Chapter 2
After taking a few minutes to admire the carved woodwork of the banister in the foyer and the crown moldings in the living room of the brownstone, I went on the hunt for Harry Schwartz—the listing agent. No one I passed had seen him or been shown around the place. Guests were helping themselves to snacks and champagne in the kitchen. Normal protocol demanded that he should be standing at the front door, welcoming each person and asking if they’d like a tour.
Playing Casper the Unfriendly Ghost wouldn’t help his imploding reputation. Even if people did feel sympathy after hearing his wife had cheated on him with his secretary.
That will never be me.
“Have you seen Harry?” I asked a young guy hovering by the stairs.
He shook his head and went back to chatting with a brunette.
A group of brokers from Triple Two were conversing in the dining room.
“Any of you guys seen the listing agent—Harry?” I asked.
They shrugged and continued talking.
Fuck it, I decided, marching up the stairs. I’ll take my own tour.
* * *
In fact, I’ll take this house as my own, I told myself as I toured the top four floors of the brownstone, forgetting all my client’s requirements and concentrating on my own for five minutes.
This house was the type I’d revered as a kid who’d had nothing in New Jersey. My middle-grade teacher Mrs. Dundas had brought Real Homes in to read during her lunch break. During recess, I’d snuck back inside, and she’d caught me flicking through it.
After that day, she’d let me take them home.
Our foster mother had found the collection under my bed a few months later, along with a scrapbook filled with cut-out pictures of my coveted brownstone.
She’d mocked me on my return from school that day, swinging the scrapbook in front of my face. “People like you don’t live in places like this,” she’d said with narrowed eyes.
Our foster mother buzzed like a fly around the living room—the more you tried to swat it, the louder and more evasive it became. It was best to ignore her until she flitted into another room.
I’ll show you, I’d replied in my head as she’d ambled out the room, puffing on her menthol cigarette.
Now, after years of saving every commission check, my dream was almost within reach. The Crystal could make it a reality five years faster than planned.
The claw-foot tub in the primary suite would be filled with lavender-scented bubbles where I could soak off my sixteen-hour day and read Rich Dad, Poor Dad for the ninth time. I’d eat a bagel in the cozy sun-filled kitchen under its coffered ceilings before Viv picked me up in the morning.
Down in the renovated brickwork cellar, my jaw dropped as I explored the gym, the full bar, and the ten-seat movie theatre with red velvet walls. This is where I’d relax after a hundred-hour work week.
But the part I most anticipated was the pool. My last port of call.
The frosted glass door swung open with a light touch, and I gasped. The twenty-foot rectangle of azure water contrasted with the glossy black tiles. A royal-blue shade glowed from the cove lighting around the edges of the ceiling.
A sexy space. Sultry. It surpassed the professional pictures I’d drooled over on my phone. Ashley would love it.
I loved it. One day, I reminded myself, running my hand along the wall.
In my reverie, I’d missed the man with spiky brown hair, wearing a white cotton vest marked with a red cross and matching red shorts, shifting a patio table and chairs a little to the left at the far end of the pool.
He turned at my polite cough. “Sorry, just making sure the place looked presentable. Welcome.” He smiled, waving a golden forearm as he approached. His top lifted, and the sight of the V-shaped muscle leading down to his groin ignited a firework in my stomach.
You broke up with someone less than two hours ago, I admonished myself. Control yourself.
“I think you took a wrong turn somewhere. This isn’t Baywatch.” I arched my back as he stopped in front of me. Keep your eyes on his nose. Don’t look down.
He let out a droll laugh. “So you wouldn’t let me jump in and save you?”
Up close I noticed the hair at his temples was sprinkled with grey, but the unwrinkled skin and good posture showed he couldn’t be older than forty. Why didn’t he dye it? In Manhattan real estate the men could be vainer than the women.
“This is New York. I’ve been swimming in the deep end for a long time,” I told him, heat radiating in my Victoria’s Secret No-Show panties.
“Well, you never know. Might be nice to have someone around in case you go under.” His moss-green eyes smoldered under the dim lights. What is that accent?
“So, you’re dressed like this because…?” Ignoring the comforting warmth of his voice, I raked my eyes over his attire again. Both were like a hot toddy on a biting January night.
His dark eyebrows raised. “Because of the pool.”
My head tilted to the left. “What—you, like, work here?”
“For today.”
Hot. It’s too hot in here. I forced my eyes away from his. “Someone thought a bunch of uptight New York agents would dive into a pool at an open house?”
“Does it make you want to jump in?”
Is he flirting with me or trying to ascertain if I’m a jump risk? Either way, I’ll take it.
“It makes me wanna do a lot of things.” I realized how sleazy it sounded once the words hit the air in my husky tone.
Throw yourself in the pool. Stop saying stupid shit.
His clean-shaven jaw dropped.
“I-I didn’t mean it like… that,” I stuttered, forcing my eyes away from his shorts. They left little to my depraved imagination. Stay professional. “I meant it makes me love it even more.”
He smirked. “Guess you should put an offer in.” He dropped the R, and I found it adorable.
My heel slipped as I sauntered away from him along the pool edge, and I grabbed for the safety of a white sun lounger, dropping my handbag onto it. “Nah, it’s overpriced.”
Pretend that didn’t happen.
“This is overpriced?” He trailed behind, making me feel like an antelope being stalked by a lion.
