Desired (Miranda's Chronicles Book 1)

by Anna Jeffrey

  DESIRED

  Miranda’s Chronicles, Book I

  By

  Anna Jeffrey

  Cover design by: The Killion Group

  Published by: Anna Jeffrey Books

  Text Copyright © 2015 Jeffery McClanahan

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Books by Anna Jeffrey

  Books by Dixie Cash

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  I couldn’t remember when I had been in a more upbeat mood. Midmorning on a sunny October day, a cloudless, brilliant blue sky and me in a fairy tale world. Heady territory where I often found myself these days. But not because good fortune had been bestowed by a fairy godmother. It was more the result of damn hard work.

  On this particular day, I was standing in front of a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows in a palatial model home on the twentieth floor of Skyline, a new condominium development near downtown Fort Worth. My spirits were so high, the windows so clear, the outside view so unobstructed, I had an eerie feeling I could just step out into space and walk around out there.

  Last evening’s cocktail party in this very unit hung in my mind. Multimillionaire—some said billionaire—Drake Lockhart, Skyline’s developer, owner and CEO of Lockhart Concepts, had hired my small company, Gala, to conduct an event to kick off Skyline’s grand opening. Given the opportunity to make Gala shine right along with Skyline, I had gone all out—a truckload of lush fresh flowers, expensive champagne, top-shelf liquors and gourmet finger foods. Every drop of alcohol had been drunk and every morsel of food had been eaten. I counted the consumables a hit.

  A distant sound echoing through the mostly soundproof building caught my attention and I stilled to listen. The last of my cleanup crew had just left and I was alone. Being the only person on the top floor of an empty twenty-story building hardly gave me the warm fuzzies. The quiet was pervasive. Every unidentifiable sound made me jump. A thousand nooks and crannies existed where a bad guy might lurk. Paranoid? I couldn’t deny it. I had read and heard of assaults on female Realtors in vacant houses. I wasn’t a Realtor, but in this setting, I was the same as.

  Behind me, my oversized tote bag sat on a gray leather L-shaped sofa that had easily seated ten people at last night’s party.

  I walked over to the sofa, dug my smartphone out of the bag and pressed in the cell number of Gabe Mathison, the Lockhart Concepts real estate broker I would be helping hold an open house here today.

  He came on the line on the first burr. “Hey, girl.”

  “Hi. Where are you?”

  “Just turning onto Post Oak Street in front of Skyline. You?”

  “I’m in the big unit on the twentieth floor. Come on up. The front door’s locked, so press the buzzer.”

  “On my way.”

  I disconnected and dropped my phone back into my bag. With a few minutes to wait, I strolled through the condo one more time, giving it one last inspection, my high heels clicking against a floor of exotic hardwood. Left over from candles I had burned earlier, the clean scents of lemon and sage floated in the air. As I walked, I couldn’t keep from admiring my surroundings. The sumptuous furnishings and accessories had been provided by one of the most exclusive furniture stores in the Metroplex and its top decorator. The place had an old-world ambiance so splendid it camouflaged the real world. But then, I reminded myself, the people who could afford to live in Skyline didn’t live in the real world as I knew it.

  I glanced left and right, up and down, saw no evidence that two hundred people—other Realtors and various local dignitaries and celebrities—had been here eating and drinking, dropping and spilling stuff just a few hours ago. My cleanup crew had done an excellent job. I was satisfied.

  This was important to me. I had a reputation to uphold. My company presided over small events around the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex. Gala was only three years old, but it was becoming known as one of the best event planning companies in the area. Praise, or referrals even, from a man of Drake Lockhart’s stature and reputation could help me reach an elite clientele to which I hadn’t had much access before.

  The front door buzzer sounded. I walked over and opened it to Gabe Mathison.

  He greeted me with arms stretched wide. “Maaa-Raaanda!”

  He sounded like Michael Buffer, that boxing and professional wrestling announcer. I couldn’t keep from laughing.

  Gabe and I had worked together at other Lockhart Concepts events. An avid believer in the power of positive thinking, his conversation was always peppered with quotes from self-help gurus. He was cheerful, witty and fun. With his perfectly layered brown hair, laughing hazel eyes and stylish dress, he was cute. Well, truthfully, most of the women who met him considered him handsome. Some female acquaintance was always asking me to pass him a phone number. He reminded me of a fashion model. On his tall, slender frame, his expensive suits and power ties looked just right. He was a consummate flirt and had a long list of girlfriends.

  And he makes a hell of a lot of money, an inner voice reminded me.

  Mental sigh. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Another time, another life…

  In my work, I met well-off—even uber-wealthy—men of all shapes, sizes and ages. Although I had seen opportunities for taking up with more than one of them, in the end, I didn’t have the stomach for it. I knew a couple of women around my age who had done that. For the most part, the long-term results were not pretty. I might have been burned by romance, but I still had an old-fashioned notion of someday finding undying affection with a faithful lover.

  “Long time no see,” I said to Gabe, still laughing.

