"Is it normal etiquette in your country to just walk into someone's home without knocking?" she asked. "There are laws against doing that here, if no one has bothered to mention that to you."
He didn't answer immediately. She had changed into shorts and a loose T‑shirt when she got home, but he was still dressed as he'd been at the mall, and still had that radio, or translator, or whatever it was, attached to his belt, the miniature earphone still firmly in ear.
"I knocked," he told her. "Yet no one opened the door."
She found that hard to believe. As big as his hand was, any knocking he did could probably be heard over on the next block.
So she raised a brow at him, "You didn't figure, then, that maybe no one was home?"
Another pause before he said, "I knew that not to be the case."
Okay, so he could have heard them talking through the door, but then how the heck hadn't they heard his knocking? She might not have heard him after she'd closed her bedroom door, but Jan should have. And why was she nitpicking when he was here? She still found that amazing. He'd actually tracked her down‑but how had he?
She immediately asked, "How did you find me when my phone number is unlisted?"
Once again, a long pause before he answered, "I have excellent resources.
"No kidding," she agreed. "So much for thinking you needed a detective, when you've got the kind of access usually only law enforcement, government, or ambassadors‑ahh, that's it, isn't it? Your embassy in this country is helping you cut through red tape?"
"For what reason would I cut tape of a certain color?" he replied.
Screeching out of the earphone. Well, he had answered immediately, without waiting for the coaching. Brittany almost laughed, but his wince restrained her. Poor baby He was having a heck of a time coping with the new language he'd learned, and his translator was obviously of the impatient sort.
"How about we have a conversation without your hyperactive friend's help?" she suggested, staring pointedly at the radio on his hip.
He gave her a brilliant smile and removed the earphone, dropping the cord so it dangled over the couch by his feet, a good guess that was far enough for him not to hear anything else coming out of it. Brittany only vaguely noticed, though, that smile of his having dazzled her to the core.
"Be at ease," he said. I will be fine."
"Was that for me or your friend there?" she managed to ask him.
"My friend. She worries overmuch about me."
The dazzling subsided completely, some unexpected bristling taking over. "She?"
"She is a computer."
Brittany blinked. "Was that a joke?''
"Why would you think so?"
She laughed. He was quite funny. "Probably because computers don't have emotions, so they can't worry. Now, what brings you here?"
"I need you."
Those words almost melted her on the spot. She had the greatest urge to hop across the coffee table between them, right into his lap. The butterflies in her belly had just gone absolutely wild.
Never had she been so thoroughly turned on, and incredibly, just by words.
Chapter Ten
IT TOOK BRITTANY NEARLY A MINUTE TO CONVINCE herself that Dalden's definition of need was a far cry from hers. That he hadn't moved from his position on the couch sort of pushed her toward that conclusion sooner than her body was acknowledging. She knew she should have broken down and bought an air conditioner for the apartment; a blast of icy air would definitely be welcome at the moment.
She settled for sinking into the matching lounge chair next to the couch and inconspicuously fanning herself Hearing his definition of need would probably help even more, so she asked, "What can I do for you that your embassy can't?"
I must find the man Jorran in all haste," he told her. "Yet I am not assured of recognizing him if I see him, because he may have changed his appearance from when I last saw him. You would
know him, though, as you did me, for someone not from your country."
"Well, that's debatable," she replied, pointing out, "It was only your accent‑"
"He will speak differently, as do I.
She chuckled. "I hope you're not talking about having a chat with everyone in town, just to hear their accents."
"If such is needful‑"
"Time out," she cut in. "I was joking. We're a small town, but we still have a population now exceeding twenty thousand residents. If even half of those are men, you're talking a heck of a lot of time to track them all down for a little chat. And I was under the impression that you don't have a lot of time."
"Nor do I. Nor will it be needful. Jorran will wish to make contact with the one you call Mayor, so he win most likely be found in the vicinity of this leader."
"What's he want with Mayor Sullivan?"
"His position."
"His position on what?"
He looked confused. Brittany was confused. He tried to clarify. "He will try to become mayor here. I must stop him before he succeeds."
"He's here to run against Sullivan? But I thought he was a foreigner like you?"
"He is."
"Then I don't get it. You have to be an American citizen to run for political office in this country. How could he not know that?"
Dalden grinned, showing signs of relief. "Because he is as ignorant of your traditions as I am."
She grinned back. "Well, there you go, your problem is solved."
He sighed now. "Actually, it is not. I still must find him and remove him from your country before he causes problems here."
"Ali, international incident of the big sort, huh?" It was pretty obvious when he glanced down at the earphone at his feet that he was in need of an explanation. Brittany tried. "A big ruckus that would make the papers in both our countries, to everyone´s embarrassment?" When he still looked blank, she added, "Oh, go ahead, pick it up. I'm sure she can make you understand."
He nodded, did so, and after a very long moment of having the earphone attached again, said to Brittany, "Your analysis is appropriate. Will you help me?"
