Chapter Two

 

Sam eyeballed the couple from behind, mentally calculating the commission she’d make off of them—if they’d ever, please dear God and sonny Jesus, make a decision.

“I don’t know,” the tall, thin man was saying, yet again. “I’m not sure this is exactly—”

“Well, I will tell you the seller has an offer in hand already on this one.” She gestured toward the floor-to-ceiling glass wall with the gleaming, custom in-ground pool on the other side. The blue paint on the bottom reflected on the stark white kitchen walls where they all stood yammering like idiots while her patience wore to a thin, strained thread.

The market was fast-moving. There probably was an offer on the place, she reminded herself, justifying the tiny fib. All in the name of getting these annoying people off the dime.

As she had hoped, the woman’s shoulders stiffened. Her blue eyes gleamed as she placed her expensively manicured, be-ringed hands on the black granite countertop.

“I want it. Let’s make an offer.”

The man shrugged. Sam exhaled in relief. In her long-time job as a successful, multi-million-dollar selling realtor, she had learned long ago to figure out who actually wore the pants in a house-hunting couple and appeal directly to that person’s triggers—whether they involved competitiveness, like this skinny bitch, or something else, like desperation.

“Yes, let’s,” she said, with a huge fake smile as she guided the too-rich-for-their-own-good new-money software millennials to the front door and out into the oppressive heat of a Dallas summer afternoon.

Offer signed, scanned and emailed, earnest money deposit safely locked in the office safe, she slid behind the wheel of her Porsche SUV, cursing the heat when the backs of her legs touched the burning hot leather. She had one more appointment to keep before she could collapse beside her own pool, a glass of wine in her own well-manicured hand.

She’d toyed with calling the guy—a Wade Roberts with a five-acre ranch to sell—and postponing. She was wrung out from the past month’s worth of work. But to do that risked Mr. Wade Roberts picking up some other agent’s business card and calling them. And she would never allow that to happen.

Sam cranked her satellite radio to Alt-Nation and hummed to herself as the expensive hunk of imported metal’s interior cooled. After giving her nose a quick brush of powder, adding a swipe of color to her lips, and her hair a fast flip of her fingers, she gripped the steering wheel with both hands and took a deep breath. Never married, never even seriously involved since her college boyfriend, Sam made it her singular mission to be as successful as she could be, using her own wits, wiles, and apparent kick-ass sales abilities.

This year would be her third as the top seller in her Dallas-based brokerage. She’d closed over three hundred million bucks’ worth of deals in this, her adopted home in Texas. Sam closed her eyes and pictured her bank account balance instead of her huge, empty, lonely condo with its rooftop pool. Somewhat restored, she opened her eyes.

“Okay, Mr. Roberts. Get ready to sell that ranch,” Sam whispered to herself, already planning the marketing strategy for the place. When her bluetooth phone buzzed through the radio, she smiled at the name on the SUV’s screen and touched the answer button on her steering wheel. “Hey, Skye,” she said, putting the vehicle in reverse. “I’m headed out to meet Mr. Wade Roberts now. Thanks again for the referral.”

“No sweat,” her friend said. “Just wanted to check in on that. I also wanted to invite you to our Memorial Day barbecue this weekend. Bring your suit.”

“Oh, okay, sure,” Sam said, already formulating an excuse to get out of it. Sam had met her through Skye’s boyfriend Jax, a firefighter with the Dallas fire department, having met him in a somewhat inauspicious circumstance—a house fire at one of her biggest listings that ended up as arson. An ugly divorce between her clients had almost killed her—literally.

Sam was thrilled Jax had found a woman as awesomely cool as Skye. She’d even gone out with Skye’s brother Dane once, but they’d not hit it off—or rather, she’d dumped him before it got too serious.

Sam was a little envious of Jax and Skye if Sam were being honest with herself. But they were two of the nicest damn people she knew—including herself—in all their parties and whatnot, which were frequent since Skye ran her own cupcake baking and catering business out of a custom kitchen at Jax’s ranch. The woman loved to cook, and they both loved to entertain.

“What’s wrong?” Skye said into the car, interrupting her trip down memory lane.

“Nothing. Tired. This market is nuts. You know, the usual.”

“Sure, okay. Well, listen, do not make any excuses not to come this weekend. I mean it. I know you’re doing that right now.”

Sam chuckled. “Busted. All right, I promise I’ll be there. Now I gotta go and gather my thoughts before I meet my new client.”

“Yeah, about that.”

Sam turned onto the freeway. Mr. Roberts’s ranch was a bit out of the way, so she’d given herself plenty of time to hit traffic on the way there. “What? Tell me now, my friend. Is he a dirty old man? An ogre? A creep?”

“No, no, none of that,” Skye said. Sam heard banging around in the background of the call. “It’s just that . . . well, Jax made me promise to warn you that he’s, um, well, he’s sort of a ladies’ man. If you know what I mean.”

