Dirty Money

  And that makes me nervous. Not because I think he’ll do anything untoward . . . but because he’s going to be alone with me and we’re going to talk. And whenever we talk? He flirts. And I’m getting really bad at resisting his flirting.

  I hope this house is nice. I hope it’s exactly what he wants so I can lock him down into escrow, get an advance prior to closing, and then I can keep him at arm’s length. That is the ideal situation. It’ll solve my money problems, my Boone problems, all my problems. I don’t need a romantic entanglement right now, not when I should be focusing every moment on scrounging more money for my sister’s college education.

  Instead, I’m spending far too much time fussing with my appearance. I wear my hair in a smooth bun and make sure it’s pinned tight. I leave a lock of hair free to dangle at my brow, just because it looks a little disheveled and seductive . . . and then I tuck it back in because I don’t want to be seductive.

  Or do I?

  I’m a mess. I shouldn’t want to be sexy for a client. That should be the last thing on my mind. But then again, Boone’s not quite like any other client. He’s also not like any other man I’ve ever met. There’s something incredibly self-assured about him, and yet at the same time, there’s a core of vulnerability. He wants respect for his hard work, but he doesn’t want to change who he is. That’s why he wants the house . . . and me.

  And he wants me because in his eyes, I’m “classy.” A lady. Boy, he’s got me pegged all wrong.

  I consider that as I get dressed for our meeting in a dark navy jacketed suit. The skirt on this one is a little short and tight, and that, of course, is not why I’m picking it . . . It’s for the sexy red stilettos that go perfect with it. They say the clothes make the man—or woman—and whenever I meet a client, I dress to the nines. It doesn’t matter if they’re buying a trailer or a mansion; I have to look the part. I put on a silk slip to go under the jacket, a string of my favorite fake pearls, and then smooth my bun. It’s hot as Hades in Texas today, so I skip the pantyhose. That’s my only concession to not looking as “classy” as I could.

  Truth is, I’m not classy. I’m a girl that never went to college. I’m a girl that flipped burgers and scooped ice cream until she got her realtor’s license. I grew up in a trailer—heck, I still live there. My dad’s in prison. My mom is god knows where. If he thinks I’m “cultured” it’s because of my clothes, or the fact that I do my best to look like I belong at hoity-toity Three Jacks Real Estate. Truth is, I’m a square peg in a round hole desperately trying to find a way to fit in, just like him.

  Maybe I just hide it better. Funny how he refuses to change his appearance and that’s the only thing I can control when it comes to my situation.

  I smooth my hands down my skirt, put in a pair of fake pearl earrings, and then grab my purse. I head straight for the office and grab my folder full of comps and the keys to one of the Lincoln Town Cars that the company insists we use for clients. I get in the car and pop open an air freshener (eucalyptus) and a CD of music (violins). I run a lint brush over the seats and floorboards to pick up any stray crumbs, wipe down the dash to ensure there’s no dust, and grab two bottles of ice-cold water. I’m ready. It’s time to go.

  I glance at my phone’s clock. Two minutes until meeting time. It’s swelteringly hot and I don’t want my makeup to be ruined by sweat, so I start the car to cool off the interior and think about Boone. Off-limits, totally-a-bad-idea Boone who my sister would be truly pissed to find out that I’m going to go ahead and take the commission from anyhow. She thinks I should play it completely safe and aboveboard as a realtor . . . but I also don’t think she realizes just how desperate our financial situation is. That’s my own fault, too; I’ve shielded her from everything upsetting because I want her to have the easy, carefree college experience that I never did.

  So I’m going to take Boone’s money.

  And his business.

  And his flirting. I’m not going to let it go anywhere, but I’ll play along. That won’t be too hard, seeing as how I’m weirdly attracted to the guy. Actually, maybe it’s not so weird. He’s blue collar, and I am, too, though I’m trying desperately to change to white collar. He says and does what he wants, and those are traits I admire, given that I rarely get to do either. Is he a little rough around the edges? Yeah.

