Conflict Diamonds: Part 3
Here's the latest. It's a tad shorter than the prevous chapters, but oh well.
If she knew she was doing a better job of extracting information than him, she wasn’t showing it.
‘What do you do?’
‘What?’
‘Job. Career. What do you do?’
He paused. ‘I could easily ask you the same question.’
She remained silent, expecting an answer. It was two days later, and it was dinner this time. It was a different restaurant, but they had still managed to show up at the same time as the live entertainment. This time in the form of a piano player. Jazz, of course.
Aston picked up his drink - whisky, ice and vodka again - and blinked. ‘What do you think I do?’
She looked at him carefully, and he returned her gaze with a hint of a challenge. The grace with which he moved said he could easily be a professional athlete. But the age lines on his forehead in combination with the ice in his gaze suggested otherwise. And even though they were in Vegas, she hadn’t once seen him with chips in his hand, so he wasn’t a gambler either.
‘Multinational CEO, secret agent, criminal, or multinational playboy,’ she counted them off her fingers.
‘Playboy? Really?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s a possibility,’
The piano player was playing a contrasting - and rather calming - combination of slow deep notes and whispering, fast high ones.
He swallowed his mouthful of food. ‘I work for various companies, and help remedy any sort of difficulties they may have. A problem solver, I guess you could say.’
When she thought the words ‘problem solver’, she thought of business analysts, accountants, and scientists. The man opposite her didn’t look like any of those things.
‘What about you?’
She twisted the wine glass in her hand. ‘I’m… between jobs.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Unemployed?’
‘Unemployed is such a dirty word. I’m just… having a little down time.’
‘I see. Tell me, why are you having a little “down time” here, and not somewhere, say, Tuscany?’
‘Because in Tuscany, you don’t meet men who claim to be “problem solvers”.’
He chuckled. ‘Touché.’
They sat in silence for a little while. The piano player had moved on from his original sparing of notes, and sounded like he was playing all the parts of a much larger band. He thickened the embellishment, and changed the time signature to that of a song meant for swinging.
‘So have you “solved” any “problems” here?’
The shadow in his eyes told her to drop it. He paused. ‘I’m due to go somewhere tomorrow, meet a few people, so no, not yet.’
She wondered if she’d ever heard a more evasive answer. Unimpressed, she chose to ignore him for a little while and observe her surroundings instead. The restaurant seemed to be divided into two: the furniture and table set up were created from sharp shards of glass, chrome and stained wood, whereas the walls - adorned with dark bottles of wine - and light fittings seemed to emit a softer, warmer, golden light. The strong contrast created an illusion of including the restaurant’s patrons, and the effect was rather startling. Her gaze ended up back on Aston, who was watching her over his nearly empty tumbler with an amused expression.
‘What?’
He shook his head subtly. ‘No. Seriously, why are you in a town like this one?’
She tilted her head slightly, before leaning forward and taking the hand that wasn’t holding his tumbler. ‘Tell me something about yourself. Something true.’
Her gaze was so intense he had to look away for a second. Her hand was warm above his. He took his away and leaned back in his chair. ‘I have a daughter.’
‘Really?’
If she knew she was doing a better job of extracting information than him, she wasn’t showing it. ‘Yes. Her name’s Isobel. She must be nearly six by now. Blonde, tough, outspoken thing. She’ll set the world on fire yet.’
She smiled. ‘Now that’s paternal pride if I’ve ever heard it.’
He sighed quietly. ‘Can you blame me?’
‘Not at all.’
The piano player played three sharp chords, paused for an immeasurable amount of time, and played another two.
An hour later, after has had another one of his ‘window cleaners’ (he had told her that story, and now that was what she was calling them) and they’d both had thick, strong coffees, he suggested that perhaps she’d be interested in putting a dent in his room’s mini bar. She gave him a rather scathing return in regards to his subtlety (or rather, the lack thereof), but then quietly acquiesced. But when he’d slipped an arm around her she had elbowed him so hard he wondered if he’d dreamed her giving the response she had.
As she’d walked away, it took all of his self-control to not after follow her.
And he still didn’t know her name.