Sam burst out laughing. “Ah, okay, a gigolo. Sweet. I could use one of those. Thanks, times a thousand.”

Skye sighed. “He used to be married to a nurse. Someone he met on the job. He’s the battalion chief for the paramedics, you know. The boss or whatever.”

Sam merged into heavy early-evening traffic, listening carefully for clues as to how to best handle this new client—a client whose ranch could easily sell for a cool three-quarters of a mil, she’d determined already without even looking at it.

“So his wife, she had an affair with a doctor and dumped Wade. It was a real nasty breakup. Everyone at DFR was sweating whether or not Wade would flat out murder the guy, or kill himself, or just go on some kind of a rampage. He’s usually pretty calm. Now, he seems determined to fuck his way through Dallas, one off-weekend at a time.”

“Wow. Sounds like a real winner. How old is he?”

“I don’t know. Late thirties, maybe?”

“No kids, I hope.”

“No kids. Jax says he works too much. But he’s been doing that for years, too. It’s how he got promoted so fast.”

“All right. Got it. Hero rescuer gets dumped by bitchy, evil, social climbing nurse, turns into Dallas Fire and Rescue’s very own, in-house stud. Like I said, sounds like a winner.”

“I’m supposed to give you a heads up. Jax is worried he’ll hit on you, and you’ll bolt.”

“Bolt? Me? Away from a potential sale that big? Don’t worry, I can handle the poor little broken-hearted stud muffin. But tell Jax thanks for his concern.”

“I told him you’d say that.”

“I’ve got this, Skye, really. I’ll do my thing, evaluate the property, offer a price opinion and a marketing plan. Mr. Roberts and I will be all business, I assure you.”

“He told me you’d say that too. Listen, I think you might consider—”

“Stop right there. I told you both once before—stop worrying about my love life. I’m too busy working and making my own money to worry about that shit.”

Skye sighed. The noises behind her ramped up. Sam heard someone call her friend’s name. “Go on. Make some cupcakes for the governor or something. Leave this to me.”

“You could at least, I don’t know, get laid or something.”

Sam rolled her eyes as she pressed the accelerator of the hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar German-made hunk of over-engineered metal. She loved the feeling she got when the thing would roar under the hood. It reminded Sam she’d bought it herself, with her own dough, trading in her BMW five series sedan as a down payment. Sam knew she was deflecting—turning her single, dateless, sexless self into a selling machine, acquiring stuff like this car as a way of filling the void. She shook her head. No time for self psycho-analysis. She had a new ranch to list.

“I’m fine, Skye. Stop mothering me.”

“It’s just ’cause I love ya. Call me after you’re done out there. I wanna know what you think of him.”

“Sure, okay. Bye.” She ended the call, irritated by how close her friend always got to the core of her innate, self-proscribed isolation. She was happy, she repeated to herself for the millionth time. She didn’t need a man.

“You could get laid or something.” Skye’s half-joke hit her brain. Sam shook her head, unwilling to admit, even to herself, that when she turned thirty next month, she’d have gone without sex for over five years.

The navigation system dinged, indicating her next turn. She sighed, suddenly so exhausted, her vision went wonky for a few seconds as she turned onto the dirt road that would lead her to her new client—Mister Wade Roberts, Mister Lonely Hearts, God’s Gift to Dallas Single Women.

The dust was atrocious. She went as slow as she could, trying to keep the worst of it at bay. But after a half mile on her two-mile trek down the road to Mr. Roberts’s ranch, the fine granules of dirt were wafting into the Porsche’s cabin. With a curse, she cranked on the reverse circulation and cracked the windows, sneezing and coughing her way through the last few thousand feet before she got to the place.

She stopped in front of the long drive that led up a slight slope to the left of a huge expanse of deep green grass. Sprinkler system, she thought, adding that to her mental list of attributes. The trees along the last few feet were an alternating flowering pear and apple—the welcoming, tree-lined, asphalt drive, her inner, always-be-selling agent intoned in her mind. As she crested the hill and pulled into the inner circle in front of the impressive home, she slipped immediately into evaluation mode, noting the architectural shingles, the alternating stone and wood façade, and the massive, double wood and glass front door.

Jax hadn’t told her the place was this nice. Her mind’s calculator clicked away, adding the obviously professional landscaping, the towering trees at the rear of the property, and the dark red barn and paddock to the far left of the attached, three-car garage.

She got out, bringing nothing but her business card and sunglasses. Sam prided herself on her ability to make mental lists of work to be done, of improvements already made, ready to regurgitate them all into a report she’d use to justify her final price recommendation.

She never wrote anything down at these first meetings. It was too distracting. She needed to spend time bonding with her new client, and a pen and paper or a computer tablet only served as a barrier to that goal.