  Okay, he’s a lot rough around the edges. He’s also unshaven and his hair is long and shaggy. He wears T-shirts that—if clean—have holes at the collar and look like they’ve seen better days. He likes trucker caps instead of business suits.

  But he’s also got an amazing laugh and a devilishly handsome smile. And big, strong, tanned hands. And—

  Someone raps on my car window, right at eye level.

  I jump, then look over to see Boone in a white, paint-splattered T-shirt, jeans, and his favorite trucker cap. He grins at me through the wild bristle of his beard.

  I roll down the power window a few inches. “You scared me. I didn’t hear you over the air conditioner.”

  He squints up at the cloudless sky. “Yeah, it’s a hot one. You ready to go?”

  “I’ll drive,” I tell him, indicating my passenger seat. “You’re my guest today. Hop in.”

  Boone gets into the car with me and a moment later, he waves a bottle of champagne under my nose. “Brought us refreshments.”

  I look over at him, surprised. “I can’t drink while driving. That’s all you, I’m afraid.”

  He shrugs and tosses the corked bottle into the backseat of the car. “I ain’t much for the fizzy shit. Bought it to impress you.”

  “Or get me drunk?” I can’t help but tease as I pull out of the parking lot and into the busy downtown streets.

  Boone snorts. “Why? I like my women responsive and willing.”

  “And do you generally have a lot of women?” Shit, why did I have to go and ask that? Am I stupid? I must be stupid. I don’t care. I really don’t. Really. Of course, my brain’s not buying that any more than my racing heart is.

  “Nope,” he says slowly. “It’s mostly business for me. Haven’t dated anyone in years.”

  “Not even with all your billions?” I tease.

  “’Specially not after that. Too much work to do and not enough hours in the day to do it.”

  “Huh.”

  “What, huh? What’s that mean?”

  I shake my head and ease the car onto the entrance ramp of the highway. “Just surprised that you aren’t much of a ladies’ man, given how hard you’ve been hitting on me.”

  “That’s because I finally found what I really want and I don’t plan on letting it get away from me.” There’s a teasing note in his voice to take the seriousness out of the statement, but it still gives me shivers.

  Weird that I’m glad to hear that he’s not a player. Even though he comes across as a blowhard playboy, knowing that it’s just for me? That makes it all the more flattering and that much harder to resist. “I’m still not sure why you want me when you can have anyone.”

  “You know why.”

  “Because I’m classy?”

  “That, and those legs that you’re showing off under your skirt. And the way you blush when I flirt with you. And the way you’re real polite to everyone even when they treat you like shit. I like everything about you, Ivy.”

  It takes me a moment to unpack what he’s telling me. When did someone treat me like shit in front of him? And how did he notice that I wore my shortest skirt just to show off my legs? I’m sitting down. Or is he guessing that I’d wear something a little business-but-flirty to meet with him?

  I shift in my seat a little, uncomfortable at being confronted but also a little breathless. “This is just business between us.”

  “All right, we’ll go with that idea for now.” He sounds amused again.

  Weirdly enough, that’s another thing I like about Boone. It’s lik
e no matter how hard I push, he knows it’s mostly shyness and not disinterest. He’s not scared off in the slightest by my standoffishness. I tell myself I should be more firm, to put him firmly in the role of client.

  But I can’t seem to do it. Can’t seem to want to do it, either.

  The ride down the highway is pleasant, and we leave the bustle of San Antonio and head north into much flatter, open territory. There’s not a lot of houses out this way, and I personally view that as a plus. It’s a little more remote here, a little more private. We talk about easy, small things, occasionally interrupted by the electronic voice of the map program telling me which exit to take.

  When we get to front entrance of the mansion, I put the car in park and roll down the window to type the code in at the gate. I’m nervous, because up close, the gate looks a little rusty instead of clean, and some of the bushes lining the long fence that wraps around the property are overgrown. The gate creaks open a moment later and then I drive us up the winding driveway to park in front of the house.

  “We’re here,” I announce in my sunniest voice and turn off the car. “What do you think so far?”

