I spent my first official day at Mayfield Realties following Jett in and out of meetings, redirecting countless phone calls, and spurning at least twice that many, while familiarizing myself with Jett’s important accounts. Everyone’s eyes had been on the boss’s new personal assistant, so naturally he kept his hands off me. By the end of the day, I had barely had time to look at the newest developments in the Lucazzone case. I wanted to tackle the case because the sooner I was finished, the more I could prove that I deserved this position, and that Jett had made the right decision by hiring me.

Although I loved spending time with him, I was thankful when Jett announced he’d be caught in an early business dinner, and would have to leave now to make it on time across town in the late afternoon traffic.

After kissing me goodbye, he promised to text as soon as dinner was finished. I grabbed another cup of coffee, spent a few minutes chatting with Emma, and then returned to my office and the file waiting on my desk. I took a sip of my coffee, ready to get engrossed in my first multi-million dollar project, when a red stamp caught my attention. I almost spit out my coffee as I read the two words in capital letters: UNDER OFFER.

The old man had finally decided to sell. My gaze fell on the price.

Forty million.

Holy shit.

Twenty million more than planned.

Luxury estates weren’t my specialty field, but even I could see the estate wasn’t worth it. The company would make a loss so big it could swallow up Alaska. Why would Jett take such a risk? I took a deep breath to steady the nervous flutter in my stomach.

It might not be my job to advise him on how to conduct business, but I sure wouldn’t shut up and let him make such a brainless move. The contracts weren’t signed yet, so we could still get out of it. Ignoring the incoming call, I picked up my cell and speed-dialed Jett’s number. He picked up on the first ring.

“Hey, pretty. What’s up?”

Taking a deep breath, I mentally prepared my words. He was a successful business mogul who’d take crap from no one. After pondering for two seconds, I decided being direct and to the point was the best way to go. “I just had a look at the Lucazzone file and while I see the estate’s potential, I feel it’s my duty to tell you that the price is too high.”

Silence, then, “Brooke, the decision has been made. Leave it at that.” His tone was sharp, leaving no room for discussion.

“But—” I brushed my hair off my face. This was the real Jett Mayfield. The one that did as he pleased. But hadn’t he said he hired me for my attitude? And did he not tell me he believed in me and in my talents? Wasn’t that the reason why he entrusted me with the case in the first place? “It’s too much, Jett. You’ll be in the red. Trust me on this one.”

He let out an annoyed sigh. “We need to get this deal, no matter what.”

“But…you’re risking losing millions and I don’t understand why. The place is not worth that much money.”

“You don’t need to. I’m giving the all clear and it’s happening. That’s my final word. Anything else I can do for you, Brooke?” He was brushing me off like an annoying fly. My temper flared, and I threw my hands up in exasperation. Jett Mayfield was stubborn, I got that, but unless he had a pretty good motive for moving forward with the acquisition, his obstinacy was unfounded, and I was hell bent on making him aware of it.

“I was a realtor before you hired me. And a pretty good one, you said so yourself.” I paused, waiting for his reaction—any reaction—but it didn’t come. So I continued. “The airport is only an hour away, meaning there’s bound to be some noise. The view is stunning but it’s just one lake. You’d have to divide the waterfront land into ten, which doesn’t leave much space for spreading out your beach towel, let alone go water skiing and sailing, and what else rich people do. It’s a mistake. It’s far too—”

He cut me off. “Brooke.” He wasn’t listening. How the hell could I make him pay attention? I began to type furiously on my computer, opening accounts to quote examples of asking prices so I could finally drive my point home. I wasn’t willing to give up. Not in this matter. I wasn’t going to lose the company forty million and risk sending them into a large black hole.

 “I’m paying out of my pocket,” Jett said so low, I wasn’t sure I heard him right.

My hand froze over my keyboard as my brain fought to grasp the meaning of his words. He had that much money in his back account? And he could part with it just like that, in the blink of an eye? I knew he was rich, but I never realized to what extent.

I shook my head in disbelief at how easily he could throw money out the window. It was his money, and he had a right to do with it as he pleased, but still. There was no guarantee he’d make a profit. There wasn’t even a fifty-fifty chance he’d earn his investment back. He was more likely to make a loss than if he tried his hand at gambling.

“But why?” I tried to control my voice as I tried to rack my brain for the best reason. “You’re acquiring a potential murderer’s estate.”

“My father wants it. Thinks he can make a fortune in Europe. I have no choice.”

“Does he know you’re spending this much money?” I don’t know what made me ask that question. Probably my desperate subconscious clinging to any possible argument that could change his mind. The longer we talked this over, the more he might be inclined to change his decision. Regardless of whether our relationship lasted, I cared about him enough to try to stop him from making stupid mistakes. And buying this place was a mistake, whether he wanted to acknowledge it, or not.

