by Jill Mansell
There was a shifty look in his eyes. For appointment-with-client, red-hot-date-with-pouty-blond, Suzy guessed. Martin was mad about blonds. Nancy, of course, was a dazzling brunette.
This, as far as Suzy was concerned, pretty much summed men up.
“No problem.” Whipping out her organizer, she called his bluff. “Give me the details, and I’ll meet your client for you.”
Martin hesitated, then shook his head.
“It’s OK. I’ll reschedule.”
Ha! Talk about a dead giveaway.
“Really, it’s not a problem. I insist.” Suzy’s tone was soothing. She held her pen poised above the page and tilted her head innocently to one side. “Come on now, what’s the client’s name?”
And is it a he or a she? Oh really, a she? Good heavens, what a surprise!
“All right, all right.” Martin heaved a sigh of reluctance. “The name’s Hallen.”
“Mrs.?” Suzy inquired with a bright smile. “Miss? Or Mzzz?”
You no-good, cheating adulterer.
“Mr.,” said Martin. “And he’ll meet you outside the property on Parry’s Lane at eight sharp.”
“Bugger.” Suzy groaned aloud the moment the door had swung shut. Through the glass she watched Martin, emerald silk tie flapping, race across the road, hurrying to reach Lloyd’s flower shop before it closed up for the night. Gloomily, she said, “I’d never have offered if I’d thought for one second he really did have a client.”
“I’d do it,” said Rory, his tone apologetic, “but I’ve got something else going on.”
Suzy smiled at him. It would be too much to hope that her workaholic brother had a hot date. Since his divorce, Rory appeared to have given up on women completely; these days, he had about as much social life as a lettuce.
Less, actually, since at least a lettuce stood a fighting chance of ending up one evening in a candlelit restaurant.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not seeing Harry tonight anyway.” With good-natured resignation, Suzy chucked her organizer into her bag and slid off the desk. “So what are you doing then, something nice?” She gave Rory a look of encouragement. Well, you could always live in hope.
“Shower’s sprung a leak.” Rory was busy shoveling papers into his briefcase. Lifting his head, he pushed his glasses back up over the bridge of his nose. “Plumber’s coming around.”
“And is this plumber a Miss, a Mrs., or a Mzzz?” asked Suzy.
“His name’s Albert. He’s in his sixties; he has no hair and three teeth,” Rory told her patiently. “None of which he ever cleans. But he knows his way around an S bend.”
“Oh well.” Suzy broke into a grin. “Whatever turns you on.”
* * *
The property on Parry’s Lane was one of the most exclusive currently on Curtis’s books. Suzy, who didn’t like it much, pulled into the driveway just before eight and quickly checked her reflection in the rearview mirror.
Right. Enthusiasm required, and lots of it. Just because she wasn’t wild about this kind of sixties-style architecture—all flat roofs, clean lines, and blank, department-store-size windows—it didn’t mean she couldn’t persuade someone it was the best thing since Baileys ice cream.
She was redoing her lipstick when the lights of another car swung up the drive behind her. Running her fingers quickly through her hair, Suzy reached into the glove compartment for her rape alarm, slid it into her jacket pocket, and jumped out of the car.
A slate-gray, M-reg Volvo. Oh, marvelous, how thrilling was this man going to be?
But when he climbed out, Suzy saw that, gosh, he actually was quite thrilling. A vast improvement on his car, anyway. Tall, at well over six feet, he was probably in his midthirties. And he had hair, which was always a bonus. Straight dark hair and nice ears—she’d always had a bit of a thing about ears—and teeth white enough to gleam in the dark, although, of course, that could mean they were false.
Still, the eyes were nice, and they had to be real, at least. And beneath the dark suit lurked a pretty fit, athletic-looking body.
Excellent.
What’s more, thought Suzy, hooray, I’m wearing my lucky jacket!