  We touched cheeks and kissed air, then he stood back, giving me a once-over. “You’re looking hot.”

  I put much effort and quite a bit of money into that very thing. Maintaining my appearance was part of operating expenses. Today, I had gone for the professional-and-classy look—a gray flannel pencil skirt that discreetly hugged my bottom and skimmed the tops of my knees, a tailored white long-sleeved silk blouse that showed a whisper of the lace cami I wore underneath and my new black platform peep-toe pumps for which I had paid Nordstrom’s an insane price. Drake Lockhart expected a certain look from me as well as his brokers. Our appearance reflected on him and his company.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” I said to Gabe. “I do my best. It’s a challenge for us old ladies, you know.”

  He winked at me and growled. “Cougar.”

  Gabe and I had joked about my age ever since I told him he was too young for me to date. At twenty-six, he was younger than I by two years. I had never been seriously attracted to guys younger than I was, even if only by two years. A psychologist had told me once that I was mature beyond my years because I had spent my chil
dhood managing adult situations and I had never had a father figure in my life.

  Not that plenty of men weren’t around our household when I was a kid. My mom, a beauty and a charmer and a social butterfly in her youth had been a magnet for men. She had a breathy little-girl voice and an ethereal helplessness about her that made the male animal fall all over himself wanting to protect her—for about six months. Those were a few—but only a few—of the reasons she was now on her fifth husband.

  But those were all things I pushed to the back of my mind most of the time. I couldn’t function in the environment I tried to maintain if I let myself get lost in the jungle of my mother’s problems.

  As Gabe and I walked toward the window wall, he looked around the room. “Oh, man, would you look at this? Drake’s pulled out all the stops this time. I’ve heard about this corner view. It’s all he talks about.”

  He referred to the huge open space that was the living room, dining room and kitchen that wrapped around a corner of the building. The brilliant architectural design created a 180-degree panorama visible from almost anywhere you stood and gave the illusion of being suspended in air. This particular home, one of four, had twelve-foot ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows the full width of the living and dining areas as well as the master bedroom and bath and one of the extra bedrooms, truly bringing the outside in.

  “He sure has,” I said.

  He shoved one hand into his pants pocket, pushing back the tail of his dark gray suit jacket. His gaze settled on the outside view that stretched endlessly toward the western horizon and miles up and down the sinuous Trinity River. “Wow. Look at that view. Awesome. How’d you like to get up to that every morning?”

  “You haven’t seen it before?”

  “Nope. Haven’t had time to come up here.”

  “Why, Gabe Mathison. I’m surprised at you. You’re dropping the ball.”

  “Been busy, babe. Movin’ ’em and shakin’ ’em. A lot going on right now.”

  Gabe was a go-getter. Ambitious and more than a little greedy. He was on his way to becoming a power player in the Metroplex real estate business. Commercial rather than residential was his game, but in the rough-and-tumble world of commercial real estate sales, sometimes there were long stretches between commissions. To support his expensive lifestyle, Gabe wasn’t above spending a weekend pushing condos in one of Drake’s developments. Drake would pay his brokers healthy bonuses on top of commissions for the sale of the homes in Skyline.

  I would be helping Gabe this afternoon to show off a dozen Skyline model units. I would be dishing out charm and conversation and hanging on to one customer while he dealt with another.

  “How much is this place?” I asked.

  He scanned some papers attached to the clipboard. “Um, six thousand square feet, five bedrooms, six baths, every amenity known to man. A bargain at twelve mill.”

  I gaped. “Dollars? Are you kidding?”

  One corner of Gabe’s mouth quirked up and he gave me a flat look. “No, Miranda. We’re talking jelly beans.” He turned his eyes back to the view. “But you know Drake. I’m sure he’ll negotiate on that.”

  “Hah,” I scoffed. “What will he come down to, eleven-point-nine?”

  Drake Lockhart’s reputation as a tough negotiator who always stood his ground was well known.

  Gabe chuckled.

  I had grown up in a small rural town surrounded by farms and ranches and a population that barely scraped by. In my plebian thinking, I could not imagine paying twelve million dollars for a place to live in a high-rise building. For that much money, at the very least, land should be part of the package

  “Well, I would buy it,” I said, “but what would I do with my Great Dane? I don’t see a place for a doghouse.”

  Gabe knew I didn’t have a Great Dane. “Miranda, love. I’m afraid you’d have to tailor your dog to your environment.”

  “Hm. A tailored dog. A cat would probably find that an interesting idea.”

  He checked his watch. “Almost showtime. Shall we go down?”

  “Let’s.”

  We turned away from the windows and strode to the front entrance and the private elevator. Even the elevator was elegant. Dark gold-veined mirrors floated above brushed bronze wainscoting, the panels polished to a high sheen that reflected indirect lighting subtly hidden behind a cornice at the top of the walls.

  We zoomed down and Gabe and I stepped out into the lobby onto a floor of gleaming snow-white marble with spidery gold veins. More marble of a pale salmon color covered the walls. A jungle of various plants and trees, some soaring to the height of several floors, beautified the whole area under a ceiling of skylights twenty floors above us.

