She frowned, puzzled. “So you don’t really care if the world burns and goes to hell?”
“The world doesn’t care if I burn,” he said. “Why should I care if the world does?”
“Because—because it’s the right thing to do!” she sputtered.
They’d been heading up the stairs, to his meeting, and now she opened the door for him. One accident a day was enough for her.
“That’s the problem with you tree-hugger types,” he said. “Yeah, doing the right thing may be the right thing, but if you want people to do them nothing beats self-interest. Watch and learn.”
He walked into a Senator’s office. “Hello, Senator Cardine, sorry for the delay. I uh, ran into one of my assistants—literally it turns out, as you can see.” Senator Joseph Cardine let out a snort of laughter. He was a round, jolly-looking man, a sort of beardless Santa Claus figure, except that he wore a suit and was one of the most reactionary figures in Congress. Jane felt her stomach curdle—Cardine wasn’t one of the senators on her list of might-be-persuadeds. If anything he was one of the ones that Bill had written off as a waste of time. “Some people believe in God more than reality,” was how Bill had put it. But here, in his office, he seemed almost friendly.
“Anyway, did you have a chance to look over the plans that I’m running through Nebraska?” Malcolm continued.
“They were impressive,” the senator said. “But I’m not sure what they have to do with security.”
Malcolm stepped around behind the senator and flashed Jane a quick wink. “Here, let me show you,” he said, taking a roll out of his briefcase. “This is the power grid for the United States.”
“If this is going to be a lecture about infrastructure—”
“It’s not about infrastructure, sir, it’s about bypassing the need for infrastructure. Imagine: solar panels on every house, every shed, every roof, feeding a distributed network of batteries. Each house would be its own node—and each node could bleed a few kilowatts into a nationwide network.”
“You’re talking about production on the scale of millions,” said the Senator. “That would be—”
“It is a lot work, to say nothing of maintenance and battery facilities—oh, I didn’t mention that? Well, let me be frank, sir—the main problem with solar is that it generates most of its energy during the day, but people need energy most at night—that’s when they clean, that’s when most of them cook, that’s when they’re out buying groceries—imagine a method of storing that solar energy so that people can use it whenever and wherever they need it.”
The Senator frowned. Jane could see him mulling over the proposal, probably debating whether it was worth pissing off the coalition from the people building the Matrix.
Malcolm continued, “The point is, Senator, no matter how you hang onto it, oil is dying. Any idiot who can do the math can figure that out. The only question is, do you want to be caught short when it does?”
Jane could hear Malcolm’s tone shift. Suddenly it was no longer wheedling—now it had become an overt threat. “Solar is coming, Senator, whether you want it or not. The only thing that matters in the end, of course, is who profits from it—the US, or China?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Solar panels are the hottest industry in China at the moment,” said Malcolm. “The government there is offering massive tax breaks for manufacturing, and R&D—but I’m a patriot, or too lazy to learn Chinese, which amounts to the same thing. I need your backing to make it worthwhile to stay in the US.”
“What sort of backing are you talking about?” asked the Senator, his voice gruff, but Jane could tell who’d lost the conversation.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
***
It had been a dazzling two hours, but Malcolm was an expert at seeing the objections that Senator Cardine would raise, seemingly ten questions before he opened his mouth to ask them. He played the senator like a fiddle, knowing when to cajole, when to present facts, when to make threats, and when to let him have his say. It’d been a thing of beauty, watching the senator who’d started the meeting adamantly opposed to anything to do with solar ending with a promise to make their case before the vote that week. Jane had sat through various meetings in her time at Rigel, but she’d never seen such virtuosity at converting someone who was so thoroughly opposed to solar into such a powerful ally.
She was telling him so as they were leaving the Capital building when he turned to her and said, “Do me a favor?”
He’s going to ask me for a date.
“Anything,” she said, swallowing her breathlessness awkwardly. Come on, get it together, Jane—not every guy wants to be your boyfriend.
“Don’t tell anybody about this meeting.”
“What? But you’ve just converted our biggest opponent to our cause! Why should I keep it a secret?”
He looked around. Suddenly his demeanor changed, going from friendly adversary to downright hostile in a flash. “Come with me,” he hissed. “They’re watching me. Say something to me. Something mean.”
Who’s watching? But she spat out, “People like you are the reason that nobody thinks ahead! They think you’ll always be there and that you’re working for their interests but you can’t fool me—”
And then he was all smiles again. “Okay,” she said. “What the hell was that?”
He shook his head. “Come with me dinner and I’ll explain everything,” he said.
“That’s a rather involved way to ask a woman out to dinner,” she said.
“That’s the only way to be involved with me,” he said, hailing a cab. “Come with me—I have standing reservations at this marvelous little place in Alexandria.”
Thirty minutes later she was stepping out of a cab and into a little restaurant called “Alexandria”. It was a rather unpretentious, almost working-class place, and when he saw her looking at him he laughed and said, “Don’t be fooled by the outside, the food is great.”
