Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
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?