The Men of Thorne Island by Cynthia Thomason Read Free Book Online Page A

doesn’t care about that.”
    Nick’s offhand statement had just reduced years of accounting principles to insignificance. The idea of being in business, after all, was to make a profit. “He doesn’t care about making money?”
    “No. He’s got tons of it already. And the thing about Brody is, he’ll never take a dollar from anyone, but he’ll never give one away, either. I guess that’s how rich guys stay that way.”
    She pictured the scowling, ill-tempered old goat and almost laughed out loud. He wore that stupid hat with all the rusty lures. His shorts were held up with a tow rope. His canvas shoes had holes in the toes. He lived in a three-room cottage, which cost him a mere one hundred dollars a month, with a twelve-inch black-and-white TV for entertainment. “So Brody is rich?”
    “As Midas.”
    “But how…?”
    Nick read the label on a can of Vienna sausages and grimaced. “I don’t know how you can eat these things,” he said. “How’d Brody make his money?He invented things. Then, for years he managed the factory that produced his inventions.”
    Sara grabbed the can out of his hand and shoved it into the pantry. “What things did he invent?”
    “If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you.”
    That was a heck of an answer. “Well, at least he should see if there’s a warehouse club around here, in Sandusky maybe, or—”
    “Sara.”
    She clamped her mouth shut and stared at him.
    “Leave it alone.”
    “But I could show him how volume buying…”
    Nick stepped closer to her and put his hands on her shoulders. Suddenly the cotton fabric of her T-shirt felt warm, as if heated by the pressure of his palms.
    For a moment he said nothing. He just kept a tight hold on her and stared into her eyes. “What do you do for a living?” he finally asked.
    “I’m a tax accountant.”
    The temporary heat became a cold chill. Nick released her and took a step back. “That figures.”
    “What’s wrong with being a tax accountant?”
    “Nothing. It just figures. All that talk about volume buying. And the concern over the rent we pay. Your comment yesterday about Millie’s ‘unsound financial arrangement.’ I should have guessed.”
    The hot blood of indignation surged through her veins. “What’s wrong with caring about money? What’s wrong with making it, tracking it, keeping it, for heaven’s sake?”
    “It’s fine, Sara. Be the best accountant you can be. Just let Brody be the kind of grocer he wants to be.” He turned away from her and headed for the door.“I’ve got work to do,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”
    An unwelcome press of guilt weighed on Sara’s shoulders, and she tried to shrug it off. Why should she feel guilty for making a few comments meant to help the man who’d treated her abominably just a few minutes ago? And yet she did feel guilty. It was ridiculous. All she was doing was offering a little common-sense advice that anyone with half a brain would recognize as logical and…
    Sara’s mind wouldn’t let her continue her rationale. All at once every heightened sense was focused on the man walking out of the kitchen. All she could think about were his strong, broad shoulders and the graceful tapering of his hips under loose-fitting shorts. Such a man could banish all rational thought from any woman’s mind. “Excuse me,” she said.
    He stopped in the doorway and looked back at her. “Yeah?”
    “About that bottle of wine you promised me. If you bring it, I’d be willing to share my family-size lasagna tonight.”
    “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve got a lot to do.” He left her standing there with her temper skyrocketing and her ego plummeting.
    She grabbed the cleaning supplies from the cupboard and began scrubbing and scouring everything in sight. And she pictured Nick Bass’s face in every grimy surface.
     
    B ANNING CROUCHED in the dark hallway and pulled his service revolver from the shoulder holster. The smells of unwashed