It Started with a House... Page 4

  That gave him an idea and, as he returned to the kitchen, he reached for his BlackBerry and clicked on her number in his address book. For a moment he thought he would only get her voice mail, but then she was on the line saying hesitantly, “I didn’t expect to hear from you again today.”

  “Am I pushing my luck?”

  After a pause, Genevieve replied softly, “I have no right to say that—I kissed you back.”

  Reaching over to her wineglass, Marshall stroked his thumb over the hint of lipstick on the rim. “And left me wanting so much more.”

  Clearing her throat, Genevieve said, “Ina just signaled that I have a call holding and my least patient agent is about to barge into my office.”

  Taking the hint, Marshall made his point quickly. “I have an request, plea or whatever you want to call it. I’ve just finished going through the house to see all you did, and I’m stuck. I’m an administrator and idea guy. I can renovate a building and suggest an atmosphere that I’m going for, but I don’t know anything about decorating until I see what I like.”

  “That sounds like an apology, not an request.”

  “Help.”

  There was another pause, then her weak, “You’re not playing fair.”

  “Darling, I’m not playing at all. If you don’t agree to help me, I’ll have to hire a perfect stranger, and I don’t want a stranger around, I want you. When you aren’t driving me to distraction, you’re a balm to my weary soul.”

  “You seem to be overlooking that I have a job.”

  “Not at all. This could be lunch dates, dinner dates and getting-to-know-you weekends. No pressure, no rush.”

  “I think I already experienced your idea of ‘no pressure.’”

  “But as you noted, you kissed me back.” Heartened by the wry tone in her voice, he entreated, “I improve over wine and with time.” To his relief, Genevieve managed a genuine chuckle. Growing serious again, Marshall added, “Genevieve, I’ll unpack and set things out, but you have an eye, I can see that. And you have the added benefit of having seen many of the properties in the area and undoubtedly have seen what works and what doesn’t.” He softened his voice. “I promise to be the gentleman you want me to be until you feel comfortable with taking things to another level.”

  She was silent for several more seconds and then said, “I have to take this call. Let me think about it, okay?”

  “Fair enough.”

  As Marshall disconnected, he wasn’t entirely satisfied. He would have liked her to say that she would call him back later, see him tonight, but at least she hadn’t turned him down outright. He would have to find the patience to wait for her to give him what she could of herself. Just the thought had him feeling restless and depressed again. But remembering what he’d promised her, he went to attack the nearest stack of boxes.

  As soon as Genevieve disconnected from the call that had been holding on her office phone, Avery Pageant pushed open her door and with her usual untimid style draped herself over the nearest of the two chairs facing the cluttered desk. Avery’s exotic Eastern scent followed then settled around the brunette like an intoxicating presence signaling anyone without eyes that she wasn’t a woman who expected to be overlooked or taken for granted.

  “Since when do you close your office door when you aren’t with clients?” she asked, glancing at Genevieve over her red reading glasses.

  Genevieve didn’t stop shuffling through the yellow phone messages their receptionist-secretary Ina Bargas had handed her when she’d entered the building, but she knew it was useless to ignore the question entirely. If anyone was more persistent than her mother, it was this woman, whom fellow agent Raenne Hartley teasingly dubbed “Dragon Lady.” “I needed a few minutes before this interrogation commenced. But now that you’re here, how are you?”

  “Taking some exception to the term interrogation. I think we should open a bottle of wine at your place or mine after work—yours, mine hasn’t been dusted or vacuumed in ten days—and get in some serious girl talk.”

  Genevieve dropped the phone messages, only to gesture expansively. “Are you not looking at this disaster? I’ll be here making sense of things until at least nine tonight.”

  “The price of success. Cooperative soul that I am, I volunteer to go get the wine and help you. We can talk in between phone calls and printouts. It’ll be the working woman’s pajama party.”

  “I have a better idea—I’ll buy you a bottle of wine if you’ll go away.”

  “I actually sold more property than you did this month, I can buy my own wine. Talk to me, darn it. He’s made you all hot and bothered—and that’s a good thing.”

  “I’m not ready, Avery.”

  “Elaborate, please. You’re not ready for a relationship or to talk about what happened at his place?”

  Oh, murder, Genevieve thought, did she have every thought mirrored on her face? “I will give you my very next referral regardless of the potential value of the property if you will please change the subject.”

  Looking a bit impatient, the brunette crossed her legs, her black designer slacks whispering as linen brushed linen. Then she straightened the collar of her red silk shirt. “You may not think four years is long enough to prove that you were devoted to Adam, but from this side of our age difference, I assure you, I’m convinced. I suspect so is every person in this freaking town who is watching you waste your youth.”

  Aghast at her boldness, particularly since Avery had divorced twice, Genevieve gasped. “Stop it! You have no right to tell me how I should feel or behave. You don’t know a thing about it.”

  “No, I don’t. But I have a right to worry about you.”

  Her sudden tender tone and gentle look had Genevieve shaking her head. “Thank you,” she grumbled.

  “The truth is I’d like to feel that deeply about someone just once,” Avery replied ruefully. “So was that Mr. Hold-On-To-Your-Heart Roark you were talking to on your BlackBerry just now? You just left him and he’s already calling you? Why couldn’t I have been born a honey-eyed blonde?”