The maitre’d knew Malcolm on sight, for he made a little bow to Malcolm and said, “Mr. Raines, so nice to have you back with us.”
“Roger, this is Jane,” said Malcolm. “She’ll be joining me, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“It’s never too much trouble, sir,” he said. “Right this way, sir.”
She followed the maitre’d. The restaurant seemed bigger on the inside than it’d looked on the outside, and while the tables were made up simply and the decor was plain, when she sat down she realized that the glassware was cut crystal and the tableware was, if not actual silver, a cut above her stainless-steel set from Ikea. The napkins were linen, the tablecloths the same—and apparently hand-embroidered with the restaurant’s logo.
Malcolm was watching her as she took everything in, and his smile widened when he saw that she realized what fine quality everything was. “I knew you’d be able to appreciate this,” he said, as he opened the wine list.
“This is really too much,” she said, smiling nervously. “I’m not even—”
“Jacques,” he called, beckoning over the waiter.
“How are you today, sir?” asked Jacques.
“Is Brandon doing a tasting menu today?”
“He is,” answered the waiter. “Do you—”
“We’ll do the tasting menu. Tell Norman to come and pour when he’s ready.”
“Yes, sir.”
She stared at him throughout the entire exchange. For any other man, it would have been a turn-off, but Malcolm seemed to walk the edge between rude and respectful that left her feeling confused—and, she had to admit to herself, a little turned on. “You know the staff really well,” she remarked.
He shrugged. “I’ve been coming here for ages. I didn’t want them to bother us while we’re eating.I did promise you a story of some kind, didn’t I?”
“Well,” she said. “It’s not every man that asks me to yell mean things at him after he’s helped our group’s cause.”
The sommelier came
out, bearing a bottle cradled in a white towel. Malcolm nodded through the formalities involved in opening the bottle, smelling the cork, and tasting the wine, before agreeing to have the bottle served. “I have no idea what we’re ordering,” he said to Norman.
“Well, then, I hope you’ll agree with me that the wine pairs well with the food,” Norman said, as he poured out a glass for her. He left the bottle at the table, saying, “Do tell me, madame, if he is being a terrible boor. I cannot do anything about the food, but the company can be changed.”
She nodded, a what the hell was that about smile plastered on her face. She was sure he was joking, but she had no idea how seriously to take it. She hadn’t even known that places like this were capable of making those kinds of jokes.
“Norman is actually an old college buddy,” said Malcolm, reading her confusion. “I gave him a loan to start this place with his friend, and, well, he’s right—I can be a boor.”
“I’m sure he exaggerates,” she said.
“You’re very sweet to think so,” he replied. “But the world of business and power is a lot more cutthroat and cloak-and-dagger than you might realize.”
“I work in finance,” she said. “I know all about cutthroat.”
He seemed taken aback by that. “Well, well—someone in finance who cares about the environment—that’s something new.”
“It’s not as novel as you think,” she said. “If you knew the profiles of the other clients at Rigel—”
“You work at—wait, I knew you looked familiar—you’re Reid’s girlfriend, aren’t you?”
“Ex,” she corrected.
“Ex,” he said, intrigued. “Now I have to confess—this does pique my curiosity. Let me guess, you broke up with him and now you’re hoping that I’ll ditch Reid as my finance advisor—”
“Tell me what’s going on,” she said, before he could get any closer to the truth of the matter. What that truth was, exactly, she wasn’t quite sure of, now that Malcolm had shown that he was an ally, of sorts. He looked somewhat disappointed that she was changing the subject. She still hadn’t sorted out her feelings about Reid or any of that, and now, sitting across from Malcolm, his dark eyes piercing into her soul, reading her like an open book, she began to realize that maybe she should have resolved this issues before coming to Washington. Then again, there’d been no reason to think that she’d ever run into Malcolm Raines, much less be seated across from him in a swanky restaurant. She did the only thing she could at that point: rally and banter, “Or else I’ll take Norman up on his offer for better company.”
The smile he gave her was one of admiration, and he raised his glass. She did the same, and the tink they made as they brought them together seemed as good a way as any to open the story.
“So as you know, I’ve made a fortune on oil, but I also know that it’s a doomed endeavor, so I’m trying to get out of it as fast as I can, to set up the country with solar—not purely out of the goodness of my heart, mind. There’s a lot of money to be made in solar, as I’m sure you know—”
“So you want a monopoly,” she said.
“Or as close to one as I can get,” he said, smoothly. He didn’t even pretend to be the least bit contrite about it. “Anyway, a lot of the big oil interests, whom I’ll admit I learned from and used in my time, refuse to come around to my belief that solar is the future, and if anything are doubling down on their belief that fossil fuels will always be around. For reasons that can best be described as ‘political’, though, it remains in my best interests to be seen as a supporter of their cause—”
“Even while you’re working to screw them over,” she finished, shaking her head. “That’s devious.”