Comments, favourite lines, all that jazz=love.
If she knew she was doing a better job of extracting information than him, she wasn’t showing it.
‘What do you do?’
‘What?’
‘Job. Career. What do you do?’
He paused. ‘I could easily ask you the same question.’
She remained silent, expecting an answer. It was two days later, and it was dinner this time. It was a different restaurant, but they had still managed to show up at the same time as the live entertainment. This time in the form of a piano player. Jazz, of course.
Aston picked up his drink - whisky, ice and vodka again - and blinked. ‘What do you think I do?’
She looked at him carefully, and he returned her gaze with a hint of a challenge. The grace with which he moved said he could easily be a professional athlete. But the age lines on his forehead in combination with the ice in his gaze suggested otherwise. And even though they were in Vegas, she hadn’t once seen him with chips in his hand, so he wasn’t a gambler either.
‘Multinational CEO, secret agent, criminal, or multinational playboy,’ she counted them off her fingers.
‘Playboy? Really?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s a possibility,’
The piano player was playing a contrasting - and rather calming - combination of slow deep notes and whispering, fast high ones.
He swallowed his mouthful of food. ‘I work for various companies, and help remedy any sort of difficulties they may have. A problem solver, I guess you could say.’
When she thought the words ‘problem solver’, she thought of business analysts, accountants, and scientists. The man opposite her didn’t look like any of those things.
‘What about you?’
She twisted the wine glass in her hand. ‘I’m… between jobs.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Unemployed?’
‘Unemployed is such a dirty word. I’m just… having a little down time.’
‘I see. Tell me, why are you having a little “down time” here, and not somewhere, say, Tuscany?’
‘Because in Tuscany, you don’t meet men who claim to be “problem solvers”.’
He chuckled. ‘Touché.’
They sat in silence for a little while. The piano player had moved on from his original sparing of notes, and sounded like he was playing all the parts of a much larger band. He thickened the embellishment, and changed the time signature to that of a song meant for swinging.
‘So have you “solved” any “problems” here?’
The shadow in his eyes told her to drop it. He paused. ‘I’m due to go somewhere tomorrow, meet a few people, so no, not yet.’
She wondered if she’d ever heard a more evasive answer. Unimpressed, she chose to ignore him for a little while and observe her surroundings instead. The restaurant seemed to be divided into two: the furniture and table set up were created from sharp shards of glass, chrome and stained wood, whereas the walls - adorned with dark bottles of wine - and light fittings seemed to emit a softer, warmer, golden light. The strong contrast created an illusion of including the restaurant’s patrons, and the effect was rather startling. Her gaze ended up back on Aston, who was watching her over his nearly empty tumbler with an amused expression.
‘What?’
He shook his head subtly. ‘No. Seriously, why are you in a town like this one?’
She tilted her head slightly, before leaning forward and taking the hand that wasn’t holding his tumbler. ‘Tell me something about yourself. Something true.’
Her gaze was so intense he had to look away for a second. Her hand was warm above his. He took his away and leaned back in his chair. ‘I have a daughter.’
‘Really?’
If she knew she was doing a better job of extracting information than him, she wasn’t showing it. ‘Yes. Her name’s Isobel. She must be nearly six by now. Blonde, tough, outspoken thing. She’ll set the world on fire yet.’
She smiled. ‘Now that’s paternal pride if I’ve ever heard it.’
He sighed quietly. ‘Can you blame me?’
‘Not at all.’
The piano player played three sharp chords, paused for an immeasurable amount of time, and played another two.
An hour later, after has had another one of his ‘window cleaners’ (he had told her that story, and now that was what she was calling them) and they’d both had thick, strong coffees, he suggested that perhaps she’d be interested in putting a dent in his room’s mini bar. She gave him a rather scathing return in regards to his subtlety (or rather, the lack thereof), but then quietly acquiesced. But when he’d slipped an arm around her she had elbowed him so hard he wondered if he’d dreamed her giving the response she had.
As she’d walked away, it took all of his self-control to not after follow her.
And he still didn’t know her name.
Comments, favourite lines, all that jazz=love.