A Calculated Risk by Katherine Neville (best time to read books .txt) 📗

maybe. The Daimlisch family were German bankers, too, you know. That’s how I knew them so well—through my grandfather. Lelia’s husband was the black sheep, the one who wanted to break away and do something new and different with his life.…”

I paused as I realized this hit rather close to home. Tor was beaming broadly at this, my first hint that perhaps banking didn’t run through my blood like a genetic trait.

“Daimlisch did well on his own,” I went on, “but when he was ill and dying, they needed money. Lelia went to Germany—against her husband’s advice and without his knowledge—and asked his family for a loan.”

“They refused?” said Tor, surprised.

“He’d gone his own way—turned his back on the bank; they didn’t give her beans. She hocked her jewelry—even today, I bet what she wears is mostly paste. She’s never recovered. I knew how she and Georgian felt about banking—that’s why I felt they’d leap into our bet!”

“So she wanted to be rich in her own name—if only for a day?” he said, raising his brow. “Perhaps that explains her cockeyed reasoning, but it doesn’t solve my problem. I’ve got millions in bonds out there, securing loans in Leila’s name. I’ll have to watch them like a hawk now, until they’re paid off—in the event any of them are called.”

“Called?” I said. “What does that mean?”

“We were in a hurry during our printing,” said Tor. “I made the mistake of letting us copy some callable bonds as collateral—bonds that can be recalled whenever the issuer chooses to pay them off. The bearer—or owner—then has a fixed number of days in which to redeem them at face value.”

“You’re afraid the real owners will take them from the vault to redeem them, and find out the ones they have are fakes,” I said.

“That’s not all,” Tor told me. “So long as ours—the real bonds—are securing Lelia’s loans, those banks in Europe will expect us to send them in for redemption—they might even do it for us. To avoid that, we’d have to pay off our loan at great penalty—as Lelia has helpfully arranged—or get other collateral to secure it. We have no other collateral, unless we want to rob a bank.”

“Oh no, you don’t,” I said. “As long as I keep those wire transfers inside the bank—especially in fake accounts under other people’s names—I’m not technically doing anything illegal. At least, they’d have great trouble tracing anything to me. But to move my hard-earned ‘musical money’ outside of the bank in order to pay off real loans in another country—that’s a federal penitentiary rap!”

“Your hard-earned money?” he said, raising his brow with a naughty smile. “It seems you’ve forgotten our little tryst at the data center last night. Who was it that saved your charming, dimpled bottom, my dear?”

“I’m at your knees in gratitude,” I assured him, kissing a knee that had surfaced from the water, “and I’m also turning into a prune in this tub. I’ll take the list of your endangered securities and track them by computer, but I’ll have to clear it with my support crew—you met them last night—to see if they want to stick their necks out to actually cover your loans. By the way—what are you planning to use all that money for, if I may ask?”

“I’m starting a tax haven—a place like Monaco or the Bahamas—where those who wish to engage in tax-free business transactions will be sheltered from such a burden. Our profit will be made by their having to deal in our currency and within the terms of our fiscal laws.”

“What country will let you set up your own laws and currencies and operate as a tax haven?” I wanted to know.

“None of them,” he said with a smile, getting out of the tub and toweling off. “So I suppose I must simply start my own country.”

I wanted to ask a good deal more—but Tor said we’d discuss it later, and left the room. I turned on the shower as the tub drained, and shampooed all that bay dirt from my hair. Then I dried, wrapped myself in a fluffy towel, and went out to dry my hair beside the fire.

Tor had been downstairs, and had set out coffee and steaming muffins with honey and butter, which smelled delicious. He was standing there, not wearing a stitch, stirring the fire as I came in from the bath.

“I feel like a drowned rat,” I said, rubbing my hair.

He turned and stared at me, wrapped in my towel, but he didn’t speak.

“Granny—what big eyes you have.” I laughed.

He set down the poker and came over to me. He peeled the towel away, and it dropped to the floor.

“The better to see you with, my dear,” he murmured. He ran his hands over my body slowly, as if committing every inch to memory.

“Granny, what big hands you have,” I said, feeling more than a little weak.

“The better to feel you with, my dear,” he whispered, then he swept me into his arms like a bundle, and headed for the bed. “Aren’t you concerned about what comes next?” he asked naughtily.

“Don’t flatter yourself—it’s not that big.”

“Big enough.” He laughed, tossing me into the pillows.

“Granny,” I said, “I believe it’s gotten bigger.”

“The better to you-know-what you with, my dear,” he told me, leaping on top of me.

“Why—I do believe you’re not my grandmother at all!” I cried in mock horror.

“If you do such things with your grandmother, my dear—it’s no wonder you’ve been confused about your gender.”

“I’m not confused—I know exactly which parts go where,” I assured him.

“You certainly do,” he agreed as I crawled beneath the covers. “What do you think you’re doing there?”

“Exploring some other parts—to find out what to do with them.” I was running my tongue across his flesh and he shuddered. “It tastes salty—like the sea,” I told him.

“Is this a status report?”

“Yes—I’ll send you updates from the field,” I said, moving lower.

“My God—that feels wonderful … what are you …” but his