A Cutthroat Business (38 page)

“She’ll see me,” I squeezed out between gritted teeth.

Marquita scowled, but under the circumstances she couldn’t do anything but let me in. I swept past her with my head held high, trying not to limp conspicuously. Mother would have been proud.

Inside, everything also looked pretty much the same, except that it was cleaner. There was the fresh smell of paint in the air, and the sound of a TV from the kitchen. I headed down the hallway and found Mrs. Jenkins sitting on a folding chair at a rickety card table, watching a talk-show and spreading peanut butter on Ritz crackers. She lit up when she saw me. “Hi, baby! I ain’t seen you in forever!”

She looked about a hundred and ten percent better, and even seemed to be acting more lucid. The scratches on her face and legs were healing, her hair was washed and combed, and she was wearing a brand-new housedress and new, fuzzy slippers. Whatever else was wrong with Marquita — and I could see plenty — she seemed to be good at her job.

“I’ve been busy the past few days,” I explained. “With
Walker
in prison and Tim in charge, there’s a lot to do. You look good. How have you been?”

Mrs. Jenkins beamed toothlessly. “That handsome boy o’mine came to the nursing home, just like you said. He walked me right outta there, and nobody said nothin’. And then he brought me back here, and got me new clothes, and a TV, and a new bed, and got the water turned on again, and brought Marquita to stay with me...”

“It sounds like he’s taking good care of you.”

She nodded. “He’s a good boy. You lookin’ for him, baby?”

Marquita scowled. I hesitated. I probably should talk to Rafe. Mrs. Jenkins wasn’t in any kind of condition to understand about the paperwork I had brought, and it was none of Marquita’s business. Unless Rafe planned to marry her, but then she could damn well wait until after the ceremony to hear the details. “I suppose I’d better. Is he at work? When will he be back?”
And by the way, what sort of work does he do...?

“Oh, he ain’t gone. He’s just upstairs. You go on up, baby. He won’t mind.”

She glanced over at the TV. Marquita’s face went stony, and I was too entertained by the whole thing to even try to resist temptation.

“I don’t expect he will. I’ll see you later, Mrs. Jenkins. Nurse.” I smiled sweetly at the scowling Marquita. She watched me as I went up the stairs. I wriggled my fingers in a friendly wave, and she huffed and turned on her heel, waddling back to the kitchen table.

It was anybody’s guess in which of the upstairs rooms Rafe was, so rather than walking from room to room in what was now a private residence, I stopped in the upstairs hallway and raised my voice. “Rafe?”

“In here.” It came from a bedroom on the left, overlooking the overgrown side yard. I walked there and stuck my head in. And felt my jaw drop.

Two weeks ago, there had been a moldy mattress full of rodents in here. Chunks of the ceiling had fallen onto the floor, and there had been debris in all the corners. Now, it was a different room. The mattress and the mice were gone, and in their place was a good quality four-poster bed and matching dresser. The bed and the top of the dresser were covered with newspaper, but I could see lilac-printed sheets through the gaps. The ceiling was freshly dry-walled — so fresh that the mud between the pieces hadn’t dried yet — and the walls were in the process of being painted a soft lavender.

“Speechless?” Rafe’s voice was amused, and I pulled myself together and looked for him.

And found him standing in the corner, paintbrush in hand, wearing a pair of threadbare jeans and a T-shirt that fit him to perfection. Both jeans and T-shirt were liberally sprinkled with paint-stains, not all of them lavender. When I didn’t say anything, he added, gesturing with the paintbrush, “Whaddaya think?”

“It’s beautiful,” I said honestly. “You’ve done a great job. It looks like you might have had some experience doing this sort of thing.”

I paused, hoping that maybe he’d let slip some information about having done this before.

“I’ve got experience doing all sorts of things.” He grinned when he saw my expression, and added, “It’s my grandma’s room.”

“I thought it must be. It doesn’t suit you, somehow.”

“Good to know. Mine’s down the hall. Wanna see?” He winked.

“I don’t think I’d better,” I said, fighting back a blush. I wanted to, sure — not because it was his, of course; just because I was curious to see what he was doing to it — but the idea of willingly stepping into Rafe’s bedroom with him didn’t seem smart. The old story about Goosy Loosy and Foxy Loxy came to mind. His eyes brightened with amusement.

“You afraid I’m gonna throw you down on the bed and have my way with you? Don’t worry, darlin’. I ain’t so hard up that I have to force myself on anyone.”

“I imagine you’re not,” I said sweetly. “I saw Marquita downstairs.”

He turned away, balancing the paintbrush on the edge of the bucket. “She needed a job, we needed a nurse. That’s all. I told you before, ain’t nothing going on with Marquita and me.”

“Yes, I remember hearing you say that. I actually just came by to give you this.” I handed him the envelope I’d gotten from the lawyer. “It’s the listing agreement for the house, cancelled by
Walker
, and all the other papers that your grandmother signed. The Milton House will get to keep the hundred thousand, but at least the house is yours again. Or your grandmother’s. Steven Puckett came through in a big way, bless his heart.”

Rafe took the envelope, but didn’t open it. Instead he looked at me. “Looks like I owe you one.”

I shook my head. “No, you don’t. You helped me burglarize Clarice’s locker and fetch Alexandra and intimidate Maurice, and you caught me when I fainted and bought me cheesecake and made sure I got home safe...”

“That’s true. Maybe you owe me one instead.” He grinned.

“One what?” Try as I might, I couldn’t help the nervous glance at the newspaper-covered four-poster. He wouldn’t really try to seduce me in his grandmother’s bed, would he...?

He laughed. “Not that.”

“What, then?” My heart began to thud uncomfortably fast and hard as he dropped the envelope on the dresser and took a step toward me.
 