“Mr. Hallen?” Moving toward him, she stuck out her hand. “I’m Suzy Curtis. I’m afraid Martin wasn’t able to make it this evening so I’ll be showing you the property instead.”
“Oh, right. That’s fine.” As he shook her hand, he regarded her with amusement. “I hope I’m not putting you out.”
What a smile. What a mouth. There was no getting away from it, thought Suzy. Selling a house to someone you liked the look of was definitely easier than doing business with some facially challenged troll.
Plus, it was a lot more fun.
“Putting me out? Not at all.” She flashed him a brief, dazzling smile of her own—See? I can do it too. “Now, did Martin tell you that the owners have relocated? The house has been empty for a fortnight, but they’ve left the carpets and curtains, which will be negotiable.” Jangling keys, Suzy found the right one and fit it into the front door. “They’re asking four fifty, but realistically, I’d think an offer of four twenty is as much as they can expect. Now then, here we are. Let’s get some lights on. Have you seen many properties yet?”
“No.” He shook his head and glanced around the hall. “This is the first.”
“And have you a place of your own to sell or…?”
He smiled again, acknowledging the delicacy of the question.
“I sold my house in London last year. Since moving back to Bristol, I’ve been renting. Now, with the business sorted out, I thought it was about time I bought somewhere.”
Suzy nodded, relieved. She liked that answer. What she was less keen on was when some man suddenly burst into noisy tears and blurted out the story of how his wife was divorcing him and refusing to let him see the kids. This one didn’t look the type, but you could never be sure. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been caught out.
The kitchen lights flickered on to reveal acres of polished steel units and a gleaming black marble floor.
“God,” said Mr. Hallen.
“I know. It’s a bit Starship Enterprise.” Suzy watched him pace around the kitchen. She saw his broad shoulders stiffen as he paused at the sink. “Is everything OK?”
“Fine, fine.” Hearing her high heels behind him, he swung around and put out a restraining arm. “No! Don’t look—”
Chapter 9
Suzy looked.
Well, you have to, don’t you?
And there, frantically struggling to clamber out of the sink—and failing dismally—was a spider the size of a Millie’s cookie.
“Oh, you poor thing. I bet you’ve been stuck in there for days!” Scooping it up into her hand, Suzy pushed open the window behind the sink and carefully shook the spider out. “There, off you go, sweetheart. I always worry when I do that,” she added over her shoulder. “I mean, do they find their way home, back to their families? Or will his wife and children spend the rest of their lives wondering whatever happened to Dad?”
As she spoke, Suzy turned to face her potential client. Was it her imagination or was Mr. Hotshot-Hallen suppressing a bit of a shudder?
“Well, I’m impressed. I thought you’d run a mile at the sight of a spider,” he said drily. “Most girls would.”
Not to mention you, Suzy thought with secret delight.
Aloud she said, “I’m not most girls.”
“I’d noticed. Still, it must come in handy.” He nodded in the direction of the window out of which she had dropped the spider. “Saves all that screaming and jumping up onto chairs and having panic attacks.”
“Then again, sometimes it totally backfires. Shall I tell you something really embarrassing?” Leaning against the sink, Suzy confided, “I once got a call at two o’clock in the morning from an ex I sti
ll liked. He asked me around to his place to deal with a spider. Of course I knew what he really wanted, so I jumped into the shower, threw on some makeup, and drove over to his apartment with nothing on under my coat. And there was the spider, on the ceiling directly above his bed. And when I’d gotten rid of it for him, my ex thanked me and showed me to the front door and called me a brick.”
He laughed.
“I hope you posted it back through the mailbox after that.”
“Oh, I would have gone, like a shot, but that’s the thing about spiders. They’re like policemen, never around when you need them. You aren’t interested in this place, are you?” Suzy said suddenly.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You haven’t even looked in the cupboards.”
“Sorry.”
“Do you want me to show you the rest of the house,” Suzy offered, “or not bother?”