“Does he know, Jett?” I asked again.

He still continued to hesitate, and in that instant I had my answer.

“Oh. My. God,” I said, burying my head in my hands. “You haven’t told him.”

“My father wants this estate and I’m getting it for him. Apart from you and my lawyers, no one knows how much I’m paying and I’d like to keep the actual price undisclosed,” Jett said. “Look, I wish I could explain but can we do this another time? I’ll take you to dinner tomorrow and then we can talk some more.”

“But—”

He cut me off again. “No, Brooke. I’m in a meeting and the clients are waiting. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay,” I whispered, but the line was already dead. I closed the file and locked it away in my cabinet, my mind circling around the grave edge in Jett’s tone.

The strain in his voice didn’t go unnoticed. Maybe he was stressed, or maybe worried. Either way, he was being stubborn about the whole situation. For the first time I wondered whether there was more to that estate that Jett didn’t tell me.

***

I arrived at the café with ten minutes to spare and parked near the entrance where I could both keep an eye on my car and make a fast exit if need be. It didn’t surprise me that the place was empty. Most people were either still at work or stuck in rush hour traffic. Signaling the barista to take my order in a few minutes, I slumped into my usual spot at a four-seat table and fished out my cell to place it on the table so I wouldn’t miss an important call or text message.

Heart Strings Café opened in my first year of college. I discovered it when Sylvie tried to hook me up with a blind date and the guy invited me to meet him here. The place hadn’t changed one bit: it was small but flamboyant, carrying the colored furniture and checkerboard tile floor trademark of the retro sixties. I loved this place, not just the food but the whole Night Fever atmosphere, and tried to come here often. Taking in the vintage records on the vintage harvest gold colored wall, I realized this might not be the right place to meet a lawyer from London.

Too late for that.

I spent the next few minutes in edgy silence, alternating between watching my car through the window, and watching the door. At six sharp, a tall guy carrying a briefcase walked in and stopped in the doorway to scan the café. Given the fact that there was no one in here but me and an elderly couple, my chances of being overlooked were pretty slim, and yet for some reason I found myself standing and waving him over.

Jake Clarkson was a tall man in his forties with sandy hair, a strong jaw, and sharp, gray-blue eyes. His tailored suit fit him to perfection as he stretched out a manicured hand to greet me.

“Miss Stewart. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Brooke,” I offered, returning his confident smile, and pointed at the seat opposite from mine. “Please.”

“Thank you. Please call me Jake.” He lowered himself into the plush chair and undid the first button of his suit jacket, as though he wanted to infuse a sense of ease into this meeting but not too much. My gaze followed him as he pulled a few sheets out of his leather briefcase and placed them neatly in front of him, resting an expensive-looking pen on top of them.

“Good,” he said by means of starting the actual conversation.

The air was charged with foreboding, which I attributed to the fact that lawyers scared the crap out of me. I knew my fear was unfounded, and yet I couldn’t help the slight tremble of my hands.

The waiter appeared, and we ordered—a tall latte for me, espresso for Jake—and then we waited in silence until our beverages were served. I watched him take a sip of his coffee, indifferent to the heat that would have burned my tongue. My people knowledge was pretty basic, but it was good enough to help me draw the conclusion that Jake Clarkson was a tough guy, and not just when it came to sipping hot beverages.

“My firm has been trying to get in touch with you for two weeks, Brooke.” The thin skin beneath his eyes crinkled, but I didn’t quite feel his amusement.

“I was away on business. Europe.”

“Ah.” He nodded sympathetically, as though he knew exactly what I was talking about.

“I gather you had a nice trip?”

“I did, thank you.” My cheeks flamed up at the sudden memory of lazy days in Jett’s arms. You said you flew over from London?”

He nodded. “Yesterday morning. Your roommate told me when you’d be back, and I decided it might be the best way to share the news.” His gray-blue gaze flickered to life as he pulled out a sheet of paper. My curiosity killing me already, I peered over the rim of my cup.

“Did I win the lottery? Because if I did, I can tell you it must be a mistake. I don’t do lotteries.” I laughed to mask the nervousness in my voice.

“No, Brooke.” He pushed the sheet of paper toward me so I could read it. “It’s a testament.”

“A what?” I frowned, grabbing the paper. My eyes almost jumped out of their sockets as I read the title, and all of a sudden, my vision blurred and I almost fainted. It couldn’t be. But there in front of me, it said: The last will and testament of Alessandro Lucazzone.