by Tinnean
“Hello!” she cooed. She adjusted her shoulder bag, which was large enough to hold all the paraphernalia of her business, gave Mrs. Mann a dismissive smile, and extended her hand to me. “I’m Francesca Dashwood. You must be Mark Vincent. Let me give you my card. It has my home phone number on it as well as my work and cell numbers.”
I took the card from her, gave it a quick once-over, and then tucked it into the inner pocket of my suit jacket before giving her a more thorough appraisal.
She was a tall, buxom brunette with eyes such an unbelievable blue that I knew they were contacts. The trouser suit she wore emphasized her tits and long legs. Of course, the stiletto-heeled sandals on her long, thin feet helped. Streaked brown hair spilled down her back in waves, and she tossed her head, flipping a stray lock of hair over her shoulder. A large ruby wrapped in gold filigree dangled from the exposed ear.
Mrs. Mann gave her a considering glance and made a soft, almost inaudible sound. In another woman, I would have called it a snort, but she was too elegant for anything like that.
“I’m Portia Mann, Allison’s friend.” Her cell phone rang, and I recognized the tone as “It Had to Be You.” Interesting. “Pardon me.” She took it from her purse and studied the screen. Her mouth tightened. She turned off the ringer and put it back, and nodded, all trace of irritation wiped from her face. “You may proceed, Ms. Dashwood.”
“Yes. Right this way.”
She gave us a tour of the community’s many amenities—the banquet room with its adjacent gourmet kitchen, card room, billiard room, and the miniature theater for viewing movies.
“And of course the theatricals the community is known for. Their last production was very well received. The Pirates of Penzance, I believe. You’d make an excellent Pirate King!” She fluttered her lashes at me. “Now if you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the exercise room.” On the way, she pointed out the sauna and locker rooms for both sexes. “And here we have the exercise room!”
Weights, treadmills, stair-climbers, stationary bicycles, things I wouldn’t have expected to see outside Gold’s Gym.
“It’s impressive, isn’t it?” she murmured. One wall was completely glass, giving a view of the pool. “If you’ll come this way?” She led us down a spacious hallway. “As you can see, this room is for aerobics.”
What I could see were the community fees going sky high.
“Suppose you show us the condominium?”
“Certainly. That building is the gem of this community; although it’s the same size as all the other buildings, there are only three units on each floor. I’ll point out the garage that goes with the unit, and then I’ll take you to see the condo. If you’ll get into my car?”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll drive, or we can follow you.”
Most people would have missed the disgruntled twist to her lips.
“Of course.” Her smile was gracious. “Not a problem at all. If you’ll follow me?”
In a matter of minutes, we were driving past the area where garages for each building were. They’d been designed to look like old-fashioned carriage houses.
“This isn’t too convenient,” I said to Mrs. Mann.
“Keep that in mind, Mark.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
All the streets were named after aspens: Aspen Court, Aspen Circle, Aspen Drive, Aspen Way, Aspen Please-just-shoot-me-now.
We turned into Aspen Way and pulled up to the curb. When I got out, Francesca Dashwood was right there. She looped her arm through mine, once again flirting with her lashes.
“You really didn’t need to have someone with you, you know. I don’t bite… much.”
“What a shame that I’m taken.” I couldn’t resist the temptation to play the kept man.
“Oh?”
“Hon—” I coughed as if to cover up my slip. “Mrs. Mann is a very good… friend. She always insists on coming along.” I freed my arm and went around to the passenger side, opened the door, and handed Mrs. Mann out. I offered my arm to Mrs. Mann.
“Thank you, Mark.”
I could almost see the wheels turning as the other woman tried to figure out Mrs. Mann’s relationship to me.
Mrs. Mann was about to release my arm, and I put my hand over hers to keep it in place. “I was just telling Ms. Dashwood what good friends we are, and how of course you’d come house-hunting with me.”
