back of his leather jacket. "I'm not going to meet you anywhere."
He stopped walking and slowly turned to her, one corner of his mouth lifting in an engaging grin. "Sure you are, Suzie. You wouldn't miss it for the world. And you know why? Because underneath that pretty upper-class poker face of yours, you think I'm sexy as hell. And guess what? I think you are, too."
She stood without moving as the door closed behind him. The skin on her scalp felt as if it were burning. The mounds of her breasts were hot. No one had ever called her sexy. No one—not even Cal, her lover.
And then she was filled with self-disgust for having been taken in—even for a moment—
by macho swagger. Did Sam Gamble actually imagine she would meet him tomorrow? A feeling of satisfaction shot through her as she pictured him arriving at the Palace of Fine Arts only to discover that he had been stood up.
With her posture so erect she might have been wearing a whalebone corset from another century, she returned to her guests. For the rest of the evening, she determinedly ignored the faint echo of a long ago chant ringing in her head.
All my balloons for free. Come and follow me.
When Sam Gamble got home, he saw that the lights in the garage were still on. That wasn't unusual. Sometimes the lights didn't go off until five or six in the morning. He set the sample case on the kitchen table. It was an old table—gray Formica with curved chrome legs. There was a sad-looking spider plant hanging in the window. An empty can of Pringles sat on the counter next to an ugly ceramic cookie jar. He lifted the jar's lid and tossed in the small electronic device that he had used to trigger those fancy iron gates at Falcon Hill. She had been so shaken up, she hadn't even asked him how he'd gotten past them.
Walking over to the refrigerator, he opened the door and propped one hand on the top as he bent down to look inside.
"Shit. The spaghetti's gone." He pulled out a can of Coke instead and opened it. After he took a swig, he picked up the sample case and walked outside to the garage.
A man was standing at a lighted workbench with his back to the door. He didn't turn as Sam came in.
"I just met the most incredible woman I've ever met in my life." Sam sprawled down on a dirty floral couch. "You should have seen her. She looks like that actress I was telling you about who did that play on PBS a couple of weeks ago—Mary Streep or somebody
—except she's prettier. And cool. Christ, is she cool. Snooty on the surface. High-class.
But there was something about her eyes… I don't know. She pulled this bitch routine, so I knew it wouldn't do any
His brashness dumfounded her. " You're not comfortable with who I am?"
"I mean, it's bad enough that I have to come to a reactionary company like FBT with my hat in my hands."
Heresy was being uttered in Joel Faulconer's library. It should have made her furious, but instead it gave her a strange thrill of excitement. She beat the emotion away and paid penance for her disloyalty. "FBT is one of the most progressive and influential corporations in the world," she said, sounding nearly as pompous as her father.
"If it's so progressive, how come I can't get anybody in the whole, deadhead organization to talk to me?"
"Mr. Gamble, your obvious lack of credentials might explain the difficulty." Along with your leather jacket, she thought. And your motorcycle boots and long hair. And those jeans that show off far too much.
"Credentials are crap." He picked up his sample case and, looking edgy and restless, ran his hand through his hair. "Listen, I've got to sleep on this. You're sending me mixed signals, and I'm still not sure about you. I'll tell you what. If I decide you're okay, I'll meet you in the rotunda at the Palace of Fine Arts tomorrow around noon. If I don't show, you'll know I changed my mind." And he began to walk toward the library door.
She stared in astonishment at the back of his leather jacket. "I'm not going to meet you anywhere."
He stopped walking and slowly turned to her, one corner of his mouth lifting in an engaging grin. "Sure you are, Suzie. You wouldn't miss it for the world. And you know why? Because underneath that pretty upper-class poker face of yours, you think I'm sexy as hell. And guess what? I think you are, too."
She stood without moving as the door closed behind him. The skin on her scalp felt as if it were burning. The mounds of her breasts were hot. No one had ever called her sexy. No one—not even Cal, her lover.
And then she was filled with self-disgust for having been taken in—even for a moment—
by macho swagger. Did Sam Gamble actually imagine she would meet him tomorrow? A feeling of satisfaction shot through her as she pictured him arriving at the Palace of Fine Arts only to discover that he had been stood up.
With her posture so erect she might have been wearing a whalebone corset from another century, she returned to her guests. For the rest of the evening, she determinedly ignored the faint echo of a long ago chant ringing in her head.
All my balloons for free. Come and follow me.
When Sam Gamble got home, he saw that the lights in the garage were still on. That wasn't unusual. Sometimes the lights didn't go off until five or six in the morning. He set the sample case on the kitchen table. It was an old table—gray Formica with curved chrome legs. There was a sad-looking spider plant hanging in the window. An empty can of Pringles sat on the counter next to an ugly ceramic cookie jar. He lifted the jar's lid and tossed in the small electronic device that he had used to trigger those fancy iron gates at Falcon Hill. She had been so shaken up, she hadn't even asked him how he'd gotten past them.
Walking over to the refrigerator, he opened the door and propped one hand on the top as he bent down to look inside.
"Shit. The spaghetti's gone." He pulled out a can of Coke instead and opened it. After he took a swig, he picked up the sample case and walked outside to the garage.
A man was standing at a lighted workbench with his back to the door. He didn't turn as Sam came in.
"I just met the most incredible woman I've ever met in my life." Sam sprawled down on a dirty floral couch. "You should have seen her. She looks like that actress I was telling you about who did that play on PBS a couple of weeks ago—Mary Streep or somebody
—except she's prettier. And cool. Christ, is she cool. Snooty on the surface. High-class.
But there was something about her eyes… I don't know. She pulled this bitch routine, so I knew it wouldn't do any
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