The first amuses arrived, tiny poached quail eggs served in a vinaigrette, with chives that had been minced into a slurry sitting in a perfect little bead on one side of the spoon. She could only stair at it, mesmerized by how beautiful it was, the sheer white of the egg holding the gelatinous yolk within. “Go ahead, you’re allowed to eat it,” Malcolm chided her, and she closed her eyes and tilted it into her mouth, feeling the egg split as her tongue crushed it against the roof of her mouth, the innards of the egg running creamy down her throat.
He was looking at her funny when she opened her eyes again. “I take you enjoyed the amuse?” he asked.
She took a sip of the wine—now she understood how people made livings pairing wine and food. “I can’t believe that was just the amuse,” she said, weakly.
“Brandon is no doubt scrambling to put together something even more exquisite,” he said.
“How much is all this?” she asked.
“Inconsequential for someone of my means,” he said, “so just relax and enjoy yourself, please. I don’t expect anything in return—well, besides your interesting and sparkling witty conversation throughout the dinner—”
“I hardly think I’m that interesting.”
“That’s for me to judge, wouldn’t you say?”
“Is your life really that dull that you’d find someone working in the Research department more interesting than the rich and powerful women that must be throwing themselves at your feet?”
“First of all, rich and powerful women don’t throw themselves at my feet,” he said, as the waiter brought out the first course—a jellied version of vichysoisse, apparently, on a bed of toasted bread crumbs, surrounded by artful drops of mustard sauce. “Secondly, rich and powerful women don’t get that way without knowing exactly what they want, and meeting expectations gets terribly tedious after a while.”
“I know what I want,” she said, bristling at the assumption that she’d gone her life without knowing what she wanted to get out of a relationship.
“And don’t I exceed expectations?” he asked, as he cut into the gelatinous cylinder with a knife.
She couldn’t deny that. She took a bite, curious about the taste—it was nothing short of divine. There was an unexpected sweetness to the jelly that offset the saltiness, and the buttery crunch of the crust was a perfect compliment to the silky smoothness of the gel. “This is delicious,” she murmured.
He reached out and took her hand. “Third, well, there are things about me that most rich and powerful women don’t like.”
“And what makes you think I would like them?” she asked.
“I don’t. But neither I think, do you.”
***
The rest of the dinner went as smoothly as silk. She’d never had venison before—never mind cooked so rare it was practically bloody as she cut into it—and the dessert was a surprising confection of basil-and-lemon sorbet that both made her lips pucker and brought a smile to her eyes. And everything had its own wine; between the courses there were amuses like paper-thin cucumber slices wrapped around a tartar of shrimp, or a nearly-translucent sheet of cheese embedded upright in an impossibly tiny tomato, shining with olive oil and crusted with salt.
“You do know how to show a lady a wonderful time,” she said, as he helped her into her jacket.
“I’m glad,” he said, as they stepped outside. “Do you want to have drinks at my place?” he asked. “My apartment is just off J-Street.”
“You have an apartment in Washington?” she asked, her brain boggling at the expense it must entail.
“It’s just a one-bedroom,” he said, enjoying her surprise. “When you’re in DC as often as I am it just makes sense to have a space here.”
“I am just tipsy enough from the wine to make drinks seem like a wonderful idea,” she said, as he hailed a cab.
“My place it is,” he said, holding open the door and letting her in. He gave the cabby an address and presently—now that there was minimal traffic on the streets—they were outside a pale beige building with a doorman in front of it.
“Mr. Raines,” the doorman said, bowing as he opened the door for them.
“Frankie,” Malcolm returned, and he took her arm and they went inside.
The apartment building, as well as his apartm
ent, was simply furnished but the quality of the furnishings were unmistakable. The carpeting was thick, and the walls were works of art, in the style of Mondrian. His apartment was spartan—there was a single cabinet with his electronics, and a single lounge chair with a matching footstool, a single flat-screen, modestly-sized, between a mirror and a rack of magazines and folders. Everything was covered with a thin sheen of dust. “It’s been a while,” Malcolm said, surveying the space. “I really must get better about telling the maids when I’m going to be in town.”
“It’s cleaner than my place,” she said. Her apartment in LA was neat enough, but there was no hiding the fact that her furniture came from IKEA and yard sales. It was a mishmashed collection, one that passed muster for a single adult, but it was clear that there was no singular aesthetic behind it.
“Maybe,” he said, going to the kitchen. He opened a cabinet and took out a bottle. “Do you like Glenfidditch?” he asked, pulling down two glasses.
“I can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure,” she said. “Johnny Walker is about as classy as whiskey gets for me.”
“Johnny Walker isn’t bad, actually,” he said, peering into the cabinet. “But I haven’t kept that for ages. It tends to be the one that gets filched.”
He poured out two glasses and handed one to her. “It’s nice,” she said, smelling it. The peaty scent burned her senses in just the right way as she took a sip. “You can almost taste Scotland.”
ROMANCE: THE SHEIKH'S GAMES: A Sheikh Romance Page 96