“That’s true, precious.” She didn’t miss a beat, picked up on what I was doing right away. She patted the hand that covered hers. “I wouldn’t want you to make a mistake. Goodness knows you cost me enough….” She gave a bland smile. Damn, I wished I could have known her when she’d been younger. She must have been a pistol. And I’d have tried my damnedest to take her away from Nigel Mann. “That is to say, you did want that monstrosity in… where was it?”
“There were so many, and you didn’t like any of them.” I thrust my lip out and did my best to sound sulky. “Not even the one with the mirror on the ceiling in the bedroom.”
Unseen by the Realtor, Mrs. Mann pinched me.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing like that here in Aspen Reach. However, this condo is fully furnished, and you have the option of buying it that way for only an additional seventy-five thousand dollars.” Ms. Dashwood led us into the lobby of the building.
“Mark has his own furniture.”
A brief pause. “That’s fine, then. However, if you should change your mind…. Ah, here’s the elevator.”
“I don’t use elevators.” Mrs. Mann looked around. “Where is the stairway?”
“Oh, surely a woman your age….”
Mrs. Mann simply raised an eyebrow, and the Realtor shut up and backed up.
“Ms. Dashwood?”
“Of course. Right this way.” She gave a saccharine smile and led us to the stairs. “If you don’t mind, I’ll meet you on three. My sandals….” She walked back to the elevator.
“Y’know,” I muttered, “if there was a God, that elevator would get stuck between floors. For the whole weekend.” I held open the door to the stairwell, and Mrs. Mann entered, stifling her laughter with an elegant hand.
“You don’t like her?”
“I don’t like her attitude.”
“She’s very attractive, not to mention very well endowed. Many men would be more than willing to overlook her attitude.”
“She’s not my type.” I wasn’t going to remind her I was involved with her son, and that made anyone who wasn’t him not my type. She observed me thoughtfully; was she trying to make me nervous? I decided to go on the offensive. “Mrs. Mann, are you sure you want to take the stairs?”
“Do you doubt that I can?”
“No, ma’am.” But Quinn wasn’t here, and that left me to worry about her. She was in her sixties, after all. I’d keep an eye on her, and the second she even looked like she was faltering, I’d toss her over my shoulder—well, no, she was too elegant for that. I’d scoop her up in my arms. Yeah, that would work. And I’d carry her the rest of the way.
When we reached the third floor, her breathing was slightly heavy.
“You will not tell Quinton. Is that understood?”
“Tell him what, ma’am?” But if she was really having a problem, I’d tell Quinn in a shot. I liked her very much, but as I’d told her, if it was a toss-up as to who I’d piss off, it would have to be her.
Not realizing what I was thinking, she patted my arm, and we stepped out of the stairwell. The Realtor was standing by the elevator. The minute she saw us approaching, she stopped tapping her toe and smiled. Mrs. Mann hugged my arm to her, and we walked down the corridor. The condo was at the far end.
That was good. I didn’t like the idea of an elevator being too close to where I lived.
Ms. Dashwood unlocked the door and stepped aside to let us enter. My “sugar momma” walked in, looking over the entryway thoughtfully.
“After you, Ms. Dashwood.” I gestured for her t
o enter before me.
“Call me Francesca.” She adjusted her shoulder bag.
“Oh, I couldn’t….” But I let it sound as if with a little coaxing I very well could.
“Please?”
I surrendered gracefully. “Francesca.”
“There, you see? That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now if you’ll….”
“Oh, no. Ladies before gentlemen. Francesca.” I let my voice caress her name. “Please. Honey… Mrs. Mann likes me to be polite.”
She gave me a considering look from under her lashes, then fluttered them and followed Mrs. Mann, a provocative swing to her hips.
I shut the door and threw the deadbolt from force of habit.
“Oh! You’re quite close to me!”
I smiled at her, and she leaned back against me. Ah, shit, my acting was too good.
Fortunately, Mrs. Mann came to the rescue. Not that I needed rescuing, but I was playing a role here.
“This closet is quite small.” Mrs. Mann’s tone of voice let it be known that no closet in her home would dare to be that small.
