Selling Forever

by Kimber Chin

  * * * *

  The call came in the midst of his almond jelly. Cara offered to drop him off at home first. No, not going to happen. Richard wasn't ready for the evening to end. Not before he got his kiss. Or two. And determined whether she was braless again today. He'd been thinking about that since she grabbed his ass during the photo.

  The slight young woman, Richard assumed was the much talked about assistant broker, Wendy, met them in the driveway, her brown eyes glazed with panic, her hands twisting together.

  "I'm so sorry, Cara, I know, I mean, I'm sorry,” the girl repeated for the millionth time before Cara even closed the car door.

  "That's okay, Wendy.” Cara put her hand on the shorter girl's shoulder. “I was expecting this. That's why my phone was on."

  She'd make a good mom, the thought flashed through Richard's brain. Nothing fazed Cara. Wendy relaxed immediately.

  "Wendy, this is Richard. Richard, Wendy."

  The girl blinked at him a couple times like he was some exotic species of animal before she got back to worrying. “It's Mrs. Beadice. She won't sign. This morning she said she would. She got everything she wanted, everything she asked for, but now she won't. She says she's staying. Oh, I knew I couldn't do this."

  "Of course, you can.” Cara's smile was gentle. “I'll show you how.” She reached into the trunk, Richard peeking over her shoulder. What did she have in there? More like, what didn't she have in there? Cara had more junk in her trunk than he had in his whole apartment.

  She lifted out a black audio video bag and handed it to Wendy. “Here, this is what you need."

  "A camcorder?"

  How would making movies help an old woman move out of her home? And what else did Cara use that camcorder for? A different type of home movie, perhaps? If so, Richard had a few ideas for plots. No other actors necessary, just him and her and that beige leather couch. She could wear...

  "Mrs. Beadice has lived here thirty-three years, Wendy. Why does she want to stay?"

  "Memories. I know. But I don't understand, Cara, she'll have the memories regardless, that's what I told her. The memories aren't being sold, only the house."

  "Some people need a physical reminder, so we use the camcorder."

  "To give her a physical reminder.” Full understanding now for both of them. Cara was one smart cookie.

  Wendy peered at the house. “Will you come in with me?"

  "You don't need me, but...” Cara added as the girl's mouth opened. “Richard and I will be waiting here in the car in case you do."

  Richard and her, he liked how Cara linked their names together. Like they were a couple.

  * * * *

  Cara stared out the windshield at the darkness. Richard stared at her. There, then, in the quiet stillness of the car, he saw it again. The loneliness. She hid it differently than he did, behind laughter and mile-a-minute words, but it was there.

  "Cara.” Richard stretched his legs in the passenger side, the seat pushed back as far as it could go. He didn't know what to say.

  "Not much of an evening, was it?” She smiled ruefully. “Constant interruptions, media coverage, cold food, and now hanging out in an old lady's driveway. Woohoo, I sure know how to show a man a good time."

  "Beats holing up alone in my apartment.” Maybe if he touched her, they'd feel better. Richard traced the outline of her right ear, playing with the dangling earring. Oh, yeah, some of the tension eased already. And if he kissed her, would the spark in her eyes return? “That's what I would have been doing instead."

  She took a breath, held it, then exhaled raggedly. “Me too."

  "Liar.” He tapped the tip of her nose. “You would have been working."

  "Yeah,” Cara confessed. “I likely would have been, but after that..."

  Yeah, after that. Her condo was as empty as his apartment.

  She twisted in her seat to look at him. He slid his fingers under her chin and down her neck. “Do you like being alone, Richard?"

  "Not especially.” He moved along her breast bone, sliding underneath her suit top, unbuttoning as he went. She didn't stop him. “But at least there, I'm...” He reached her bra strap. Darn, all bundled up tonight.

  "Safe?"

  "No one wants anything.” He concentrated on the feel of her skin, so soft. A little lower, skin covered curves that...

  Cara's laughter was too high pitched to be natural. “Except for the telemarketers. Though heaven help them if I'm in a chatty mood."