  Boone looks over at me, one dark eyebrow going up. “You want me to be polite or you want the truth?”

  “The truth, of course. We’re looking at this house for you.”

  He gazes back up at the house and I try to see it how he might. There’s a few patchy spots on the shingled roof, the landscaping is ragged and overgrown, and there’s a fountain in the courtyard that looks a little greenish. “I think if I’m trying to make someone buy my house for a few million, I’d make it look better.”

  I nod, because I’m in total agreement. “Sometimes the photos are slightly altered to make the house look better. That might be the case here. Do you still want to go in and look around?”

  “And spend time with you? Of course.” His gaze is intense as he watches me. “I’ve got you for the whole afternoon, don’t I?”

  A little shiver ripples through me. “You do.”

  “Well, then I plan on taking advantage of that.”

  We go up the steps to the house and the double doors have a lockbox just below the doorknobs. I type in the code and pull the key out, then unlock the door. Cool air rushes over my skin as the door opens, and I turn to look at Boone. “Clients first.”

  “Age before beauty, you mean?”

  I chuckle. “Whatever gets you in the door, you stubborn man.”

  He grins at me, and it’s clear he’s enjoying our banter. I am, too.

  Boone saunters in, admiring the foyer. The place is completely empty of furniture. They haven’t even staged the place, which surprises me. The rooms echo and there’s a fine layer of dust on the floors, which tells me the owners haven’t been living here for at least a month. The tile below my feet is expensive, if a little dated. There’s a staircase with an out-of-style bannister and ugly beige carpet on the steps. “This is a nice, spacious room,” I tell him, deciding to focus on the positive. “Very open-feeling.”

  “Mmm.” He glances around, and then up. “I like the antlers.”

  Antlers? I look up, and sure enough, there is a gaudy, antlered chandelier over the main entry-hall light. I can’t help the horrified giggle that escapes me. “You like that?”

  “Yeah, it’s real nice. I might do something like that when I get my place. Antlers in every room. Hang some deer heads on the walls and I got myself a real nice place.”

  The idea’s so horrific to me—and so at odds with his need for “class”—that an awful little giggle escapes my throat. I try to smother my laugh but it ends up as a snort, which just makes everything worse.

  His eyes widen and he looks over at me. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I mumble, then press my fingers to my lips, trying to stifle more laughter.

  That slow, dazzlingly sexy smile curves his mouth and I start to feel weak in the knees. “Lemme guess. Antler chandelier isn’t classy?”

  I give my head a little shake and another snorted giggle erupts.

  “What about deer heads?”

  My shoulders start to shake with the force of holding back my laughter.

  “Moose? I got myself an elk, too. I got about thirty trophies, actually. Could hang ’em all in one room and they could all look at each other.” He gestures at the entryway. “Maybe throw down some animal-skin rugs.”

  Now he’s just messing with me. I can’t stop laughing, though. It snorts out of me in the most awful, piglike way, and I can’t seem to hold it in. “That . . . sounds . . . terrible,” I gasp between giggles.

  “You don’t want a buncha dead animals giving you the eye when you walk in? Come on.” The look on his face is pleased, as if he likes making me laugh. “Beats boring old wallpaper.”

  I just keep laughing, and have to hold on to his arm for support. The dusty floor is slick and my shoes are in danger of skidding, and I can’t concentrate with all the laughter pouring out of me. Boone likes my nearness, though. He pulls my hand and tucks it into the crook of his arm and then places his other hand over it, like we’re a couple.

  “Shall I show you the rest of the palace, my lady?” he teases.

  “I’m the realtor here. I should be showing it to you.”

  He raises a dark brow at me and leans in. “Ivy, darlin’, I think we both know just by looking at this that I’m not giving them a dollar, much less two point five million of them.”

  And I start giggling again, because it’s so horrible. He’s so right. This place is awful. Dated, ugly, and overpriced.

  “Let’s go into the main living area, shall we?” he says grandly, and we move forward.

