Oh, that.“Sorry. I—can go change?” In fact, that sounded like a brilliant idea. Straightening, she took a sideways step toward the door.
“No need. I have a prototype of the Sirocco Flow right here.” He opened one of the cabinets lining the wall behind his desk, pulling out a sleek rod with a rounded end.
“You make blow dryers?”
The answer was apparently yes, as he proceeded to blast Libby from hem to collar, finishing with a few touch-ups to her hair and face.
“The travel-size is small enough to fit in a pocket,” he announced, switching it off. “I call it my magic wand.”
Libby sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Jean wasn’t there to hear that part.
“Please, sit.” Mr. L gestured at the chair behind Libby as if the ambush drying had never happened. He waited until she was perched on the edge of the butter-soft armchair before settling onto the matching love seat. “This is pleasant. Just the two of us.”
After a brief delay, during which she could almost hear him think,A smile would be a nice touch,he smiled at her.
Libby felt her mouth jerk in response, like they were androids teaching each other to mimic human expressions.
“We should get to know each other better, don’t you think? Naturally, I’ve heard a great deal about you from our mutual friend Keoki. I refer of course to your troubled early years. No father, distracted mother, economic insecurity, lackluster academic performance.” His hand flapped a carelesset cetera.Like it was the same old story, not worth going into the details.
Technically shehada father. Libby hadn’t spontaneously generated herself. He just wasn’t around. The rest was true, in a brutally factual way. Although Libby didn’t think of herself as a charity case, the way he seemed to. She’d never considered herself poor until college, because everyone she knew lived the same way she and Keoki did.
“Is it any wonder you’ve had so few opportunities to better yourself, with such inauspicious beginnings?” Apparently it was not a rhetorical question, because he looked expectantly at Libby until she responded.
“I don’t know. I’m not a sociologist.”
“Certainly not!” He laughed as if she’d made a joke. “You need a college degree for that.”
Libby was still reeling from the casual insult when he leanedforward, uncorking a carafe of what appeared to be water and filling one of the empty glasses beside it. “Drink this.”
“I’m fine,” she said, despite being parched from the drying incident. Even poor girls with no education had street smarts.
“Straight to business. I like that.” He took a sip of water, set down the glass, then leaned back, carefully smoothing his trousers before crossing his legs at the knee. It was like watching an uptight person act out the clue “relaxed” in a game of charades. The effect was further undercut by the intensity of his gaze as he asked, “Do you enjoy helping people?”
Warning,said Libby’s brain.Potential trap ahead.“I—guess?”
“Hmm.” His mouth curved downward. “I believe in helping yourself. It builds character. However, there are exceptions to every rule.”
She gave a cautious nod, more to the latter part of the statement than the pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps bit. Classic rich-man thinking.
“I’m prepared to help you.” He smiled at his own generosity.
“You already are,” Libby reminded him. “Helping us, I mean. A lot. The house, the clothes, the cover story.” She could have gone on, but Mr. L beat her to it.
“Don’t forget the car.”
“Right.” He’d been significantly more chill handing over the keys to a shiny black SUV than he was about people touching his faucets.
“But now I’m talking about a far moresignificantcommitment.”
“Like for Keoki’s restaurant?”
“This would be a venture of apersonalnature.”
“I’m not sure I follow.” Translation: I’m not sure Iwantto follow.
“Imagine what you could do with, say, twenty thousand dollars?”
Shit. It is the kidney.Libby kicked herself for not googling the risks of being a living organ donor.
