Chapter 5
Chapter Five
LARA
“ L et’s look at you, then,” Sasha says from the doorway.
I turn from the box of canapes that I’m carefully transferring onto a black lacquer tray and find Sasha looking breathtakingly beautiful. But when she comes forward, a slight frown is on her forehead. Her eyes critically inspect me from top to bottom.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, touching my new bangs uncertainly. The hairdresser said I have the perfect heart-shaped face for bangs, but I’m not used to having a bunch of hair on my forehead.
Sasha takes a deep breath. “I didn’t expect to see you in such a revealing outfit. I thought you were going for clean and presentable.”
My eyes widen with surprise. Sasha is dressed in a red dress that can only be described as sexy, with a plunging neckline and most of her long slim legs on show too. She actually looks like she is on her way to a party or a club. I choose my words carefully. “Olga, the shop assistant at the boutique you recommended, helped me choose this suit. She seemed to know you well and she told me this outfit is what you yourself would have chosen for an important showing.”
“Well, it looks a bit different on you,” she says cattily. “Never mind. Perhaps you can button up your jacket.”
I don’t agree that my top is too revealing and I’m not at all happy about the condescending way she is looking at me, but I bite back the sarcastic retort bubbling in my throat and silently button my jacket. This deal is too important to poison the air with a petty argument.
But Sasha is not finished. She comes closer and plucks a single strand of dog hair off my jacket. Shaking her head with disapproval, she puts it into my hand. I force a smile and let my fingers close over the offending hair, before stuffing it into my jacket pocket. I couldn’t resist taking Mrs. Winterman’s impossibly cute German Shepherd puppy into my arms when we shared the elevator earlier, and I really thought I’d brushed myself until I was fur free, but apparently, I hadn’t been successful.
“You’ll be serving the hors d'?uvres. Show me your nails,” she demands bossily.
I hold out my hands obediently, and she nods. “That’s fine.” Her eyes move upwards to meet mine. “Are you nervous?"
"Enough to shit my pants."
A small smirk tugs at her lovely mouth. "Don’t worry you'll be fine. All you have to do is smile sweetly and let me do all the talking.”
“Yup, I can definitely do that. Aren’t you even a bit nervous?” I ask curiously.
“Not at all.” She shrugs carelessly. “High-profile clients are usually the easiest to deal with. No fussy demands or protracted price negotiations. Ivan Ivanovich will probably spend ten to thirty minutes before deciding. His staff have already given him a rundown of why a property like this would be a good asset to acquire. Basically, he's just here to check out the aesthetic element and give the final stamp of approval."
I nod. "I put the champagne on ice an hour ago so it’s ready to drink as soon as he comes in. After that, I’ll get busy with serving the refreshments and stay out of the way so you can focus on doing what you do best."
Her gaze runs down my body. "Sure.”
Sasha is deliberately being rude and I don’t know why, but now is not the time to air grievances. “Right. I better return to my canapes.”
“Ah… to be so rich that you could afford to buy a place like this,” she murmurs and begins to elegantly twirl around the opulent room.
I watch the pretty picture she makes and say nothing.
She stops and looks at me with a wistful expression. “Do you ever dream of owning a place like this, Lara?”
I stare at her with astonishment. “No. Never. What would I do with 24000 square feet and three floors?” I shake my head. “I dream of old houses with cozy rooms full of charm and character.”
“Really? I do. I’ve been seriously considering retiring from real estate altogether and just wooing one of my clients. I've just never been able to catch anyone at this level… yet."
I cock my head at her words. "Does this mean?"
She smiles a secret, rapt smile. "Darling, I didn't wake up at 6 a.m. to get my hair and makeup done and squeeze into this dress just to sell a house. Neither am I?—"
She stops abruptly when a black SUV appears in the parking court outside, followed by a gleaming Rolls Royce. Behind it, is another black SUV still on the driveway. My eyes widen. I had expected some show of money, of course, but jeez.
This is more like a James Bond entrance.
For a few seconds, we are both frozen, and then Sasha wriggles her shoulders before straightening her spine. “Showtime,” she says with a hard smile and heads towards the front door. I too straighten my back, even though I know he can't see me. We have to be on out very best. I hang around next to the champagne bucket, wondering if I should pop the cork now.
From the tall windows, I see no movement from the Rolls Royce, but two big burly men in black suits jump out of the first SUV. They have Bluetooth buds in their ears and wear mirrored sunglasses. Their bodies are alert and look all around them warily as if they are trained special forces soldiers. Good lord! Two more large men get out of the second SUV. They split and start walking into the grounds. The first two come up to the front door.
Sasha opens the front door and I hear her speaking with them. I can't make out what they are saying from where I am standing, but the conversation seems curt and cold. A few minutes later Sasha starts walking in my direction, a sullen expression on her face. I know she is looking for me, but I can't understand why.
"Lara?" she calls impatiently.