I bet he’d be good at tearing my shirt off and ravaging me.
“For this area? Of course. No one is paying twenty million for this. Even with the pool, it’s worth sixteen at the most. The agent who decided that price is a moron who didn’t do his research.”
Mr. Lifeguard crossed his arms. “You should tell him that.”
Sweat pooled on my top lip. “I’d be happy to if I could fucking find him. Who throws an open house and doesn’t take people around or introduce themselves?”
He nodded and closed the distance between us, stealthy even in flip-flops. “A moron.”
I clapped. “See? Even someone who’s not in the industry gets it. No offense—you’re doing a better job than he would, I’m sure.”
He smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Scarlett Munroe.”
His hand grasped mine. “Jack Shane, moron and listing agent.”
Of course—the way he pronounced his Rs. A tell-tale sign of a Boston accent.
Did a heart attack start in the right or left arm? Both were beginning to feel numb as I dropped his sinewy hand. “You’re the listing agent?”
“That’s right.”
His smile looked more wolfish in the blue light. I felt like the prey he planned on ripping limb from limb.
It’s the left arm. My left arm is going numb.
“Harry Schwartz is supposed to be the listing agent. What happened?”
“That’s right, Harry was the listing agent. Until last night. The seller didn’t feel satisfied with Harry’s… style.”
Fuck my life. “And your style is better? Walking around like you’re on a beach in L.A.?” The shriek bounced off the tiles and ricocheted back to my ears. I cannot believe I fantasized about him hunting and devouring me. Eww.
He motioned to the swim float strapped across his chest. “Gimmicks make these things memorable, instead of another open house with cheese and wine.”
“At least you’d have your dignity,” I commented. “When I sold a condo across from the fire station on Eighty-Third, I didn’t dress up like a fireman and twirl around a pole.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing that.”
“Never going to happen. Because I’m a good-enough agent that I don’t need a gimmick.” I cocked my head. “And I don’t need to steal clients.”
He flinched. Bullseye. “I didn’t steal your clients—you lost them. And they approached me.”
Keep your arms at your sides.
“I lost them because you got in their goddamn ear. I’ll bet you have Harry hog-tied in a closet somewhere so you could steal this listing.”
“They approached me,” he reiterated, holding up his hands in protest.
I ignored the way the muscles in his arms flexed, my hackles rising. “So is the costume also to cover up that you’re trying to get over two thousand a square foot for an area where the average is sixteen hundred?”
His jaw set. “That’s why the seller went with me—I’m not scared to push the envelope.”
My teeth ground against each other. “They’ve gone with you because you’ve promised something you will never be able to deliver.”
He took a step toward me. “Says who?”
I took a step forward. “Says me, the most competent person in this place right now.”
For some reason I couldn’t fathom, he laughed. “There’s the famous Scarlett Munroe I’ve heard so much about.”
“Meaning?” I took another step closer, and he stepped back. We were locked in a fucked-up tango.
“Didn’t your mom teach you pride comes before a fall?” He recovered and took a step toward me again.
Anger threatened to choke me. My mother didn’t teach me anything. “I think you need a few lessons in Real Estate 101.”
In heels, I stood at six feet, but I still needed to tilt my head back to stare at him. Our faces were so close I could almost taste the salt in the sweat running down his Adam’s apple.
“Face it, Munroe. You’re not gonna be on top much longer,” he taunted.
“Said every man who ever tried to screw me,” I mocked.
“Oh, you would know if I screwed you,” he whispered close to my ear. “But we’ll see who lands The Crystal, won’t we?”
My heart rate spiked at the feeling of his breath falling on my neck. “Guess so.”
Both of us misjudged the direction the other intended to go as we tried to storm off. When we slammed into each other, I felt my left heel snap. As my body weight shifted, I grabbed for his arm to catch myself, causing him to lose his footing—which sent us both headfirst into the ice-cold pool.
I floundered underwater. They want over twenty million dollars, and they can’t even heat it?
When we broke the surface, we both screamed, “My phone!” in unison.
Followed by, “That was your fault!”
We swam to opposite sides and hoisted ourselves out. Alternating between puffing and shivering, we scrambled in our pockets so we could double-check that our new iPhones were indeed waterproof as promised.
Thank you, Apple.
Jack pointed to the heel I still wore. “You’re wearing ridiculous fuckin’ shoes.”
My nude patent Jimmy Choos were the pride of my wardrobe. They went with everything. I’d treated myself after my first big commission check and saved the rest. “You’re wearing old-man flip-flops! I know your hair’s turning grey but orthotics?”
Jack pulled off his white tank top, wrung it out, and dropped it onto a pool lounger before opening a cabinet full of towels. A warmth pooled between my thighs as the hard lines of his six-pack seemed to scowl at me. He threw a white towel in my direction, grabbed another, and slung it around his shoulders before slamming the cabinet shut.
His eyes drifted down to my shirt and back up. “You should wipe your eyes before you go upstairs. Wouldn’t wanna scare people off.”
The blue satin blouse that matched my eyes clung to my skin. Please don’t let my nipples be showing.
“You’re a dick,” I growled.
“You’re overrated,” he replied, toweling his hair.
Two things were on my mind as I schlepped upstairs and made for the front door with the towel over my head:
1. Land The Crystal at any cost.
2. Ruin Jack Shane.