Free Twelve Nights by Carole Remy Page B

women. Despite his good looks and
intelligence, Richard found the female sex even more an enigma than Jimmy did
himself.
    “So far I’ve met an obvious gold-digger. She was fake
everything, boobs, hair, eye color, probably had liposuction too.”
    “I’m sorry, Jimmy,” the lawyer did apologize now. “I didn’t
think to ask for a medical history. That was an oversight.”
    “It’s okay,” Jimmy relented. As his anger dissipated, he
began to see the humor of the absurd situation. “Another one wore fake glasses
to look intellectual. She had been well coached by someone, except she kept
messing up the ten dollar words she had memorized. She said she admonished from
drinking and she condoned cruelty to animals. A regular Mrs. Malaprop.”
    “Who?”
    “A character from a play. Never mind.” He thought of another
question. “By the way, where did you put them?”
    “In the Vancouver Hotel,” Richard answered. “I had the
reservation clerk spread the rooms out. Is there a problem?”
    “They found each other. I picture this gaggle of thirty year
old spinsters cackling over breakfast and dissecting me like a sausage.”
    “Poetic, Jimmy.”
    “Poetic justice?”
    “I didn’t say it,” Richard laughed. “Look, what do you want
me to do?”
    Jimmy treated the offer as genuine. “I want you to get in
here and interview some of these women. You can at least weed out the worst of
them.”
    “I’m covering a conference call on the Dallas merger at ten.
It should take about an hour. I can be at your office by a little after
eleven.”
    “Get here as soon as you can. Cut the call short. It’s like
a siege.”
    “They’re waiting in separate rooms, right?”
    “Yes, but they’ve found the bathroom. That’s where they’re
stirring the witches’ cauldron.”
    “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
    Jimmy hung up the phone and swiveled his chair toward the
window. What an idiot he was, brain smart but heart stupid. Thinking he could
find a woman to love by offering money in a personal ad. A chuckle rose
unbidden from deep in his belly as the absurdity formed a photograph in his
head. A naked woman pouring tea in his apartment with a huge red heart painted
on her chest and a giant dollar sign on her back. He relaxed into the fantasy.
She was tall and thin with long, no make it short, auburn hair, the face of a
Botticelli and the body of a Giacometti. And the sexual energy of … he searched
for an analogy. Not a Don Juan, not a nymphomaniac. He gave up. The woman
couldn’t exist. With a sigh, he turned back to face his desk and pressed his
finger on the intercom.
    “Send in the next one, Julie.”
    “Right away, Mr. Buko.”
    The office employees thought Jimmy was interviewing for a
newly created position at TransGlobe. They knew Jimmy was a hands-on owner and
were only mildly surprised that he was doing the interviewing himself. They
counted it up as another Buko eccentricity. As long as he and they kept making
bundles of money, he could interview as many women as he wanted.
    Jimmy stood as the door opened and moved around the desk to
greet the next applicant. His automatic smile became genuine as he recognized
his companion of the previous week.
    “Monica.” Jimmy held out his hand.
    “Jimmy.”
    Her grip was firm in his.
    “I guess you’re wondering how I got through your lawyer’s
screening,” she offered, “being a professional.”
    “Sit down, Monica.” Jimmy gestured to the sofa. His eyes
walked the length of her from casually stylish light brown hair, past a
conservative suit of beige wool, over slim calves wrapped in sheer flesh-toned
stockings and ending with red heels just short of fuck-me.
    “You’re a sight,” he commented.
    “My other persona,” Monica explained. “I used it to get the
interview. I really am working on my masters. I also work part-time for the Vancouver Sun .”
    “Did you leave out any other details besides the
prostitution?”
    “A few,” Monica