  “You’re perfect just the way you are,” Genevieve replied in total honesty. “A little scary at times, but I know there are strong men who aren’t intimidated by that.”

  Avery sucked in her cheeks as she continued her speculation, which added to the sharpness of her high cheekbones and sharper chin. With her ear-length bob, the rinse-enhanced brunette reminded Genevieve of a modern-day Cleopatra, who had also been purported to be no great beauty, but a captivating character nonetheless.

  “Trying to shut me up with flattery?”

  “Did it work?”

  “Almost.” Avery tilted her head as she studied her. “You may not want to hear this either, but I do think it’s started.”

  That got Genevieve’s attention. “What has?”

  “The remoteness that’s been like a fog around you all this time. It’s lifting. You’re less the Ghost of Genevieve Past and more present. Bravo.”

  Sneaky, conniving woman, Genevieve thought, returning to sorting her files into stacks. But she was determined not to be totally suckered in by Avery. “Thank you…I think.”

  “Damn it, G.G., don’t make me wish your luscious Mr. Roark would have called me instead of you. He’s what, closing in on forty?”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  For a moment Avery was nonplussed, then she shrugged. “That’s only four years younger than me. He does comes off as older.”

  “He takes life seriously. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s had reason to.”

  “I could redirect his focus. Maybe even teach him a few things.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Snickering, Avery rose. “Well done, Sleeping Beauty. Okay, I’ve had my fun.” She floated the paper she’d come in with so that it landed in front of Genevieve covering what she’d been pretending to peruse. “I just wanted you to know I’m dropping the Ferris property. It’s overpriced and you’ll see by my notes on all of the calls I’ve re
ceived after viewings that prospective buyers concur.”

  Genevieve winced at the number of negative comments. “Are Mr. and Mrs. Ferris that clueless about the market that they’re resisting a price adjustment?”

  “Blinded by ego and greed.” A veteran in the business, Avery pulled no punches. “Like too many, they feel a smart buyer will recognize all that they’re getting for that money.”

  Genevieve studied the address to refresh her memory. “Okay, but isn’t this the house at the end of a dirt road where people have used the woods for dumping?”

  “Bingo. Quite an attractive and well-kept property, but out of the city limits. Those woods could have a trailer parked on adjoining land next week and a meth lab operation thereafter. Too much of a risk for a buyer.”

  “In that case, I’m with you—release them.”

  “Thanks. Oh, and Raenne is on her way back from her viewing.”

  Relieved, Genevieve asked, “Did she hint at how it went?”

  “The buyers are following her in to fill out a contract.”

  “Wonderful.” Genevieve knew better than to assume anything before it happened, but she was proud of Raenne and grateful for the good news for the agency. “That one would make a nice ‘sold’ announcement in our newspaper ad next week.”

  “I thought you’d want to do that. Some of our rural clients are getting so depressed with the slow market.” Avery retrieved her printout from Genevieve’s desk. “I’ll make this call before I head out to meet my afternoon appointment.”

  “Good luck with them. I know they’re wearing you out, too.”

  “It hasn’t been my easiest account, but I have a good feeling about this house I’m showing them today.”

  No sooner did Avery leave then Genevieve’s BlackBerry started playing Beethoven’s infamous Fifth. That immediately informed her that the caller was her mother. “Mother, unless Bart has run off with Dorothy,” she said referring to her mother’s full-time housekeeper, “I don’t have time for this.”

  Sydney Sawyer clucked in exasperation. “That’s not remotely amusing, Gigi, and why is it that you can eke out an hour here and five there for everyone but me?”

  Her earlier suspicions about being watched confirmed, Genevieve said wryly, “Could be because you’re a notorious busybody and you’re not interested in attention from me, you only want to fish for more information about Marshall Roark.”

  “For your information,” her mother replied with maximum hauteur, “I was merely going to ask if he was officially settled in and would be staying around for a while? I’d like Dorothy to bring over a casserole and pie. He must be thinking we’re all barbarians what with our lack of neighborly concern.”

  “Mother, are you about to write a flashback scene? Because you’re sounding dangerously close to a conniving Scarlett in Gone with the Wind.”

  “Obviously, all of this extra responsibility is taking a toll on your poor nerves,” Sydney replied.

  Genevieve was minimally apologetic. “That and constant interruptions since I’ve returned to the office. Just leave the man alone. The movers have barely left and he’s been through enough for a few days. And don’t even think of casting him in one of your stories. That’s not an empty threat. I’ve already warned him about you.”

  “You what?” Recovering, Sidney summoned regal disdain. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t possibly. I’m booked three years out. By then I may be too old to do more than watch Bart fondle his cigar collection.”

  “Let him fondle. When his doctor warned him that his heart couldn’t take many more smokes, it was a blow to his ego.” Her mother’s self-pitying forecasting had Genevieve massaging her brow. “At any rate, in three years, you’ll still be too young to collect social security.”

  “Finally, a compliment from my own flesh and blood. Now why on earth did you stay over at his house for so long?”