  There’s ugly beige carpeting in every room, but that’s truly cosmetic. The ceilings are high and there’s a hairline crack or two that was photoshopped out in the pictures but I feel the need to point out. The kitchen has nice appliances, but they’re all at least ten years old. The pretty tile is cracked in several places. The wine cellar has broken racks and looks cheap in person. The immense swimming pool in the backyard needs to be regrouted, replastered, and the tile back there is cracked as well. I feel obligated to disclose this information to Boone as we go along, because they’re minor fixes. If he likes the house, we can fix it up and make it like new again—

  And then I catch myself, because I’m acting like it’s going to be our house together. Which is crazy.

  We check out the upstairs, and it’s spacious but equally dated. The view is nice, and I make sure to point that out. Boone’s been rather quiet as we look around, and that worries me. Is he having second thoughts about me? And the house? I mean, it’s clear the house isn’t great, but it’s also just the first one I’ve shown him. There are plenty of other houses out there.

  I worry about all of this as he turns to me as we leave the master bathroom. It’s one of the nicest rooms in the house, with travertine tile and a rain-effect shower. It’s also a good note to end on. “So what do you think? I know it’s big and spacious, but it also needs updating. Your thoughts?”

  “You like it?” Boone asks.

  “Me?”

  He gives me another toe-curling smile. “Yeah. You.”

  “As a realtor?”

  “I was thinking more like as my woman. But sure, let’s say that. Realtor.”

  I can feel a blush heating my cheeks, which seems to happen a lot when I’m around Boone. He makes me flustered. “I think it needs updating, but the bones are good. You could sink some money into this place and it could be really lovely.” He’s watching me intensely, and his hand is still covering mine, and for some reason that makes me exceptionally nervous. I slide out of his grip and pretend to be considering the house again, walking into the next room. “As your realtor, I’d say we could knock the price down a decent chunk in lieu of updates that need to be made, but none of that matters if you don’
t like the place or if it doesn’t fit your vision.”

  “I have one vision,” he drawls. “You know what it is.”

  And I suspect it points back to me. I say nothing, continuing down the stairs. I’m trying to judge this house, I really am, but I’m distracted by his presence. I can feel that he’s waiting for me to say something. Anything. To give the house my vote or to veto it. Like it’s going to be my house and not his.

  I realize again just how serious he is about wanting me. He wants me to like this place as much as he does, because he wants me here with him. Goosebumps and adrenaline rush through me, and I feel breathless. I’m silent as I continue out to the car, my keys in hand. What can I say? If I said yes, I have no doubt that this man would fork out millions of dollars to buy this house, just because I indicated that it met with my approval. I could get a commission in no time. A big one. All I have to do is say yes.

  “You ain’t talkin’,” he murmurs before I can put my hand on the handle of the door, and I realize he’s standing closer to me than I thought.

  I turn around and he’s so near that my breasts practically brush against his chest. Then, I swallow a whimper, because his nearness sends a bolt of electricity through me. Tension crackles between us, thicker and hotter than the sultry Texas air. I feel like I can’t make eye contact, so I stare at his shirt, and notice that I can see muscles bulging underneath the thin T-shirt fabric. Oh, mercy, that’s not any safer to look at. I’m trapped by his nearness, his virility, his sex appeal.

  He leans one hand against the car, right next to my arm. “You’re really bad at answering when I have questions for you, Ivy.” His voice is low and husky and he leans in even closer. “Did you like the house? Should I buy it for you?”

  My gaze flicks to his mouth. His lips are such a contrast against that bushy beard, and I wonder what it’d feel like to kiss him. I’m breathing hard, my skin damp with sweat.

  “Ivy?” he asks again.

  “I’m thinking,” I stammer.

  He brushes a lock of hair off my forehead, the stray “sexy” one I left loose and then tucked back into my bun at the last minute. I knew that rogue strand was a bad idea, because now he’s touching me and I want it . . . and him. Oh god, I really want him. But he wants an elegant girlfriend and that’s not who I really am.