“It’s all the privacy I need, Ms. Summers,” I assure her. It’s a good thing she’s the trophy wife of a Tennessee Titan, because she’s hopeless at closing a done deal on one of Nashville’s most expensive bachelor pads.
“Of course, you are on the top floor, so I suppose people can’t see everything.” Her heavily lined and lashed gaze zeroes in on me. She’s too prudish to say what she’s really thinking. “I suppose you could get some curtains.”
If it wasn’t at the top, passersby could see every inch of this place. Even the master bath boasts a wall of windows so you can see the city from the shower. The only privacy it affords is the walk-in and two toilet closets. In truth, someone would have to be standing in a building opposite us—there are none this tall in the Gulch area—or looking through binoculars. Given what I do, it might be prudent to have a more private space. But that’s the trick with money and crime, it’s not about hiding, it’s about being seen. Show the world what you want them to believe. For me that boils down to showing three things:
I’m rich.
I’m ruthless.
I’m at the top of the food chain.
The penthouse screams all those things.
I turn a crooked smile on her, my mind already half on finding the right people to handle the rest of the details. Shoving my hands in my Armani slacks, I can’t resist playing with her despite already reaching my decision, “I have nothing to hide.”
“Of course, I only mean at night or when you’re in the s-s-shower,” she stammers.
“I don’t mind if someone sees me stepping out of the shower.” I could stop there, but why not complete the dots? “I have nothing to be self-conscious about.”
Her eyes skip down my form, a deep red blush painting her cheeks as she stares. They stop on my crotch, her hands seeking the marble counter behind her for balance.
Yep, you’re doing the math right, sweetheart. I know what she sees because I spend two hours in the gym every morning—a practice drilled into me from basic training and one that’s netted more than a few bodies in my bed. I could have Ms. Summers on the kitchen counter if I wanted. We both know it.
Her lips part, her tongue darting past her brilliant white teeth to lick her coral-painted lower lip. I suppose most men might go for brunette with curls as voluminous as her curves. Maybe I would have in the past. I’ve been around plenty of women like her over the last few years: bored housewives and overlooked trophy wives whose full-time profession is being a showpiece for their wealthy husbands. Husbands who don’t bother to appreciate the effort, leaving them to look elsewhere for fulfillment. They see two things when they look at me: youth and money. If one doesn’t satisfy, the other will. But I don’t want more, I want less. I want bare skin with freckles showing, hair that falls wild down her back, lips naked and waiting to be kissed.
I shift on my feet, my slacks suddenly feeling a bit too strained. A small gasp escapes Ms. Summers, reminding me that I’m here now with a woman who is nothing like that, living in a world where that girl no longer exists. I stifle a groan and stride toward the kitchen.
She whirls around, suddenly and intensely focusing on the appliances. “It’s a chef’s kitchen. That’s a gas oven. Two pantries to your left, one for wine. Then again, you probably don’t cook.”
I don’t bother to correct her on this. In actuality, the gourmet Wolf range and Subzero fridge are two of the things that drew me to this listing. She doesn’t need to know this. No one does. I don’t care if someone sees my naked body or women coming and going, but the fact that I prefer to cook my own meals? That I take my coffee black and fresh-pressed? Those aren’t part of the face I present to the world. I have my reasons.
“There’s access to the building’s fitness center and sauna on the third floor.” I’ve left her to fill in the silence and she’s doing her best to rattle off as many features as her poor, overwhelmed brain can recall.
An incoming call interrupts her sales pitch, and I hold up a finger to silence her. Checking the screen, I can’t help but grin. “I’m sorry,” I say to her. “I’ve been expecting this call. Give me a minute.”
“Of course,” she simpers. “Let me”—
But I’m already walking into the empty bedroom. “Mr. MacLaine, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’ve been meaning to call you,” he says smoothly. Such a politician. “I hope it’s a good time.”
“I’m just wrapping up a real estate deal.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “I’d love to hear about that.”
I bet he would. No doubt he’s wondering how close to home I’m landing. “We should get together.”
“Do you have dinner plans?” He thinks I’m extending an olive branch. He’s too greedy to pause and investigate. He’ll have it in his grubby little hands before he realizes that it’s poison ivy. That’s exactly what I want.
“Tonight?”
“Unless it’s too last minute,” Malcolm says. I imagine him squirming in his Aeron chair, loosening his tie, checking his own calendar.
I enjoy it, but playing coy is a woman’s game. “I was going to grab Hennie’s and head back to the Eaton.”
“I think we can do better than that,” he says.
I seriously doubt he can beat the best hot chicken in Nashville—one of the few reasons I’m actually enjoy being back in the city. But rich people love their pageantry and place settings. Real people prefer good eats. “When?”
“Say seven o’clock at the house?”
“I’ll be there.” I cut off