  “I reminded you the other day. I’d agreed to supervise the movers.”

  “I mean after they left.”

  Had she used a stopwatch, for pity’s sake? “Marshall asked for decorating input.” Genevieve figured she might as well get that out there; otherwise she would be accused of hiding something if she was spotted back there again—not that she was convinced that would be a good idea.

  Her mother’s opinion was immediately clear.

  “You can’t be serious? He can afford the best in the business. You’re a real estate broker, not Martha Stewart.”

  “And, unlike Martha, obviously a one-dimensional human being.”

  “Oh, don’t be so thin-skinned, dear,” Sydney replied. “You know I adore what you’ve done with your house—and the input you gave me on mine for that matter—but am I wrong?”

  “No, mother. However, professionals need and want to use their clients’ names for publicity. Could you conceive that Marshall doesn’t want it advertised and blabbed everywhere about where he’s living and what he’s spending?”

  “He has to meet new people at some point. He is planning to stay, isn’t he?”

  Her mother never lingered on a subject that didn’t feel immediately profitable to her. “Mother, I have to return no less than seven phone calls. Was there something specific that you needed?”

  “Just let me know when you plan another trip over there,” Sydney replied. “I’ll help you. This way we’ll get introductions out of the way, and I can deliver the food, too.”

  “I haven’t committed myself, but if I do I’ll think about it,” Genevieve replied and disconnected. Introducing Sydney to Marshall? It would, she thought, be less painful to step in front of a runaway semi.

  Genevieve didn’t call her mother back that day, or the next. She didn’t call Marshall, either. But on Saturday evening, once the rest of the office had long gone home and it was almost dark, she knew to delay things any longer would be unfair as well as rude, and she rang him.

  “I’ve been worried about you,” he began, probably thanks to caller ID.

  “I’m sorry. It’s been—”

  “I can imagine.”

  Genevieve hesitated, wondering if he was being sympathetic or suspecting that she was handing him a line and wanted her to move on to her reason for finally deigning to call. “Is it too late for me to stop by?” she asked.

  “Come on over.”

  Dusk had turned into night by the time she pulled into Marshall’s driveway and a quick glance toward her mother’s house told her that the upstairs office lights were off. Hopefully, Bart had insisted on going out somewhere. He was twice the social butterfly that her mother was and the couple had an agreement that Sydney not work on weekends.

  Marshall stood in the open doorway as she came up the sidewalk. In the glow of the dangling light fixture, she could see that his lips were curved in welcome, but his gaze was definitely gauging her mood and body language. This was the last real summer weekend before the Labor Day weekend and she’d had two closings, a showing and a contract to process today. She didn’t have to pretend to be tired, but she had apparently held up well enough.

  As she entered, he leaned over to kiss her cheek and said, “You look wonderful.”

  She’d worn a favorite white suit because it was her last chance for the season—at least by fashionista standards. “My aching feet disagree.”

  “Feel free to make yourself comfortable,” he said as he closed the door behind her. He gestured to his own bare feet. “As you can see I am.”

  Wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, he did look ultra-casual, but his understated attire did nothing to mute his physical appeal. It was as though all of the energy in the universe was working in tandem to force her to stay aware of that.

  “The problem is that if I took off these heels, I might never get them on again.” Although that was the truth, it was only half of it. “I can’t stay,” she added quietly.

  “Somehow I knew you would say something like that. At least join me in a glass of wine,” Marshall replied. “I’d just finished unpacking
the last box and showered when you called. I have muscles demanding relief.”

  She’d noticed that his hair was still somewhat damp. Thinking a drink would also help her say what she had to say, she accepted. As she followed him, she noted the only lights on were in the kitchen, and those were the accent ones above the cabinets. It made their environment more intimate, yet provided enough illumination for him to work.

  “Did you really finished unpacking?” she asked, eyeing the bare counters that she’d left stacked two and three boxes high. Now there was only a toaster, a coffeemaker and a paper towel stand. “Everything?”

  “Yes. Well, except for the one bedroom.” Marshall drew a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and took two fat goblets from the buffet. “I’ll call a charity and donate her clothes—unless you know of someone who could use them around here?”

  “I do. There’s a church-operated store in town that would welcome the donation. I’ll get you the number.”

  “Thanks.” With minimal physical effort, he uncorked the wine.

  His unwillingness to speak Cynthia’s name brought her reticence about Adam back to mind. “I didn’t follow my own advice with Adam’s things,” she blurted out. “I brought them down to a charity in Tyler. I was afraid I’d be driving down the street here one day and see his favorite shirt or jacket.”

  “I won’t have that problem,” he said, pouring the first drops of wine into his glass, then filling hers one-third full. “As you saw for yourself, Cyn never veered from the same style thing that she’d worn through college—jeans, Dockers, T-shirts and sweatshirts. Her things will blend in fine here.”

  Genevieve nodded. “I remember her saying that she’d been a tomboy and athletic. I suppose comfort was her chief motivation later.”

  “That and doing her best to discourage any sexual interest I might have in her.”

  “Oh, Marshall.” There didn’t seem to be anything she could say that wasn’t going to trigger pain, and maybe even bitterness in him. That was never her intention.