Dirty Money(7)

I lean in. "Yes," I whisper back. "Too many? You think thirty-five will do?"

Ivy licks her lips-god help me-and then glances over at the front desk,  where the two smirking assholes are still chatting. "Mr. Price, how much  money do you have to put down?"

This is where I'm good. I grin at her. "I got a couple billion. Like I  said, I don't know how much houses run in this area. How much do you  need?"

Her mouth parts and she blinks up at me. I've knocked her on her ass,  haven't I? Can't say I'm not feeling a little smug about that.

"You know what? I think I will take you up on that dinner invite after all."

I just grin. Thought she might.



Ivy

My heart is thundering in my chest as I get out of my chair. A million thoughts are whirling through my head.

This guy's rich. Unless he's messing with me-entirely a possibility-he's  rich. I can't even imagine a house with forty bedrooms, much less  selling one to someone. And it's clear he wants to go out with me,  because he hasn't stopped giving me heated looks since I met him. I know  I shouldn't go out to dinner with him . . .

But Winky Jack is right there, very close nearby. And if he so much as  smells the money on this guy, he's going to steal the commission from  me.

And I could really, really use the money.

But what if he's lying? What if Mr. Price isn't who he says he is? I'm  torn. It doesn't make sense to meet up with a client and immediately go  to dinner with him two minutes after he asks me out. It also doesn't  make sense that he'd work with someone like me if he really is rich.

I ponder all these things even as Mr. Price opens the office door and  puts a hand on the small of my back to lead me out into the parking lot.  Am I being stupid? Dazzled by the promise of money?

I hesitate the moment the door shuts and look over at him.

Bright white teeth flash under that enormous, scraggly beard. "You need to Google me?"

It's like he can read my mind. I give him an apologetic smile. "Would it be terribly offensive if I did?"

He laughs, throwing his head back, and in that moment, I realize he's no  more than thirty, maybe thirty-two. And under that beard and dirt? I  wonder if he's cute.

Oh god. That's so gold-diggery of me.

But he waves a hand at the phone I'm holding. "Go ahead."

I start to type in his name on my smartphone . . . and then stop. How  rude am I being? Just because he's thrown me off my game with his dirty,  disheveled appearance doesn't mean that I need to start running a  background check on the guy. "You know what? I don't need to do that.  I'd sell you a house either way."

"Because you're a lady," he says approvingly. "Knew it the moment I laid eyes on you."

His praise makes me feel all flustered all over again. He has no idea  how hard I've worked to shuck off the trailer park dust from my shoes so  I can bring in big clients and make a real living at this. "Let's just  go to dinner," I tell him. "We can talk more there."

If Winky Jack sees me out here, I worry he's going to smell a big fish and beeline his way over. I don't trust him not to.

"All right," Mr. Price drawls. "Your car or mine?"

I start to say my car and then I freeze. My car is a 1992 Geo Metro with  no bumper. Whenever I have clients, I check out one of the "company  cars" of the day so I can show my clients around in style. I can't let  Mr. Price see my real car, or he'll know I'm a fraud.         

     



 

And if I go back inside, Winky Jack will know Mr. Price is a client  important enough to go out to dinner with, and he'll sneak in for the  kill.

So I look over at Mr. Price. "If we take your car, can I send a picture of your license plate to my sister? Just to be safe?"

"Of course."

"Then let's take yours." Of course, I worry that makes me sound like a  complete ninny, so I add, "A client spilled a latte on my front seat  earlier and I haven't had a chance to take it in to get the upholstery  cleaned."

"Gotcha." He pulls out his keys and gestures to an enormous red truck  parked right in the center of the Three Jacks Real Estate parking lot.  The tires and the sides of the car are covered with reddish dirt and I'm  pretty sure there's a metal step-up on the side. "Let me get the door  for you."

"Thank you." I take a furtive picture of his license plate and text his  info to my sister, explaining to her where I'm going. I'm a slow typer,  so it takes me a few moments and I wander slowly toward his car,  focused. Before I can hit send, I pause. I'm going to have to climb into  his truck. Somehow. I put the toe of one shoe delicately onto the step  and look up, searching for a handlebar of some kind.

