Detecting sarcasm rather than humor in the remark, she had to bite back an instinctive angry retort. He had an apartment. She needed one. It was no time to look around with the hauteur of Bette Davis and declare, “What a dump,” much less deliver a lecture on manners to the hired help.
She held up the paper instead. “I’ve come about the apartment. May I see it?”
With a wide smile punctuated by dimples, he gave a grand, sweeping gesture. “Be my guest.”
Gabrielle stepped cautiously inside and took a slow survey of the empty room. She had difficulty registering the apartment’s features because the man stood right behind her, watching her every move. Where she went, he followed, first with his eyes, then by ambling along behind. Since he couldn’t possibly be concerned about theft, she had to assume he was doing it to rattle her.
It was working. Quite well, in fact. She tried to shake off the feeling with common sense. With her whole life off-kilter, the last thing she needed was an instantaneous physical attraction to a man of apparently limited means and ambition. A handyman, for heaven’s sake. The members of the Junior League of Charleston would die laughing at the notion of Senator Graham Clayton’s daughter having palpitations over a handyman.
“Do you know anything about the building?” she asked when she’d seen the living room and two tiny bedrooms. She’d been right about the fireplace. It was small, but suggestive of cozy winter evenings. She was less hopeful about the floor. It was wood all right, but paint-spattered, scuffed and marred by several generations of spills. It would require extensive elbow grease, sanding and quite possibly a miracle to restore it.
“What did you want to know about the building?”
“When was the last time an exterminator was here?”
He shrugged doubtfully. “There’s always a can of Raid.”
One blond brow arched significantly. “I see.” She glanced once more around the empty living room. “The ad said furnished.”
“It will be.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Whenever I get finished with the work.”
The man obviously had a careless disregard for timetables. To a woman whose calendar had always been carefully scheduled in fifteen-minute increments such a blasé attitude was both irritating and irresponsible. “When exactly will it be available?” she persisted. “I’m facing a deadline.”
“An anxious client?”
She stared at him blankly. “Client?”
“You’re a real estate agent, right? If you want to buy, it’s not for sale. If you have someone who wants to rent, I’d prefer to deal direct. Sorry, no agents.”
“I’m not in real estate. I’m looking for myself. To rent,” she amended, in case he was worried that she was planning to buy the property and fire the help—starting with him.
Instead of putting his mind at ease, though, she seemed to have astonished him. “You actually want to live here yourself?”
“Why not?” she said defensively, though she knew perfectly well what he meant. “It’s an apartment. I need a place to live.”
“Try Park Avenue.”
“I did,” she admitted ruefully. “The price is right here.”
“So,” he said, conducting a more thoughtful survey, “the lady’s down on her luck.” There was little sympathy in his voice, only mild curiosity.
She drew herself up with dignity and tried to wilt him with a haughty stare. “Temporarily.”
The stare had no discernible effect. “Does that mean you’ll be moving out the minute you get a few bucks together?”
She considered lying, but figured he’d never believe her if she did. There was a disconcertingly astute gleam in his eyes—one that was all too typical of corporate sharks.
“Yes,” she said finally.
“Then why would I want to rent to you?”
“I’m here. I’ve got the money.” At least for the first month, she amended to herself.
“This is New York, sweetheart. You’re not the first person to stop by and you won’t be the last.”
“Are you holding out for the highest bidder?”
“Maybe. What’re you offering?”
The speculative look in his eyes brought a flush to Gabrielle’s normally pale complexion. This time she did settle her coat more protectively around her and headed for the door. In the past few months she’d sacrificed just about everything but her pride and her dignity. She wasn’t about to lose those, as well.
“Never mind,” she said on her way out. “I don’t think this would work out.”
He caught up with her before she could reach the door. “I’m sorry,” he said with what sounded like total sincerity. She studied his expression, assessing him as she might a prospective investor. His eyes, for once, were serious, which did the strangest things to her ability to breathe. He touched her sleeve. “Please. Accept my apology. If you want the place, it’s yours.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been through a few rough times myself.”
The suddenly sympathetic, contrite demeanor made her extraordinarily suspicious. Leopards rarely changed their spots in the blink of an eye. This leopard was also shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. She waited for his next move.
“There is one thing you should know about first, though,” he said finally.
“Which is?”
“The bathroom.”
Despite herself, she grinned at his cautious tone. “I’m familiar with the concept. I assume this one has all the usual amenities.”
“More or less,” he said, intriguing her as he beckoned and headed toward the opposite end of the living room. “Through here.”
She walked into a narrow kitchen with peeling wallpaper and yellowed linoleum and came to a halt, her mouth dropping open. “I hope that’s a planter,” she murmured, staring at the large, claw-footed ceramic tub in the middle of the room, then at her guide. He was laughing.
“Nope. That’s the tub all right. It’s more convenient to the stove in here.”
“The stove?” she repeated weakly.
“In case the hot water runs out and you…”
“I get the picture. Where’s the rest of it?”
“It?”
“The bathroom.”
“Through that door.”
Deciding it wouldn’t be wise to take anything else for granted, Gabrielle peeked through the door. Thankfully there were no more surprises. The sink and toilet appeared old, but functional—she checked just to be sure—and the room was