I come out of the shadows and head over to the grand foyer of the house. Sasha smiles, but it is so painfully forced I almost want to ask her if she is having a stroke.
"No phones are allowed," she says flatly.
I can't help frowning. This is prime social media content. What a sly bastard. Still, I control myself and with a smile at the two bodyguards, nod in agreement. They do not smile back. They have not removed their sunglasses and their eerily expressionless faces remind me of the characters from the Men in Black movie. One of them holds his hand out, and under my bangs both my eyebrows nearly reach my hairline.
“Oh!”
"Yeah. Mr. Ivanovich insists on privacy," Sasha mutters.
It is then I notice her phone is in his hand. I switch mine off and hand it over. The MIB drops both into a plastic bag, seals it, and slips the bag into his jacket pocket.
"Should we go over to welcome Mr. Ivanovich?" Sasha asks and starts to walk towards the entrance, but one of the MIBs raises his palm to stop her.
"No, please," he says coldly. "Which of you is Lara Fitzpatrick?"
"I am," I reply.
He turns to Sasha. “The showing must be done by Miss. Fitzpatrick alone. Your services will not be required.”
Hell freezes over in Sasha’s eyes. "What?" she explodes.
I shouldn’t be shocked, but I am. I know they did ask specifically for me, but we all thought it wouldn’t matter if there were two of us doing the showing. It shouldn’t matter. I don't understand what is going on. She is Russian, and he is Russian. Wouldn’t he prefer to have the viewing done while speaking in his mother tongue? What reason could this man have for insisting I do the showing myself?
I can feel my stomach cramping with panic. The plan was for me to do as little talking as possible so I spent no time learning about the history of the property or the important and interesting architectural stuff connected to the house. Only bits and pieces of what I’d heard Sasha say hangs around in my head. If he asks me for any details at all, I’m going to look unprofessional and sloppy. Besides, who will pour the champagne and serve the canapes?
"I am not the lead estate agent," I blurt out.
"This is not a negotiable request," the man replies indifferently.
If it’s not negotiable, then it’s not a request, is it, I think sourly, but obviously, I don’t say my thoughts out aloud. I make a face at Sasha.
"He's watching from the car," Sasha mutters fiercely under her breath, her expression and demeanor are now as hard as stone. "Control your expressions, be polite. Knock this out of the park. Remember, half of the commission is mine."
"Yes." I swallow. "Yes, of course."
“I’ll walk down to the beach and wait for you there.” She gives me one last flinty look before she walks away. I watch her stiff back disappear from sight and it doesn't feel real. Nothing feels real. My hand flutters to my stomach. I am shaken, nervous, and stressed all at once.
One of the men says something in Russian. Instinctively, I know that he is signaling to someone in the car that the coast is clear.
Slowly, I turn around and look out of the windows. The chauffeur is pulling open the passenger door of the Rolls Royce, and my gaze is riveted on the client as he is revealed in pieces.
First, sleek dark shoes attached to a tailored charcoal trouser leg. Then a head of dark unbelievably lustrous hair. A side profile of a clean-shaven man. Already I can make out he is beautiful and broad-shouldered. And supremely confident. Suddenly, he unfurls fully and I catch my breath.
No way!
This must be a prank. Billionaires are supposed to look like Warren Buffet and George Soros. Fat, old, money-obsessed workaholics. This man is ripping like freaking Tarzan. His green gaze meets my staring eyes through the glass window. And our eyes lock. I can’t move a muscle. I find myself struggling to breathe. I watch him the way I imagine a rabbit paralyzed by sheer terror watches a python slither quietly towards it. It knows it’s going to be crushed and swallowed whole, but there is not a thing it can do about it. It can only shiver helplessly as death comes.
His eyes never leave mine as his long legs stride forward relentlessly. It’s like watching a movie in slow motion. The wind catches his glorious hair, lifts it, and drops it. Wow! God sure gave him plenty. His gaze never leaves mine. I don't move forward. I can’t. For a moment my view is obscured by a column, and I am able to blink. Still, I can’t move. It is only when I catch the unimaginably expensive whiff of his cologne that I know I’ve nearly fucked up this sale.
Needing to rectify this, I take a deep breath and lift my foot intending to take a step forward, my hand extended. Then he comes back into view. Bigger and bolder than before. And I don’t know how or why, but my foot catches on nothing and my knees give way. I collapse to a crouching position on the floor. Shit. I stare at the granite floor. So highly polished I can see the reflection of my horrified face on it.
As I stare at my face with dismay, a sleek dark shoe comes into view a foot away from me. The python has arrived. I close my eyes. Oh shit.
Don’t fuck this up, Lara. It’s not broken. Just start again and everything will be fine.
The whole agency is depending on me. My father is depending on me. I have to persevere. I’ll just offer him a glass of champagne and take it from there. Everything is always better with champagne. I open my eyes and raise my head slowly, my gaze travelling the long length of him. And that slow journey becomes my first mistake of the morning.
I reach his eyes and my heart... stops.