He shook his head. “There’s no point. I don’t like it.”
“Me neither,” said Suzy.
“And I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time.” His mouth twitched. “Still, at least we rescued the spider.”
“Actually,” said Suzy, “we didn’t. I did.”
“You think I was scared, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t.”
“The customer is always right,” Suzy told him. “Of course you weren’t scared.”
He pushed his hair out of his dark blue eyes and smiled down at her.
“I don’t know—this could be against the rules—but would you have dinner with me?”
Golly, talk about a fast worker.
From now on, thought Suzy, this is definitely my lucky jacket.
“Are you married?” As she spoke, she glanced at his ring finger. Nothing. Hooray!
He smiled and shook his head. “You?”
“Oh no. Definitely not married.”
“Seeing anyone?”
“Nooo.” Suzy crossed her fingers behind her back. After all, how involved with Harry was she, really? They’d only been seeing each other for a week and a half. Three dates so far: a few drinks, an Italian meal, and a trip to the cinema to see a movie Harry had hated. They hadn’t even slept together yet. That didn’t count as seeing someone, did it?
Besides, you didn’t lightly turn down an invitation to dinner from someone as downright gorgeous as this.
“Dinner would be great,” Suzy said happily.
There was a long pause.
Mr. Hallen sighed. “Oh dear.”
“Oh dear what?”
“I’m disappointed.”
“Disappointed?” She blinked up at him, startled. “In the house, you mean?”
He was shaking his head.
“In…in me?” Suzy swallowed, her voice beginning to wobble.
He gave her a look that bordered on the sympathetic.
“You don’t know who I am, do you?”
In her jacket pocket, Suzy’s fingers groped for her rape alarm.
“I didn’t set out to deceive you,” he went on easily. “As a matter of fact, I did wonder if you’d recognize my voice.”
The trouble is, thought Suzy, he doesn’t sound like a mass murderer or an escaped lunatic.
With her free hand, she pushed her hair out of her eyes.
“Recognize your voice? No, why would I?”
“We have spoken on the phone.”
Phone, phone…
By this time thoroughly confused, Suzy said, “You mean you called Curtis’s?”
“Not then, but perhaps I should explain.” He paused, then said steadily, “When I spoke to your colleague, Martin Lord, he must have misunderstood me. My name isn’t Hallen; it’s Fitzallan.”
“Oh. Oh!”
In an instant, everything became clear. Suzy clapped her hand over her mouth.
“You’re Harry’s brother!”
He nodded in agreement. “Leo.”
“The one with the dog!”
“Baxter,” Leo Fitzallan said gravely.
“You don’t look a bit like Harry.” Suzy’s gaze was accusing.
“Sorry. I didn’t know it was compulsory. If we’re being honest,” he pointed out, “you don’t look much like Lucille.”
“Hang on.” Suzy frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me straightaway who you were?”
There was that devastating smile again…but Suzy was no longer quite so sure she trusted it.
“Like I said, this wasn’t planned,” Leo Fitzallan told her. “But sometimes you see an opportunity that’s just too good to pass up. Jameson’s Restaurant OK with you? Or we could try Le Gourmet.” As he spoke, he ushered her toward the front door. “You see, for the past ten days or so, my brother has talked about nothing but you. He’s well and truly smitten. You must know that.”
Yes, thanks, thought Suzy. I had noticed.
Aloud, she said stiffly, “We get on very well together.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmm what?”
“I was interested.” Leo sounded amused. “To find out how you felt about him.”
Suzy’s eyes widened with indignation.
“Oh, that’s great. So inviting me to Le Gourmet was just a big trick, was it? A cunning plan, to see if I said, ‘Ooh no, thanks so much, but I couldn’t possibly go out to dinner with someone else; my boyfriend wouldn’t like it.’”
His expressive eyebrows said it all.
“Well,” drawled Leo, “it was worth a try.”