The closet was tucked away in a small alcove to the immediate left as we walked in. It wouldn’t need to be very big in order to hold a couple of overcoats and umbrellas, and maybe that fake dog that Quinn had said was a Shih Tzu, but I kept my mouth shut.
“You’ll find plenty of storage in this condominium. Now,” Francesca went on briskly, “the powder room is to the right, off the entryway. I like it.”
I raised an eyebrow at the pale pink tiles and the wallpaper covered with tiny flowers the same color. “Kind of girly, don’t you think?”
“I’m a girl, if you hadn’t noticed.” She did that lash-fluttering thing again. Jesus, she was going to start a windstorm!
“I do like the pedestal sink.” I didn’t say it was because it reminded me of that hotel in Paris where I’d first taken Pierre de Becque, when I’d thought the Division cold op was a hustler.
“You can make any changes you desire. Consider it a canvas, if you will, and you color it with the palette of your own personality. Now.” She began showing us through the unit. “To our left through that archway is the formal dining room, which we’ll visit later. Here’s the kitchen, and beyond that, also to the left, is the master suite. As you can see, this particular condominium has a split floor plan. The master suite is separated from the guest wing by….” She waved her hand, indicating a very large, very pink living room. There was a fireplace against the inner wall. “This is a gas fireplace. It’s very nice, isn’t it? The mantle and surround are Carrara marble.”
French doors were folded back to let in the afternoon sunshine. Drapes with more pink flowers framed a deep bay window, and a cushion covered by the same material was on the window seat.
The room was cluttered with furniture: fussy chairs, a glass coffee table, the type of couch that used to be called a passion pit because an orgy could easily be hosted on it. Bric-a-brac was on every flat surface: nymphs and shepherdesses, flimsily dressed women.
“And you say the owner is willing to part with these? I’m surprised. They’re Lladró,” Mrs. Mann said. Yeah, she’d be familiar with them.
I shrugged. Like I knew Lladró from those figurines of big-eyed kids praying.
Francesca gave Mrs. Mann a professional smile but didn’t respond to that. “And you can go onto the terrace through these French doors.”
I was watching Mrs. Mann. She gave a tiny shake of her head. “It’s not a very good view,” I murmured grudgingly.
“Don’t you golf, Mark? I assure you this is an excellent course, and the pro is quite exceptional. I’m sure just a session or two would be all that you’d need.”
I gave her a sour look. “I don’t much care to look out onto a water hazard.” Between the golf resort The Boss had sent me to out in Phoenix a few months ago and the local range, I had more than my fill of golf. Right now I was shooting about par, but I liked it only marginally less than getting up on a horse.
“Oh, that’s just a little…. Now this window has a very charming window seat!” She strolled over to it and bent, drawing the material of her slacks tight over her ass. She smiled at me over her shoulder, batting her lashes. “Voila! It opens to provide storage!”
“That’s a nice feature, I’ll grant you,” Mrs. Mann agreed. I could see how grudging that agreement was, but it went right over the Dashwood woman’s head.
“I knew that as a woman you’d appreciate that, Mrs. Mann. Now let me show you the guest suite.”
I could see that phrase jacking up the price.
“It’s just down this corridor. It contains the second bedroom, which has a sitting area and a full bathroom of its own, although not as luxurious as the master bath. This way, please.”
We trooped down the hallway. On the right side was a set of pocket doors. “What’s this room?”
“Oh, that’s the den.” She threw open the doors with a flourish, and I was greeted with more pink. The walls, the carpet, the furniture—a desk, a couple of chairs, a cabinet that opened to reveal a sewing machine and supplies.
Still, it was a good-sized room, and it would be nice to have a dedicated study.
Before I could betray my interest to the Realtor, Mrs. Mann gave me a look. Did she realize I was picturing my big desk in here?
She said, “I’d like to see the guest room. I believe you said it was a suite?”
“Oh, yes!” She ushered us across the hall and into the room. “Isn’t this the most delicious bedroom?”
“It’s very… pink.” I felt like I was having a Pepto-Bismol overdose. Who would have thought there could be so many different shades of pink?