"I'd love to, really I would, but I don't see how I can. You need someone with more time on their hands than I have. But with two jobs tying me up for most of the week, the only time I could help you would be on Sundays, and that doesn't seem nearly enough when you've made it clear you're in a hurry to get this wrapped up."
"You misunderstand, Brittany Callaghan. I wish to pay for your time, for you to work only for me until my task here is accomplished.
He lifted the large medallion off his chest and off his neck, leaning over to hand it to her. Her hand actually dropped before she put some effort into holding it up. The medallion was really heavy, with the added weight of the chain, which was more the size of a bicycle chain than a piece of jewelry, probably weighing ten pounds itself.
She gave him a questioning look, to which he said, "That is a cheap metal where I come from, yet I am told it has high value here. Will it be sufficient to hire you?"
She glanced down at what was probably fifteen, maybe even twenty pounds of disk and chain. "How much gold plating are we talking about?"
"Plating?"
"The percentage of actual gold?"
"There is no percentage. It is only one metal. Are we misinformed, that you do not value pure gold?"
"You have got to be kidding."
She wasn't sure what gold was priced at by the ounce these days, but knew a chain not even a tenth the size of the one in her hand could cost upwards of six hundred dollars, and not even be pure gold at that. She did some quick calculations in her head and realized they were talking about a lot of money‑if he wasn't pulling her leg about it being pure gold. And what was she even thinking about? It was way too much for what he was suggesting.
"Look, it probably wouldn't take more than a week to find your guy, even less if he really is going to be hanging out around the mayor. I can take a week off from my jobs, and you can pay me with the currency of your country the
equivalent of a couple thousand American bucks. This," she added, handing him back the medallion, "is worth a small fortune, far too much for one week's work. "
He pushed the medallion back at her. "It may require more than one week, and‑it is all that I have to pay you with. I have not this currency that you speak of."
"No money, and here you are trying to dump a fortune in gold on me?" she rolled her eyes. "No offense, but you need a babysitter, big guy."
After a moment he grinned at her. "You have just endeared yourself to Martha."
"Who's Martha?"
"The voice in here." He tapped the earphone. "She suggests that 'baby‑sitter' be added to the job you will do for me. What is baby‑sitter?"
Brittany blushed. "You don't know? I mean, she didn't explain‑? Never mind. I was just joking, really. But what happened to your money? Have you just run out, or were you robbed?"
"Neither. I had no requirement of currency until it became needful to hire assistance."
She stared at him long enough to draw her own conclusion and even thumped her head for not thinking of it sooner. "Credit cards, of course. And for some reason, you aren't equating them with money. Okay, no biggie. Your hotel might not advance you a couple grand, but the banks will tomorrow."
The look he was giving her said clearly that she was talking Greek to him again, but after the requisite pause while he attentively listened to Martha's explanations, he said simply, "I am reminded that I cannot return to my place of sleep until the new rising.
Rising?"
He sighed after some brief coaching from the earphone and clarified, "Many call it a new day."
"Oh, tomorrow l" Brittany said, but then frowned. "Why not?''
He explained, "Because I was called back for an unneedful consultation, I have exceeded my limit for returning there on this rising.
This was said with a degree of grouchiness. Not that it mattered when she was completely baffled anyway. She understood now how frustrating it must be for him, needing translations for just about everything she was saying. That must have been one heck of a lousy language course he took, if such worldly things like credit cards, hotels, and banks hadn't been included. Talk about a simplistic definition for hotel‑place of sleep. She mentally rolled her eyes again.
The only other conclusion she could draw was that he came from one of those countries that still got around on camels, where most of their population had never heard of such things. She hoped not.
And then it dawned on her and she asked, "Wait a minute, are you saying you have nowhere to sleep tonight, but tomorrow you will have?"
He nodded. She sighed, telling him, "I'm not even going to try to figure out how that could be possible, when it doesn't sound like you're referring to messed‑up hotel reservations. But you're welcome to sleep on our couch, I suppose. My roommate Jan might object, after the scare you gave her. Then again, after she gets a good look at you, she might not. We eat around six. The bathroom is through that middle door behind you. In the meantime, how about telling me a little more about yourself, so I can
better understand what's going on here and what's going to be expected of me on this temporary job?
"And put this back on," she continued, tossing the medallion at him so he couldn't push it back at her this time. "Much as I could use what that thing will fetch, I'm not in the habit of taking advantage of foreigners. We'll find you a buyer for it tomorrow so you can pocket the bulk and just pay me the couple thousand I've asked for, to cover taking off from my regular jobs."
Brittany settled down into the chair to wait while the female on the other end of his earphone did her thing. Sooner than expected, though, Dalden smiled and said, "I am told you eat real food here. I look forward to sharing your meal."
Brittany burst out laughing. She couldn't help it, deciding it was probably his Martha who needed a translator, not him.