“Nothing too painful. Though I’ve earned a kiss, don’t you think?”

“I... suppose.” After enumerating all the things he had done for me lately, I could hardly say anything else. Although I admit I was worried about Marquita coming upstairs and finding us
in flagrante
, as it were, and what she’d do to me.

“Glad you agree. That mean you’ll stand still and enjoy it?”

My eyes wavered. “I’ll... um... try.”

“Good. Now just relax, darlin’. This ain’t gonna hurt a bit.”

He tipped my chin up and leaned down. My knees buckled and my eyes rolled back in my head. From very far away, I heard a chuckle and felt a pair of arms settle around my body. A voice murmured in my ear. “Not
that
relaxed. Try to stay awake, darlin’. You don’t wanna miss nothing.”

And I tried, I really did. The idea of being unconscious and completely at his mercy — and with a bed within easy reach, too! — was too dreadful to contemplate. But then his lips moved from my ear, across my cheek and over to close over mine, and the next second, everything went black. My last coherent thought was that if I got out of this room with my virtue and my sanity intact, I’d never let him get within touching distance ever again.

# # #

Turn the page to read an excerpt of
Hot Property

HOT PROPERTY

Savannah
Martin Mystery #2

Chapter 1

The first open house robbery took place on the second Sunday in August, just at the time I was busy apprehending a murderer.

Before I go any further, I guess I should make it clear that I’m not actually in the business of law enforcement. Walker Lamont was the first, and I sincerely hope the last, murderer I’ll encounter.

My name is Savannah Martin, and what I am, is a Realtor.
Walker
was my boss. Up until the moment I happened to be standing next to him when he came face to face with someone who could put him in the wrong place at the wrong time, we’d had a very good relationship, and I’m sure he meant it sincerely when he apologized for having to kill me, too.

But I digress. As I was pushing the business end of a lipstick into
Walker
’s back, trying to make him believe it was a gun, another Realtor – Austin Greene with a local RE/MAX franchise – was being gagged and tied to a chair on the other side of town. After he was safely trussed, four masked men proceeded to strip the house of anything of value and cart it off in a rented moving van, leaving
Austin
sitting in the kitchen waiting to be rescued.

The incident made the news, but was treated as sort of a sidebar to
Walker
’s arrest. Violence against Realtors, Part II. Poor
Austin
’s ordeal was buried on page 4 of the
Nashville Banner
and received scant attention from anyone. It wasn’t until the next Sunday, when the same thing happened again, that the real estate community sat up and took notice.

The first I heard of this second robbery was at the weekly staff meeting on Monday morning. With
Walker
in jail, Timothy Briggs had taken over as managing broker of Walker Lamont Realty, and he was the one who brought it up. “Before we talk about holding open houses next weekend,” he said, leaning back in Walker’s leather chair and folding his manicured hands across his flat stomach, “I guess we should discuss what happened yesterday. I assume you’ve all heard the news?”

He looked around the table, his baby-blue eyes bright.

I raised my hand. “I haven’t. What happened yesterday?”

“Oh,
Savannah
, it was just awful!” Heidi Hoppenfeldt was busy chomping her way through the three dozen donuts Tim had brought in for us to share, and when she spoke, a fine spray of crumbs arched out of her mouth and landed on her ample bosom. She was on the other side of the table from me, so I wasn’t hit, but the people on either side of her leaned away.

“What’s awful?” I said.

Tim smirked. “Didn’t you catch the news last night, darling? My goodness, you must have had a busy day. It was on the five o’clock, six o’clock, nine o’clock
and
ten o’clock news!”

“I was in Sweetwater this weekend,” I said. Sweetwater is my hometown, a small place an hour or so south of
Nashville
. My mother and my two siblings live there, along with their spouses and children, my aunt
Regina
, and various old friends and acquaintances. “I had dinner with a friend before I drove back, so I didn’t get home until after eleven. And I didn’t listen to the radio in the car.”

Tim smacked his lips appreciatively. “And how is the scrumptious Mr. Collier?” he inquired. A few of the girls and the other (gay) guys tittered. Tim has an outspoken and unrequited crush on Rafael Collier, who’s an old acquaintance of mine, also from Sweetwater. Rafe isn’t gay – not by any stretch of the imagination – but Tim likes to dream.

“He’s fine,” I said repressively.

“He certainly is,” Tim agreed, with a saucy grin. I rolled my eyes.

“You know what I mean. I haven’t seen him for a few days, but he seemed all right on Thursday. And we’re not dating.”

“You were dating last weekend at Fidelio’s,” Tim pointed out. A whisper, like a breath of wind through stiff grass, spread around the table. Fidelio’s is one of the nicest (and most expensive) restaurants in
Nashville
; the sort of place where country music stars dine and normal people can only afford to go on special occasions. It’s not the kind of place one takes a casual acquaintance, unless one has serious designs on her. Which Rafe does. (He wants to sleep with me. And he hasn’t made any secret of it, so I don’t see why I should.) But if he had thought that wining and dining me at Fidelio’s would make me give in to his predatory charms, he must have been disappointed. He didn’t get so much as a goodnight kiss when he brought me home, although I’d wager that my near-faint when he suggested it may have been just as gratifying to his undeniable ego.

“It was a business dinner,” I said firmly. “And it’s none of your concern, anyway. Yesterday I had dinner with someone else. Someone you haven’t met.”

“You get around, don’t you, darling?” Tim smirked.

I narrowed my eyes. Tim added, “Well, since you missed the news... There was another open house robbery yesterday.”

I blinked. “Like the one last week? When the owners came home and found their Realtor bound and gagged in the kitchen?”

Tim nodded. “Poor
Austin
. He’ll never be the same.” He clicked his tongue sympathetically and then brightened. “This time the Realtor was Lila Vaughn, with Worthington Properties.”