Free Secrets of the Apple by Paula Hiatt

shop,” she said.
    He continued to study her for another moment before reaching into the backseat for her bag. “Do you mind?” he asked, looking through the rest of the titles: three Nobel Prize-winning novels, one escapist fantasy and two textbooks on Japanese culture and business. He held up the business books. “Kiss up?” She gave him a long-suffering look, snatched the books and tossed them in the backseat. He figured he understood all about Americans, knew how to play the game. But glancing back at the books, he worried that he appeared so alien to her that she studied him like an anthropologist. Ordinarily he didn’t waste time thinking of such things, as his bank account had purchased a fairly accurate assessment of most women’s perception of him. But all week long Kate had kept him in the foreign province of uncertainty and he was still keeping a vague lookout for her Rosetta Stone. He picked up her receipt which had fluttered into his lap. “Maybe you should think about the library.”
    “Librarians hate it when you write in their books.”
    “These should keep you a while,” he said.
    She made a throaty growl that sounded indistinctly like “Two weeks,” and turned on the radio, humming softly to herself. Lulled by the music and the gentle whine of the tires, Ryoki nodded off, sleeping peacefully all the way back to his hotel.

Chapter Five
    B y Monday morning the glow of Friday and Saturday had caught a chill and passed away. On Sunday he had worked until he could hardly see straight, slept a short, uneasy night, and headed to the office having accomplished only half his scheduled allotment. Napa Valley had been a mistake. An excess of shared jokes and matching café lattes could slow the process. He needed her to be a machine.
    At 8:07 a.m. he heard the ritual click click click of heels, interrupted by a slipclick as Kate fell off her heels hurrying down the marble hallway, as though rushing would rewind the seven minutes of her lateness. He thought she probably wrenched her ankle again, as she occasionally did when she lost track of her walking skills. Odd, for someone who otherwise gave every appearance of being elegant and graceful. Why wasn’t she limping all the time? And what went on in those mysterious minutes that repeatedly separated her from the appointed hour?
    There was a jingle of keys and the whump of her laptop bag as she crossed the thick carpet in the office next door. He sat up straighter, tugged unconsciously at his tie, concentrated on his screen, steeled himself to be brisk, businesslike.
    At 8:12 she entered his office. He expected a proffered pastry or two, maybe a frilly blouse or a wispy pink scarf. Instead she wore a navy suit and carried only a heavy gray binder and her laptop, her most severe appearance yet. She sat across from him, smiled an abbreviated greeting and opened her binder. He was all prepared with a good stern look, cocked and ready to blast the first flutter of the lashes or pouting of the lips, the slightest breath of sweet kawaii that hinted at their friendly, almost intimate weekend. This unforeseen professionalism caught him a left hook and he spoke snidely without thinking, “Long pearls today?”
    She leaned forward to arrange her things and the necklace swung against the binder, rebounded and clicked against the buttons on her suit jacket. He heard a funny noise like escaping air, only afterwards recognizing it came from his own lips.
    “I’ve been talking to Brian and looking over some company records for the European division,” she said. “I see you tripled sales through a series of joint venture agreements with existing firms in several emerging Eastern European countries. Pretty slick to end-run the severe trade restrictions and beat your competition to the market. Are you intending to use a similar technique to speed up market penetration in South America?”
    That sounded like her uncle.
    “To some extent,” he said, clearing his