Chapter Eleven
THEY DIDN'T EXACTLY GET AROUND TO TALKING ABOUT him as Brittany had hoped they would. Somehow, the subject got turned in her direction instead, because Dalden's curiosity had been pricked earlier by one of her remarks that didn't get addressed immediately.
"What is the job you have here that ties you up?" he asked her.
just by the way he said it, she knew immediately that he had taken the word literally and had envisioned ropes twined about her limbs. "Err, that was ties up as in restricts, as in, I don't have much time left in the day after I get home from work for anything other than sleep. Was that easier for you to understand?"
"Indeed," he acknowledged. "But I would still hear of your job."
She had no idea why she was suddenly embarrassed, had thought she had long since reached the immune stage where her job choice was concerned. And it had been a long haul getting there.
Because she worked in a field that most men considered exclusively theirs, she'd been called a libber and every other nasty name you could think of. She'd heard it all and learned to ignore it. She'd had whole crews refuse to work with her. She'd had architects turn down her contractor because she was on his crew.
It was a wonder she hadn't lost her quirky sense of humor, but she hadn't. It was, at times, the only thing that sustained her.
So why didn't she find a job where she didn't get so much grief?
She could have moved on to something else after she had learned all she needed to know about construction. But she was good at it, and she had yet to find anything she was as capable at that paid as well, and that was the bottom line for her when she had such an expensive goal. And one of the nice things about her profession was that she could quit for a few months, even years, and then get back into it and not feel that she'd missed anything, because it was what she would be doing when she quit to build her home. Not much changed in construction. Better tools were made, union reps came and went, dues were raised, benefits got better, but houses were still basically built the same.
Her delay in answering him brought the remark, "I am told you are defensive about your job. Why is that?"
Since that voice on the other end of the earphone couldn't possibly have guessed that just from her prolonged silence, she was beginning to think that his "I am told" was just his way of stating his own opinion, rather than something Martha was telling him. Besides, her hot cheeks had probably been a dead giveaway, and only he was seeing that. Martha might be able to hear them, but that was all she could do.
"I used to be," she admitted. "Hard not to be, when you get so much flak about an occupation from all sides. But I'm stubborn. I have a goal, to build my own home with my own hands. My grandfather did it, and the concept always fascinated me, which
probably had a lot to do with finally making the decision myself. So everything I do now is done with that goal in mind, which includes my choice of work, so I could learn about all aspects of house construction from the ground up. Basically I'm a carpenter, though I can roof, lay drywall, and paint with the best of them."
"It is difficult here, the building of one's home?" he asked.
"Well, no, not if you have a well‑paying job to afford it, or in my case, know how to build it yourself. I'm probably making it harder than necessary by wanting to have all the money up front first. I thought about taking out a home loan instead, but I really hate the idea of going that deep into debt. I know everyone does it, but that didn't mean I had to. And besides, I'm going to save tons of money by doing it myself, since it won't cost anywhere near what it would cost if I just went out and bought a house already built."
"You will build your home here in this town?"
"Yes, I've already bought the land. I could get started on it already, but that would be building it piecemeal in my spare time, which would take years. I prefer to have enough money to spare for all the materials and extra help I'll need when more than two hands are required, enough so I can quit both my jobs until it's done. And doing it myself, I'll make sure it's done right."
"I find it admirable that you know how to
create a house from nothing.
She blushed profusely. That had to be the first time a man had ever complimented her about her job choice.
But then he spoiled it by adding, "And do not view it as a punishment.
"I think we need another time‑out," she said. "Either things are done really weird in your country, or you've been given the wrong definition for punishment. The only work around here that can be considered punishment is forced labor in prisons. Now some folks might not like their Jobs, some might even hate them, but doing them anyway isn't punishment, it's more a necessity until something better comes along. Punishment, on the other hand, is pretty much universally reserved for disciplinary measures. No one
around here is going to punish someone by forcing them to build a house for them. Do you see the difference?"
He smiled at her in answer, but also added, "I see that you have a good understanding for what must be done when one breaks rules. And I am told 'chore' would have been a more appropriate word to express my thoughts in the matter of how you view your job."
She chuckled. "No, I don't see it as a chore; I actually like building things, whether it's cabinets, tables, or an entire house. I work mostly for Arbor Construction here. I like their foremen, get along really well with their crews due to long association, and they know I do good work, so I don't have to constantly prove myself like I did in San Francisco when I lived there."
"Prove yourself how? In challenge?"
She blinked, then grinned at him. "Another of those misdefined words? No, occasionally there'd be no work in the city, so I'd have to go to the union to get work, and those jobs were usually with small crews that I didn't know and I'd have to go through the whole proving process again each time, because not once did they ever accept me as one of them. So when Arbor relocated here and offered me a chance to move with them, I jumped at it. It meant steady work with the same crews, instead of being sent who-knew‑where by the union. And I love it here. I come from a small town and prefer them small, where you actually get to know your neighbors and develop a real sense of community."