  Like she was now, even as she hummed under his palm. “Cara.” He cupped her left breast over the silk, weighing the fullness. He was going to kiss her tonight, touch her, and fill that emptiness only he saw.

  But no volunteering to be auctioned off. No buying a house. Though, the way she felt, how she arched into him, she might convince him to do anything.

  "Sometimes, I don't let them get a word in edgewise."

  "Cara.” She continued rattling on, talking about her houseplants. Richard wouldn't let her hide from him behind a barrage of words. He knew only one way to stop her.

  He covered that moving mouth with his. She stopped for a moment before pressing back, opening to him. So generous. He stroked her tongue with his and she ran her fingers into his crazy hair.

  It seemed only minutes later when the car window was rapped on. It must have been longer, though. His back ached from the awkward angle, wrapped around the middle console, and he could barely detect Wendy's smiling face and waving papers through the steamed up glass.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Step Four

  Presenting: Showing the prospect that the product/service is ideal for solving the problem. Addressing the problem and how the product solves that problem.

  Cara parked on the street, remaining in the car.

  "This isn't my apartment.” Spoken slowly, like she was a crazy person.

  Which she was. She shouldn't be here. They shouldn't be here. This deal was supposed to be top secret until all the properties closed. They couldn't afford to have a seller bail.

  But she wanted to share it with Richard. For him to be the first non-business person she told. To show him. She didn't know why. She just did.

  "Why are we here, Cara?” Yes, this was a bad idea. The car ahead of hers was missing its back tires, propped up on stolen bricks, the back window smashed. “This isn't the best part of town."

  For now, she assured herself, all that was about to change. “What do you think of this street?"

  He glanced out of his window, his forehead wrinkled up, lips pressed together.

  Lips that earlier had been on hers. She wanted him. It didn't matter that they recently met. He knew her. He got her. His head swung around again. When his eyes met hers, like they did right now, he saw her. Her. Not the fast-talking saleswoman, but her.

  "I'm not buying a house here."

  Cara stared at him in amazement. Well, maybe he didn't completely get her. Where had that come from?

  "Richard"

  "No,” he held up his left hand, “I'm not. You might think my housing needs are meager, knowing the area I live in, but ... ,"

  He was considering buying a house? When had that happened? “Richard,” she tried again.

  "But even I draw the line at living in this neighborhood."

  "And what exactly is wrong with this neighborhood?” That a wrecking ball couldn't fix?

  "Cara, I'm a billionaire."

  Oh, sugar.

  "If I move and that's a big if, I'm not going to slum hop.” Liar, he wouldn't have brought it up if moving wasn't under consideration. And did he say ‘slum?’ “I'll buy somewhere family friendly."

  "This could be family friendly.” That was the plan.

  "I'm not buying a house here,” he repeated, voice raised.

  "I'm not selling you a house here.” Her voice was even louder. Take a chill pill, pal.

  There was silence in the car. This was what she got for opening up, for talking about things she shouldn't b
e talking about. She thought he'd understand.

  He took a deep breath. He'd better watch what that big mouth said or he'd discover first hand how nice the neighborhood was as he walked that tight little butt to the bus stop.

  "Let's try this again.” Yes, let's. “Cara, why are we here?"

  "No reason.” She was sulking, she realized that.

  "Why do you care about what I think of this street?"

  Because she cared about what he thought, period. She shouldn't, but she did.

  "I guess I gave you my brutally honest opinion on it.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it even crazier. “You're the expert, Cara. What do you think?"

  "I think it has potential,” she mumbled, feeling hurt.

  "Like I have potential?” Richard laughed a little shakily, rubbing her shoulder, the fool. “I hope.” A pause, then ... “What kind of potential? What do you see, Cara?"

  When she looked at him? Forever. Despite him jumping to irrational conclusions. When she looked at the street...