“As I said,” Francesca murmured, giving a condescending smile, “you can change whatever you like.”
Mrs. Mann walked into the room and stopped dead. “Oh, my. This carpeting is thick, isn’t it?”
I followed her, sinking into the plush depths, and realized what she meant.
Francesca’s voice lost some of its enthusiasm. “A little paint, new carpeting… I believe I heard something about there being hardwood floors under this.”
“That would be…. Mark, I think you’d like hardwood floors.” Mrs. Mann crossed to a pair of doors. “Ah. A nice-sized closet.”
I didn’t particularly care. It wasn’t likely I’d have guests, and when Quinn came over, he’d spend the night in my room.
Mrs. Mann went to the window. “Draped voile shades. I must say, I like that touch.” She drew them aside, letting in more of the late afternoon sun. “Although the view is only tolerable.” She turned away. “Is this the sitting area?”
“Yes.”
Even more pink. Why wasn’t I surprised? It contained an overstuffed easy chair and ottoman, an artificial fireplace, a floor lamp, and a small table with Elle, Glamour, and Cosmopolitan fanned out over the surface. The most current issue was at least ten months old.
“It’s a nice use of space,” Mrs. Mann was saying. “I assume the fireplace is included?”
“I think the… owners might be persuaded to include it. Now, the guest bathroom is right through here. Shall we?”
The door to the bathroom was beside the closet. It opened to reveal a single vanity with marble top and chrome fixtures, the john, and a tub and shower with a glassed-in enclosure.
“It’s a little small, don’t you think, Mark?”
I shrugged. I wouldn’t be using it. She frowned at me, and I realized she was setting up a bargaining chip.
“You’re right, hon. Mrs. Mann. What, no bidet?”
“That’s in the master bath.” Francesca was at my shoulder, and I turned and raised my eyebrow. She gave an arch smile and nodded to a door. “See! There’s a linen closet in here also.”
Be still my heart.
“Well, I imagine it can hold the sheets and towels for the bedroom and bath.” Mrs. Mann seemed dubious. “Although a comforter or duvet….”
“As I’ve said, there’s plenty of
storage. You needn’t worry about that. Now, if you’ll just follow me—” She stepped back through the bedroom and into the hallway.
Jesus, this woman did like to use the word “now.”
“What’s this door?”
“Oh, it leads to the roof.”
“Do all the units on this floor have access?” Mrs. Mann was observing her carefully.
Francesca nodded. “Let’s just—”
I tried the doorknob, but it wouldn’t open. “Do you have the key for this? I’d like to see the roof.” The lock seemed sturdy, but if I’d been alone, I’d have had it unlocked in a matter of seconds.
“I’m sorry; I wasn’t given the key to that door. The condominium association is having some work done on the roof, and no one is permitted up there just now. You understand, I’m sure—the liability factor. They’ll turn the key over to you after you’ve bought it. Let me show you the rest of the condo.” All of a sudden she seemed antsy to get us away from there.
Well, if I decided to buy this place, I’d change all the locks anyway. And it was for damn sure I’d check out the roof before I agreed to anything. If I decided to buy.
“If you’ll follow me, please?”
We followed her back through the living room.
“Here’s the kitchen!”
“Large.” Mrs. Mann was willing to give it that, but grudgingly.
“There’s plenty of storage. As I said.” Francesca’s smile this time seemed a little strained.
I crouched to open a cabinet, making sure she didn’t see the expression on my face. I wished I’d had Portia Mann with me the other times I’d gone house-hunting. I’d never had so much fun.
“The cabinets are natural maple, crafted in Canada, and the hardware is brushed nickel. The stainless steel appliances are new; they’ve all been replaced within the last month or so.” In an effort to lure buyers? “The countertops are granite, and the flooring is RiverStone tile. As you can see, the island has a cooktop. And don’t you think the pass-through is a convenience no upscale home should be without?”
“It is a nice touch, as is the breakfast nook. And there’s a window? Odd. I would have thought this wall didn’t have the exposure.” Mrs. Mann pulled back a set of sheer curtains.