  Miranda March, the cynic, came to life. “These plants must have cost a fortune. What happens if one of them dies?”

  “Good question. But I’m sure Drake’s got it figured out.”

  This was true. Anyone acquainted with the Lockhart dynamo knew he always had everything figured out.

  Paul, the concierge, met us and gestured us toward a rectangular utilitarian table and three metal chairs. Above us, a huge banner that said OPEN HOUSE spanned the width of the lobby. On the table, a plastic shopping bag and a large cardboard box awaited us. “What’s this?” I asked.

  Gabe picked up the shopping bag and handed it to me. “I figured we’d have an ugly table, so I stopped off and bought a tablecloth to cover it.”

  I pulled a slick plastic package out of the shopping bag and unfurled a burgundy brocade tablecloth with large gold tassels attached to each of the four corners. “Wow. Fancy.” I laughed. “Where did you get this, at a carnival closeout?”

  Gabe gave me an all-male what’s-wrong-with-it look. “I got it at Goodwill.”

  If I had wanted a tablecloth to use at an open house showing luxurious homes, I would have gone shopping at Dillard’s or Macy’s. I couldn’t keep from laughing more. “You are such guy.”

  He lifted the cardboard box and stepped out-of-the-way, allowing me to spread the cloth over the table. He then placed the box back on it. “This is taped shut. I don’t suppose you’d have a switchblade in your purse.”

  “I do.” I prowled inside my purse and produced a small Swiss Army knife.

  He took the knife. “Women’s purses. Bottomless pits.”

  “Shut-up. I carry it in case I have to amputate something.”

  Nonsensical banter with Gabe was fun.

  He sliced the tape, then handed the knife back to me and lifted out a stack of portfolio-type fliers with heavy glossy covers. Inside were several pages of glossy color photographs. When it came to marketing, Drake Lockhart was the best.

  “Ooh, nice fliers,” I said. “Expensive. How many deals are you expecting to do today?”

  “Hard to say. I’m the only one who was dumb enough to volunteer. Look outside. Great weather for golf. And there’s a football game at TCU.”

  He was right. Balmy temperature and little wind. With good fall weather, not even shopping for a cool place to live distracted dedicated Texas golfers from weekends on the links or loyal college football fans from a Saturday afternoon game.

  I reached for my bag and pulled out my Lockhart Concepts name badge that Drake had supplied me. As I pinned it on my blouse, Gabe glanced at it. “Why don’t you get a real estate license, Miranda, and come to work with us? You’d knock ’em dead. I know Drake would let you hang your license.”

  “I’ve thought about it,” I said, “but I like what I’m doing now.”

  Sometime back, Drake had offered me a desk in his brokerage if I would get a real estate license, but I had never told anyone, especially not Gabe. I couldn’t see myself doing that job. The raw competitiveness of the commercial real estate business scared me. But I had occasionally thought about getting a real job with a regular paycheck. I had a college degree in marketing. As off-the-wall as it sounded, years ago, I had won enough scholarship money in beauty pageants to almost pay for a higher educati
on. Those winnings plus two part-time jobs had enabled me to get a sheepskin.

  After college, while I failed to connect with anyone interested in hiring me for my education, I met quite a few willing to pay me for the way I looked. So I started freelancing at what I do now and soon it became a business. Some called Gala a froufrou enterprise that could fall apart any minute and they might be right. Though my little company was profitable, even I didn’t see it as something I would do until the day I died. But unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your point of view, nothing had pressured me to come up with a Plan B.

  At present, I made enough to support myself and allow me to live reasonably well. And to the envy of some of my girlfriends who worked nine-to-five, I was my own woman. Would I be content trading that for being an employee with someone telling me what and how to do? I doubted it.

  Beyond all of that, I had seen how hard Drake’s people worked and the stress associated with what they did. I couldn’t imagine that being as much fun as planning a party or dressing in a fashionable cocktail dress and spending a day or evening in some spotlight.

  “I couldn’t make the party last night,” Gabe said, drawing me out of my musing. “How was it?”

  “Great. You’ve been to my parties. Everyone likes them.”

  “What’s not to like? River of good booze, pounds of boiled shrimp and most of Fort Worth’s upper crust.”

  As part of my party package, I always included top-shelf liquors and my favorite caterer served nothing but fresh, premium gourmet fare. For what I charged my customers and clients, I believed they expected as much, though I economized where I could.

  I gave a playful gasp. “You jest. Seriously, we had a good turnout. Everyone loved the condo and the building, too. We had endless champagne. And my fave, a chocolate fountain.”

  “Why do you always have a chocolate fountain at the parties you throw? You don’t eat sweets.”

  And I didn’t most of the time. I had to keep my body in shape. Besides running my small business, I was also a model of sorts. I had an agent who got me occasional gigs modeling clothing for upscale department stores in Dallas and Houston, which was fun as well as lucrative.