  Cara closed her eyes for a second then opened them again, holding the image in her mind. “A row of brownstones. Four stories. Brightly painted front doors. Tile in the kitchens, carpet in the bedrooms."

  The thought made her excited again. “New energy efficient windows. Rolling front lawns. Wide sidewalks. A parkette over there.” She pointed to where an abandoned convenience store now stood. It would be demolished, earth laid, a tree planted.

  A neighborhood for middle class families. Like Wendy's. “Skipping ropes in the driveway. The thump, thump, thump of a basketball.” First homes. Dreams Cara helped make true.

  "Its future?” Cara snapped back to the present. Right. Richard, the skeptic.

  She drew away defensively, but there was no need. He wasn't laughing at her. He looked almost encouraging. Did he understand this wasn't about him?

  "Its future.” It was about her and the families and...

  "Your future?"

  "For a while.” Until the houses were built and sold. The families moving in, the laughter, the...

  Another pause, then “I'm an ass, aren't I?"

  "You are.” She hadn't forgiven him.

  "Oh.” He sounded so dejected that Cara peeked at him from under her eyelashes. He slumped in his seat, his cheeks puffed out like a blowfish.

  Could it be that he cared? “But lucky for you, I'm partial to asses.” His face lit up. She smiled. It could.

  "Very lucky for me,” Richard laughed and grew serious again. “Cara, if this street is your future, then it is my future, forget all that I—"

  She waved her hand. “It's forgotten.” But it wasn't, not really. What if he was right and she was wrong? What if even with the rebuild, the area wasn't fit for families? What if she let down all the people depending on her?

  It was so overwhelming. Scary.

  Like, “Richard, tell me about building your company."

  He would understand the fear. He had been there.

  "I knew the idea should work. I knew there was a market for it. But there was a risk.” There was a market for this type of housing. Her business partners had completed builds before. The risk, oh, there was risk. “If it failed, if some other company got there first, I would have lost everything."

  Like she could. If it went wrong. Her mortgaged condo. Her reputation. “But you did it, anyway."

  "I did it anyway.” He placed his hand over hers on the steering wheel.

  Thrusting him into the public eye, whether he wanted to be there or not. A sacrifice for this private man. “Would you have done it all over again, now that you know how it'd be?"

  "I didn't have a choice,” he said quietly.

  Cara nodded. “I don't, either.” A part of her lightened, accepting her fate. She didn't have a choice about the development. She didn't have a choice about Richard. They were both done deals.

  "Next stop on the tour,” she grinned. “The home of reclusive billionaire, Richard Thompson.” She turned the key in the ignition.

  "Don't hold your breath,” Cara barely heard over the engine.

  * * * *

  Richard followed Cara around his apartment, trying to see it from her perspective. Not a pretty sight. The decor couldn't even be called college chic. It consisted mostly of cardboard boxes filled with items he hadn't unpacked during the last decade and a half. He meant to, but never had.

  The furniture was either hand-me-downs from friends or curbside finds and covered with miscellaneous computer innards. The walls were the stark white of builders paint. Not a single piece of art or a photo broke the bareness.

  His apartment wasn't helping his rather shaky case with Cara, and he couldn't afford to make any more mistakes. He almost blew it back there in the car. She shared something with him, Richard wasn't sure what, that was hazy, but something risky that scared her, and that she needed to talk about with someone. Him.

  And what did he do?

  He jumped to wrong, all wrong, conclusions about her motives.

  Now, this. A tour of the apartment from hell. By a woman who spent her days looking at homes. The verdict? Couldn't be good. She hadn't said a thing. Unnerving from his talkative girl.

  Cara sidestepped the tangle of wires from his overflowing collection of video equipment, patting the olive green sofa as she passed. A cloud of dust filled the air. Maid, he needed a maid. Richard added that to his mental checklist.

  "If I had known you were coming—"

  "You'd have cleaned up?” Blue eyes sparkled up at him and he heaved a sigh of relief. She couldn't be disgusted with him, not if she was laughing about it.