When no one answered after she rang the doorbell three times, a small thrill of annoyance hit her brain. She glanced at her Rolex—a recent addition to her vast collection of jewelry—to confirm that she wasn’t too early. With a sigh, she headed down the wide stone steps back to her car, shielding her eyes against the sun’s intense glare. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades under the silk blouse.

“Shit,” she muttered under breath, deciding to take a look around the exterior until Mr. Roberts deigned to grace her with his presence. Wishing she’d brought her flat sandals since the cream-colored Jimmy Choos really didn’t lend themselves to a stomp around the yard, she squared her shoulders and headed around the side of the house.

A solid twenty minutes later—twenty minutes past the appointment she’d set with him the week before—Sam leaned against the split rails of the fence surrounding the empty paddock. She’d already traipsed across the stone back patio with its custom pool and hot tub, the exterior kitchen that made the one at the house she just sold look like something from IKEA, the casually planned, yet obviously expensive landscaping. Her mental calculator whirred like mad, especially since she’d taken the liberty of peeking through the French doors into the jaw-dropping kitchen.

A solid mil and a half, maybe three-quarters, she’d decided with a sigh, wiping the sweat off her forehead. If the damn man would show up and let her in, she could make that final determination. Her irritation bloomed into full blown anger as the clock ticked its way to thirty, then thirty-five minutes past their appointment time.

“Screw this,” she muttered under her breath as she made her way back around the side of the house, her five-inch, thousand-dollar heels sinking into the soft, well-tended sod. “Inconsiderate jerk.”

The distinctive sound of a female giggle hit her ears, stopping Sam in her tracks. The giggle turned into a squeal and ended with a loud splash. Sam clenched her fists, reversed her trajectory, and headed for the pool, her mind aflame with self-righteous fury.

As she turned the corner of the house and emerged from behind the row of bushes surrounding the patio, she froze again. The sight that met her eyes was not one she had expected. Although, later, she’d admit she didn’t know what to expect, especially after Skye’s warning about Wade’s proclivities.

As she watched, head pounding from the heat, face slick with sweat, a male shape emerged from the pool, pulling itself up on two massive, muscular arms revealing a tight, firm and utterly bare ass and two long, strong legs. The rear view was enough to make her stumble back with her hand to her damp throat.

The man shook his head like a dog, sending water droplets onto the patio surface. His hair looked to be dark blond, cut short, as per his work’s regulations, no doubt. His shoulders were the widest she had ever seen in her life.

He was like some kind of a water god, and she bit her lip as he kept his back to her and the pool. Water sluiced off his tanned skin. Droplets beaded up on the eye-popping terrain of his body. Sam hesitated, ready to call out and warn him that she was there and that maybe he shouldn’t turn around to face her.

A female voice called out something, but the roaring in Sam’s ears was too loud to hear it. The man—her new client, she could only assume—ignored the voice and started walking toward the open French doors.

“Way—ade . . .” The voice called, drawing his name out to two syllables. He kept walking away from it, from the pool, from Sam’s gawking eyes. “Come back here.”

Wade gave a dismissive wave of his arm and said something in a low, rumbling growl that made the hair on the back of Sam’s neck stand up. Her whole body had broken out in a cold sweat as she backed away, her heels continuing to sink into the grass. She was furious at the man but too unnerved by the sight of his impressive bare rear view to do anything but plan her escape.

At the last minute, the man turned. Sam let out an involuntary squeak of protest and averted her gaze . . . about three seconds too late.

Holy shit. Holy, well-endowed Mr. Lonely Hearts, she thought, as her left ankle buckled under her and she dropped to her knees in the grass.

“Hey,” the man called. “Who’s there?”

“Sam. The Realtor,” she said as she scrambled to her feet and then ran full out to her SUV. “We had an appointment, you exhibitionist jackass.”

By the time she’d made it to her car, gotten in and cranked the key, Wade was standing by her window, knocking on it, his craggy, distinctive face close enough so she could see the stubble on his jaw. And his broad, smart-alecky smile.

“Beat it,” she said, putting the car in gear.

“No, no, I’m sorry. I totally forgot.”

“Obviously.” She kept her gaze trained ahead, even as the memory of his front view seared her retinas.

“Come on, Realtor lady. I’m sorry. Seriously.”

“No, I’ll come back another time. When you don’t have company, perhaps.”

He chuckled. The sound of it forced an unwelcome, involuntary, shiver through her. She clenched her jaw. “Move away from my car,” she said. “Call me when you’re serious about selling.” Without waiting for him to move, she inched the vehicle forward.

Unable to stop herself, she glanced in the rearview mirror before the driveway curved away. Wade Roberts stood, naked as the day he was born, his cut torso like something on a romance novel cover, with arms crossed, brow creased, and his . . . his penis just hanging there. Hanging there low, she noted with another bite to her lip and a shiver of something she refused to accept as what it was—core-melting lust.