She locked the front door of the hideous house behind her.
“OK, well, I’m sorry this place wasn’t your cup of tea. If you’d like to pop into the office I could give you details of other properties that—”
“Your car or mine?” Leo interrupted.
“Excuse me?” Suzy was already climbing into the driver’s seat of the Rolls.
“For dinner.”
“At Le Gourmet?”
“If you like.”
“Gorblimey, guv, you’re a proper gent and no mistake.” Reaching across, Suzy clicked open the passenger door. She dropped the Eliza Doolittle accent and smiled up at him. “Come on, we’ll go in mine.”
* * *
Miraculously, there was a parking space right outside Le Gourmet on Whiteladies Road. As she expertly reversed into it, Suzy said, “Anyway, I’m not having dinner with you because I fancy you rotten.”
“No?”
“No. We’re here purely because I’m a real estate agent and you want to buy a house.”
They hadn’t prebooked. Every table in the restaurant was full. If they waited at the bar and had a drink, the manager told Leo, they could be seated in half an hour.
Once they were settled in the bar, Suzy twirled the stem of her wineglass and continued, “You see, this is what my job’s all about. I need to find out exactly what you’re after. Then I have to persuade you to let me find it for you.”
Particularly when we’re talking close to half a million pounds…
“And is that what you’re good at?” said Leo.
“It’s what I’m best at.”
She watched him smile to himself as he studied the menu. Sensational cooking smells were drifting up from the kitchen; her stomach began to rumble like a volcano.
“Along with parking large cars in small spaces,” Leo observed. “And tackling large spiders. Not to mention talking your way out of speeding tickets.”
Amazed to find herself turning pink, Suzy said, “Oh, so Harry told you about that.”
Leo, his tone grave, replied, “As I said, we’re talking seriously smitten. Harry has told me everything about you. And I do mean everything.” He paused. “I even know about”—longer pause—“the music.”
She bristl
ed, instantly on the defensive. There was that acerbic eyebrow going up again. Honestly, why did people love to sneer so much?
If you had a speech impediment or a deformed foot, Suzy thought defiantly, no decent human being would dream of poking fun at you. But dare to be just the teeniest bit different in your musical tastes and the whole world feels free to make fun of you, openly criticizing your choice and generally laughing themselves sick at your expense.
Leo, it appeared, was no exception.
Charming.
Just because she enjoyed songs with a jolly tune. And a nice cheerful beat.
“I happen to like ABBA,” said Suzy.
“And ‘Macarena.’”
“One of the all-time greats.”
“And ‘YMCA.’”
“So?”
“And ‘Agadoo.’”
“‘Doo-doo, push pineapple, shake the tree,’” Suzy said promptly.
Half sang, actually. She couldn’t help herself; it was one of those involuntary reflexes, like breathing.
Funnily enough, Jaz had always told her she should have married the lead singer from Black Lace.
“And the soundtrack from Saturday Night Fever,” Leo persisted.
He was seriously beginning to get on her nerves.
“Look, I could pretend to like k. d. lang and Schubert and Jamiroquai,” Suzy protested. “But I just don’t. I like what I like, and I like stuff that makes me feel happy. So to each his own, OK? You don’t smirk at my record collection, and I won’t smirk at the lapels on your suit, or the fact that you drive a Volvo.”
There was nothing wrong with his lapels, but seeing as he was only a man, she was pretty sure he wouldn’t know that.
And he definitely drove a Volvo.
“Touché,” said Leo Fitzallan, raising his glass of wine.
“You might have terrible taste in houses as well.” Suzy stuck her elbows on the bar, warming to her theme. “You might go for hideous Southfork-type properties, with really tacky decor.”
The waiter, discreetly approaching, murmured to Leo, “May I take your order, sir?”
“I’m sorry, we’ve been talking too much.” Suzy gave him an apologetic smile. “I haven’t even looked at the menu yet. Could we have another few minutes?”