The Brevity of Roses Read Online Free Page B

mouth to respond, then paused. Though she had always known the answer, she had no memory that any non-academic had ever bothered to ask her the question. “I was raised in a ... sheltered environment—racist, to be honest—and I struggled with that. In my heart, I felt that despite our varying skin colors, religions, cultures, our commonalities outweighed those differences. I think I just needed to find the truth.”
    “And what did you find?”
    “My instincts were right.”
    He gazed into the distance for a moment, as if considering her statement. “But, men and women, in all cultures, are quite different from each other,” he said. “Do you agree?”
    “I’m not sure I do.”
    For the second time, his face registered equal parts surprise and amusement. He pushed his plate aside, picked up his glass, and eased back in his chair. “You are wrong, Meredith.” He swallowed the last of his wine and set the glass on the table. “For example, the way we handle sexual attraction. Whereas I am quite open with my desire, you are drinking far more wine than you ever do at lunch, and hoping the effect does not wear off before I take you to bed—because if it does, you will never have the nerve to allow us that pleasure.”
    He had read her perfectly. She had done her best to drown her cultured reserve, but she would never admit it. Instead, she slid aside her glass and looked him in the eye. She smiled. “Let’s go,” she told him.
    Jalal signaled for the check.
     
    Meredith lay next to Jalal. Through the open window, she watched twilight smudge into night. They had spent the dregs of the afternoon and the full of the evening in her bed, and now, though her body was deliciously relaxed, her mind zinged. Shocked—finally—that she had brought this stranger into her home, she tallied what little she knew about him.
    He had paid for her lunch; he had driven her home in his Lexus; he dressed well, wore a TAG Heure watch and his messenger bag was Gucci, so he certainly had the appearance of money. But what did that prove? He could be a gigolo, or whatever they were called now. Boy toy? It was entirely possible he had been—or still was—the companion of another wealthy woman who lavished him with gifts. He was charming and seemed educated, but then so was Ted Bundy. My lord!
    She glanced over at him. His eyes were closed, but she sensed he was not asleep, and if he was, what did it matter? She had too many questions. “Jalal?”
    “Mm-hmm?”
    “Were you born here, in America?”
    “No.”
    “When did you immigrate?”
    He yawned. “We left Iran soon after the revolution, but we lived for about a year with relatives in Lebanon, and then four years in France. We came to America twelve years ago. I was eighteen.”
    So there ! She was not twice his age.
    Still, you are old enough to be— Meredith hushed that voice again by asking if he emigrated with his parents.
    “Yes,” he said, “and two brothers, four sisters, and one grandfather.”
    “Where does your family live?”
    “My grandfather has since died. The rest of my family lives in Seattle.”
    “Do you see them often?”
    “No. My brothers and sisters are all married with numerous children. I am not missed.” He rolled to his side, facing her. “And, before you ask, I have never been married, nor do I have any children.”
    Where does your money come from was what she almost blurted out. Before she could think how to rephrase the question tactfully, he spoke again.
    “I am a computer genius,” he said. “I have more money than Bill Gates.”
    “Really?”
    He laughed and snuggled up to her. “Of course not, but if you let me get a little sleep, I will tell you the whole boring tale over breakfast.”
    His answers had not stilled her mind. She had failed to ask him the right questions. What answer might he have given if she had asked why he did not dismiss her on sight, as other men his age would have done? Or how often, at first meeting, he