"Here, let me help," Mr. Price says, and the next thing I know, his  hands are on my waist and he's lifting me into the truck like I weigh  nothing at all.

And okay, I must be dazzled by his money, because those big hands on my  waist? It feels . . . amazing. His grip sends a hot pulse through my  body and I cling to the seat as I sit down. Mercy. No wonder women like  it when men get all caveman on them. I'm suddenly seeing the appeal.

Breathless, I finish sending the info to my sister. By that time, Mr.  Price has climbed into the other side of the truck. He looks over at me,  that intense look on his face.

"What?" I ask, feeling tingly and weird. I want to stare at his beard,  because I have this intuition that under all that facial hair, there's a  really sexy beast of a guy. I just know it. I shouldn't think about it,  either, but I can't help myself.

"You wanna send your sister a pic of my face? Extra security?"

"That's a good idea," I admit, and pull my phone back out. "You're okay with that?"

"Long as you get in the picture with me, I'm good."

Oh. Why does that make me all tingly? "Sure." I hold the phone up and  lean toward him a bit. He leans in close as well, and I wonder for a  moment if he's going to smell my hair or something strange and intense  like that. But he's only gazing at my phone camera, and I'm the one that  looks all flushed and bothered. I snap the picture quickly. "Thank  you."

"Of course. Don't want your family to worry about you. You're safe with me."

That feels . . . strangely possessive. Odd to be hearing from someone I  just met. But I'm not getting a weird vibe from him, so I buckle up,  send the picture, and look over as the truck pulls out of the parking  lot. "So where are you taking me to dinner?"

"Got anything in mind?"

Hmm. I eye his clothing. I'd normally take a client out for something  fancy just to make them think I'm a big deal, but he's not dressed for  the part and I don't want to embarrass him. "Do you like sushi?"

"Am I a dick if I say no?"

I laugh. "How about barbecue, then?"

His brows furrow together and he gives me a disbelieving look. "Barbecue?"

"Yes?"

"I ain't taking a lady out to dinner to eat ribs." He snorts, as if the  idea is ludicrous. "You deserve someplace classy. Someplace nice."

I don't point out that he's covered in dirt. "All right, then. Let me think."

"I know the place," he says confidently, glancing over at me. "You let me handle it. I'll let you pick next time."

I'm surprised when, a few minutes later, we pull up to a small  restaurant tucked away in a quieter section of town. Is it weird that I  expected Red Lobster? I've never been to this place, but the name is in  French, which makes my stomach twist a little with worry. I really hope  this doesn't get awkward and they don't turn him away at the door for  being underdressed.         

     



 

He roars the truck up to the front parking space and I glance out at the  deserted parking lot. Is this place even open? It's dinnertime and most  restaurants are packed at this hour. Mr. Price insists on getting my  door for me, and then walking me up to the front of the restaurant. He's  acting like a gentleman, which is sweet. I can't remember the last time  a guy held a door open for me. Even if it's all part of some plan of  his to win me over, it's working. I'm flattered. I just met the guy, and  even though he's got a bushy beard, is covered in dirty clothes, I'm  still feeling slightly dazzled by how he treats me.

Like I'm some sort of rare jewel he feels lucky to have run across. I've  never encountered that before. It's . . . nice. Strange, but nice. This  man is a stranger to me. He's absolutely not my type and a client to  boot, and yet in the space of a few minutes, I've gone from thinking no  way to feeling utterly flustered every time he focuses his intense gaze  on me.

The door opens as we approach the front of the restaurant, and an  utterly gorgeous woman in a white blouse and black skirt beams a smile  at us. "Welcome back, Mr. Price. Your table is ready."

He nods as if expecting this, and puts a possessive hand at the small of my back, steering me into the restaurant.

"Welcome back?" I ask him as we enter. The lights are low and dim, and  the rest of the restaurant is a sea of empty tables. "Did you already  eat?"