Michaela exchanged a panicked expression with Rachel, who rolled her hands and murmured, “Go on. Tell him.” Before he could decipher the dread he’d noted in her eyes, she returned her attention to the narrow window.
“Yeah, please,” Jordan said to both women. “‘Tell him.’”
“It’s not our listing.”
Shit. “Then why show it to me?” Susan would have his head for going outside the agency.
“I know, I know,” Michaela said. “But it’s a great fit, don’t you think?”
“Well, yes, it would be—if Susan was getting her piece of the action. But if she’s cut out... ” He mocked slicing a knife across his throat. “Crrrrt! We’ll all wind up cut.”
The ladies wouldn’t look him in the eye, which raised the hackles on his nape. Clearly, there was something even scarier they weren’t telling him.
On a hunch, he asked, “Who’s the seller?”
Michaela’s eager expression clouded. “Bella Richards.”
His jaw dropped. “Are you insane?”
Bella Richards was originally one of the two Rs in HRR Corporate Realty, along with senior partner Lori Reynolds, but Bella left the firm in 2010, taking Susan’s husband with her. Susan had never forgiven either of them for the betrayal—a betrayal made doubly worse when they opened their own corporate real estate office in midtown.
“Why don’t we just shoot her in the heart? It would be less painful.”
“Don’t be a wuss, Jordan,” Rachel retorted. “This is business. A site like this one doesn’t come along every day. At least let us do some research. Susan doesn’t have to know we’re shopping. Not yet, anyway.”
And if this deal went sideways, which was bound to happen, how quickly would these two push him under the bus? “Look, I appreciate you trying to help me with this but—”
“But nothing,” Michaela interrupted. “Take a step back. Forget the ugly details. Just tell me the truth. If Susan was onboard, would you be interested in the property?”
He stared at the images again, interior and exterior, then turned his attention back to Michaela. “Probably. But you and I both know there’s no way I can pursue it.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Michaela shrugged. “I might have a way around that large, scary obstacle in the corner office. Give me a day or two. In the meantime, do you want to follow up on this? Set the wheels in motion? I can have Bella send me some specs, if you’re interested.”
He backed away from the desk, the computer, and the siren tempting him toward professional doom. “Not behind Susan’s back, no.”
Her lips twisted, displaying her disappointment. “Brown-noser.”
Let her think what she wanted. While he did owe some loyalty to Susan for hiring him and giving him a chance, his reticence to pursue the building had more to do with empathy. The last thing he wanted to do was get in the middle of a romantic tragedy. He’d barely survived his own.
Chapter 8
At six o’clock, Val knocked on Cam’s office door and poked her head inside. “Time to go.”
Cam looked up from her computer and groaned. “Crap. Already?”
Dinner with Mom and Mr. Ellison waited on this Friday night. Just what she didn’t need at the end of the week she’d endured. After that contentious lunch with Jordan on Tuesday, she’d come back to her office to discover her staff in an uproar. A burglary at their Atlanta location had resulted in the loss of thousands of dollars of school supplies, and with kids set to head back to classrooms within a week, Val, Casey, and several other employees were scrambling to replenish the coffers before Saturday’s giveaway event was scheduled to occur.
Cam had joined in the melee, making phone calls and pulling strings to strong-arm office supply store managers into rushing shipments overnight so the staff down in Georgia could get the new supplies catalogued, stuffed into backpacks, or set up on displays for overextended parents to grab and check off their child’s wish list. On Thursday, she and Val had flown down to help with the event and only arrived back home six hours ago. Now, she faced a critique session with her mom and Mom’s latest husband du jour.
“Shoot me now.” She scrubbed her fingernails through her hair, sending tingles across her scalp, barely registering on her sleep-deprived brain’s Richter scale.
Val shrugged. “Sorry. Can’t do that. You’ll just have to muddle through like the rest of us. As for me...” She yawned wide enough for Cam to check her tonsils from the opposite end of the office. “I’ve got serious relaxation plans tonight. I’m trying a new entrée from my food subscription service, miso-glazed salmon with faro, followed by a hot date with my bathtub with a glass of chilled wine. Then, around nine or so, I’ll put on my comfiest Vanguard nightshirt and settle in bed to watch the true crime network until I fall asleep. Don’t ask me why, but a little murder and mayhem knocks me out faster than sleeping pills.”
God, what Cam wouldn’t give for a night like that tonight! A few hours of solitude and then, blissful sleep. But, no. She had to suffer through several hours of stilted conversation and biting criticism, all while pushing around the steamed vegetables and mock meat on the family Flora Danica china. By the time she arrived home tonight, she’d be too wired and anxious to sleep so she’d pace the floors with her favorite comfort food, a bag of ranch-flavored tortilla chips. Her stomach burned in dread.
She glared at Val with envy. “Rub it in, why dontcha?”
“Get a move on,” Val said with a cheeky grin. “The sooner you go, the sooner you can have it over with.”
She pushed away from her desk and out of the chair before she could come up with some fake illness to back out of tonight’s invitation.
Ninety minutes later, she sat in the formal dining room of her mother’s home and stared at the broccoli and cauliflower—no sauce—decorating two sad-looking broiled chicken breasts and a colorful salad—no dressing—fit for a starving artist’s canvas.
As she sipped icy
