Frowning at the sun I inform this Emma with a measured voice, “I want the head of the agency with the best reputation in Atlanta, not one of her overly smiley, fresh-faced mentees hoping to impress her boss, yet who will probably fall short of doing so. Yes, I can see right through you. There’s desperation to impress written all over your face, the way you’re standing. Despite your well-packaged presentation I can see the naïveté in your eyes and I don’t have time for children.”
Her back stiffens as she eyes me. “I’m a grown woman, Mr. Hamilton.”
With a sardonic spark in my tone I point to her cheek. “Your skin is so creamy and ripe I see baby hairs catching in the sunlight along the side of your face here. Even your name is innocent.” I motion up and down her slender body. “You were born to be this. So forgive me when I say that until you hit forty, at the earliest, nobody will take you seriously.”
Surprise flashes hot behind those already warm whiskey eyes, but she instantly masters herself and it cools. “This mansion finished construction on September 7, 1891, when James Malcolm Moody married Elizabeth Mary Louisa O’Connor of the Savannah O’Connors. Because he promised her a big family, them being Catholics, he optimistically made it twelve bedrooms. The ensuite bathrooms were built at the same time making it a historic anomaly and achievement because flushable water closets, as they were called then, were new and only the wealthy, and a handful of elite hotels, could afford to install them. Theirs was considered the most decadent home in Atlanta, as you can imagine, especially since as time travelled on, as it is wont to do, they had only two children who would later prove stubborn about having families of their own. In 1978 when the last Moody died without heirs, a cousin, Paul Blanchard, sold it to the unrelated Lowry family who renovated and restored the property, painstakingly reimagining the historical fixtures, moldings, ivory claw-foot bathtubs in all twelve bathrooms, the wallpaper in the study, library and dining hall, with a slightly more modern take to preserve what was then and blend it with today. The electrical wiring is all modern and the best that money can buy with enough volts combined with discreet solar paneling on the backside of the roof, to power the whole block. The windows have been torn out and double paned for better insulation, so even in the hottest Atlanta months it will feel cool inside without much effort. And of course there is the central air-conditioning. There are security cameras throughout of the highest grade as they were installed only last year. Because their children have moved out of Georgia, the Lowrys have relocated to Paris. They don’t need all this space and wish to retire in their native homeland. Mrs. Lowry was born Ms. Beauchamp and she misses France terribly.”
Emma adjusts her bag on her shoulder and waits for me to say something.
I clear my throat and ask, “Shall we?”
CHAPTER 4
EMMA
What an asshole!
With breath labored by anger I lead the way up a beautiful, sun-heated, stone path. Since I look younger than I am and everyone wants Cora’s years of expertise I’ve encountered some discreet ageism before, but his outright blasting of my competency, saying I had none, really took the cake.
So obnoxious!
Who talks to people like that?
I can’t believe that for a moment there I found him attractive. I’ve never found older men appealing but Tanner Hamilton was the first exception to my rule, had he not been such an arrogant jerk. The man has wickedly sharp, masculine features, and somehow his salt-and-pepper hair is even more attractive than if it had been still just black. Especially with how thick and wavy it is—the contrast is striking.
I scanned him as I parked the car and felt my skin tingle. The position of his stance, how those broad shoulders were so squared and confident, everything screamed power, like the world would bow down to whatever he said. I climbed out thinking that this was going to be much more fun than I had thought.
Until he called me a child.
I’ll show him who’s a child.
He is!
That’s who!
Using the agency’s password-protected app, I remotely unlock the mansion, my face a mask of feigned yet very convincing patience.
Our footsteps echo and halt in a vast foyer devoid of furniture or dust. Empty for months, a superb cleaning company continues to tend to its needs, leaving it always primed to impress a potential buyer.
I point up, voice professional. “This chandelier was installed in 1928, but can be replaced if it’s not to your taste.”
He stubbornly crosses his arms as his long neck stretches to investigate the piece. I find myself staring at his Adam's apple, wishing I could poke it. Maybe if he coughed he’d lose the condescending look on his face.
His head slowly lowers, shadowy eyes bored as he announces, “It can stay.”
I smile, my distaste for him as a person, thinly disguised this time as I continue the tour. “Wonderful. Let me show you the main living room. There are three. The coziest, which faces the backyard, was used as an informal sitting room by the Lowrys. The larger two rooms are where they entertained guests.” As we step into a stunning, bright and open space I explain, “This molding was part of the renovation. The Spanish tile floor as well. It is unusual but that’s why they liked it, the uniqueness of its appearance. The materials are authentic, flown in from a village south of Madrid, hand-painted. You can choose any of the jewel-tones in this pattern and enhance or highlight them with the use of rugs, so don’t feel confined to one palette. But I’m sure you’ll hire a decorator. I just don’t want you to be put off by the