  "I'd have bought furniture.” Or at least borrowed some. The place was embarrassingly bare, even his bed was just a king size mattress thrown on the floor.

  She stood in front of his desk, hands on those shapely hips, a thoughtful look on her face. Did she like it? Richard hoped.

  "This is a nice desk.” She did. Cara slid a drawer out, examining the joints. “Dovetails, see?” She held it out to him and he nodded like he knew what she was talking about. “Solid. From the 1930s."

  What didn't she know about? Richard watched her in admiration as she buzzed around, touching, caressing.

  Until she said, “It's not looking its best, though. Needs refinishing."

  Refinishing? Richard frowned. “I'm not changing it.” It had been his father's and his father's father's before that. Part of who he was.

  All of this was part of who he was. If she didn't like it, she could go to...

  "Richard.” His name was a verbal caress from those plump lips. “You go to the gym every day, right?"

  "Yeah.” He stood up straighter. She noticed. He wasn't a meat head, but he kept himself in shape. Had to with all those doughnuts and pies and cupcakes he inhaled.

  "And you bring the Jetta in for maintenance, right?"

  Maintenance, life support, whatever she wished to call it. “Yeah."

  "Then why don't you care for your desk the same way? Don't you like it?” He watched as she smoothed back a torn piece of leather.

  "I love that desk.” And loved watching her touch it. It was almost an erotic experience, especially when she leaned over it and her skirt pulled tight around her rear and...

  "Then show that love."

  "I don't know how.” His voice sounded husky even to his own ears. Somehow they had moved past talking about furniture.

  And she knew that too. Cara walked toward him, and stopped close, running a hand down his shirt buttons. “I could show you.” She followed the folds on the fabric, making a circle over his heart. “Let me take care of the desk. Let me take care of your apartment.” Let me take care of you, he willed her to say, but she didn't.

  Richard pulled her to him, hips snug against hips. “What do you plan to do?” Not that he cared. She could string him up from the ceiling and he'd be game.

  Her head swung back, blonde hair falling over her shoulders. “Trust me."

  "I do.” He did. Wi
th everything. He combed his fingers through the silk, fascinated by the way the light picked up the gold in the strands. Oh, good Lord, she was humming already, all over, her skin shimmering against his.

  "Cara?” How far would they go? He didn't think he could stand much more without...

  "Richard?” She looked so cute and confused that he had to kiss her, sucking on her bottom lip, then surging inside her sweet mouth, stealing any words she might have had.

  Which wasn't very bright of him.

  "I, um, we, tonight.” Hell, he didn't know what to say. He'd show her, then. He let go of what little control he had left, allowing his body to react to her heat, and to ensure he wasn't misunderstood, grabbed her hips to grind her against him.

  "Oh, oh my,” Cara squeaked. “I think..."

  She was thinking? That wasn't good. Richard slid his hands under her suit top, along her back bone, and deftly unfastened her bra. Cara was so soft.

  "Richard, I think tonight we're going to find out why beds need box springs."

  If they made it to the mattress.

  * * * *

  The first thing she was going to buy for him was a new bed. Cara nestled closer to Richard, her head on his bare chest, her body laid over top of his.

  Not one hundred percent comfortable, but better than lying directly on that thing he called a mattress. Lumpy. She thought she felt a spring poking out.

  Last night she hadn't done much thinking. Only feeling. All feeling. All she suspected it'd be, but more, not merely mind-blowing sex, but a fusing of souls.

  Cara cupped her hand around the curve of his shoulder. A few laughs pushed them past those awkward first moments. The first time, when, in his haste, he tripped over his own dropped pants, landing face first on top of her. Then again, when she cracked his head with her knee, making him see stars.

  Yes, laughter. With him, she laughed more. She felt sexier. She felt young and free and...

  Perfect. They were perfect together. Intellectually, physically, emotionally. When it was only the two of them.

  But it couldn't always be the two of them. Eventually, they'd have to rejoin the world. Very different worlds. Hers, lived boldly in the public eye, and his, spent avoiding it.