If stone greyhound sentries didn't say class, what did?
And the house—not a floor, not a condo, an entire house!—was on West Seventy-sixth Street, just off Broadway. Close to Central Park, not too far away from Riverside Park, and not within easy walking distance of Faith's pink and white penthouse on the Upper East Side.
The interior had original woodwork to die for, kitchens that would be any gourmet's dream—Maggie didn't really care about the kitchens, but Sterling would—and the main room on the top floor had a twenty-by-forty-foot glass ceiling. A domed, many-paned glass ceiling! Jeez.
The house called to her.
Alex called to her.
She needed both of them.
She looked at the page again.
Much too large a place for one person, definitely, but not at all too large for three people. Alex and Sterling could move in, maybe even share expenses, and they could all be together and yet private from one another, even while they were all under the same glass roof.
Maggie loved it when a plan came together.
And all for only six million nine hundred and fifty dollars. For Manhattan, for a house like that, six million nine hundred and fifty dollars was pretty much chump change. Right?
"Meanwhile, back in the land of reality," Maggie muttered to herself, closing the window on a photograph of the roof garden. "Besides, when you get to nearly seven million, why bother with the fifty bucks on the end? That's so tacky."
Wellington, the black male Persian, stood up, stretched, and waddled over to rub himself against Maggie's ankles.
"I wasn't talking to you, fish-breath. I was talking to myself," Maggie told him, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. "But, as long as you're here—would you like a new house, hmm? It's got a walled garden out back. I could open the door, and you and Nappy could go outside, sprawl belly-up in the sun. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
Wellington purred, rubbed his head against her hand.
"Sure, that's it," Maggie said, inspired. "I'm the old maid cat lady, thinking about buying a nearly seven-million-dollar house so her cats can lie in the sun. Is that as bad as Faith enrolling that pee-machine mutt of hers in doggy day care? No, it's probably worse. Cripes. Worse than Faith. You got to go some to be worse than Faith, Welly, trust me."
Wellington looked up at Maggie, meowed something probably Persian-speak for "I'm going to assume we're through here," and headed back to the still-warm spot on the carpet.
Maggie swiveled back to face the screen and called up the Realtor listing again. There it was; bottom right corner of the page: Rodgers Regency Realty. Regency? Like the English Regency, the one in which her perfect hero cavorted? Was that an omen, or what?
Especially the cavorting part.
It could work.
But did she have the guts to actually do this?
She and Alex and Sterling were leaving for New Jersey in a few days for the Annual Kelly Dysfunctional Christmas. By the time she got back, the house could be sold. An opportunity, gone.
Then she'd spend the next year or so kicking herself around the apartment, bemoaning her missed opportunity. And, with the size of this place, she'd be dizzy in a week, just from booting herself in circles.
She looked toward the bookcase, saw the Dan Mittman book Doctor Bob had given her for Christmas. Remembered a quote from the book: The time is now, the place is here. Stay in the present. You can do nothing to change the past, and the future will never come exactly as you plan or hope for.
Not so shabby, Danny boy, even if you ended with a preposition.
Maybe even prophetic.
Maggie picked up her nicotine inhaler—minus its medicinal cartridge now, so that it was, in reality, a pacifier—sucked on it like the pitiful ninny she was, and then reached for the phone.
And now for a little author intrusion
As Maggie knows, one of the time-honored (or timeworn) ways to heighten anticipation and keep readers turning the pages while the author is busily filling in the background information several books into an on-going series, is to introduce some shadowy figure at about this point.
Put him in italics at the end of a chapter, make him sort of deep, sort of ambiguous, sort of scary.
Foreshadowing. Foreboding. Dropping an oblique hint or two. Maybe a red herring to throw off the armchair crime-solver. Setting the hook in the reader's mouth.
Or, if feeling less literarily inclined—flipping the reader a fish.
One way or another, fish always seem to be involved ...
Anyway.
The object of the exercise is that the reader hears the footsteps, knows Something Wicked This Way Comes a few chapters down the road.
So what the hell, why not.
Introducing, ta-da, the Shadowy Figure.
Just don't count on the baddie being deep. Not in Maggie's world ...
Sometimes you just have to do what you have to do. Circumstances demanded as much.
And it wasn't like, hey, there were a million different ideas out there. Just this one. A good idea. Good ideas didn't come along that often. There had been Dad and the hula hoop, but somebody else got there first.
Somebody else was always getting there first.
Now. What about the weapon ... ?
A gun?
God, no. Too loud.
A knife?
Ix-nay on the knife. Too messy.
Strangulation? No way. Much too up close and personal.
Okay, okay. So the idea still needed some work ...
See? That's how it's done. Fun, huh? And not just senseless banter, either, because that wouldn't be fair to the reader. There's a clue in there, honest!
We'll do it again in a little bit. Stay tuned.
Chapter Two
Saint Just pushed open the heavy wooden door with the tip of his sword cane and peered into the darkness. "And this would be ... ?" he asked Kiki Rodgers, daughter of the owner of Rodgers Regency Realty. Or, as Kiki had explained, pointing to the three gold Rs circled in gold thread on the pocket of her navy blazer, "That's our brand, sugar. The Triple R. Daddy's originally from Texas."
Saint Just wasn't as familiar with Texas as he probably should be, because he'd only been able to look at Maggie in confusion as they'd both stared at Kiki's remarkable bosom when they'd first met, without trying to look as if they were staring, and Maggie had whispered, "They like everything big in Texas, sugar."
In truth, he was still trying to sort out what was happening, as Maggie's request that he and Sterling accompany her to view a house she was considering purchasing was so completely out of character for the woman, who never did anything spontaneously, never acted on a whim—at least when it came to parting with a penny of her hard-earned money.
She studied every advertisement in the newspapers before she went shopping, planning her route, laying out her itinerary, and even then only purchased something new when he would finally put his foot down, insisting that she make a choice. He doubted she bought a packet of gum without first considering the thing.
And she was a creature of habit. The ornaments on her Christmas tree had to be placed in the same positions they'd been hung the previous years.
She always hesitated for a moment—five seconds, he'd decided, after keeping a mental count on several occasions—before putting out her foot (left foot first), and descending any staircase.
Her bacon went on the left side of her plate, her scrambled eggs always to the right. Even if she had to turn the plate around after it was placed in front of her.
She sat in the same chair, at the same table at Mario's, at Bellini's.
She always laid her napkin in her lap immediately, and then carefully rearranged the cutlery, moving the knife and spoon from the left and putting them to her right.
He could go on. Indefinitely.
Maggie was a creature of habit. A traditional person, one with routines, even rituals. Compulsive, in a nice way, he'd have to say. Reliable. Dependable.
&nbs
p; Never spontaneous.
He didn't like feeling off balance, not the one in control. But Maggie seemed to have taken the bit between her teeth on this business of purchasing a new domicile, and what were women created for, if not to indulge them?
"Why, sugar," Kiki told him, suddenly not more than an inch away, her lush body brushing his as she leaned in beside him, "that there's the steps down to the wine cellar."
Behind them, Maggie chirped, "A real, honest-to-God wine cellar? I don't remember seeing that on the listing. Oh, wow."
Kiki turned to smile at her client. "Yes, it is exciting, isn't it? Here, let me show you," she said, reaching past Saint Just to turn on the light.
Saint Just stood back to allow her to precede them down the stairs, and then ushered Maggie and Sterling ahead of him before following the small troop to the cool, stone-walled room the size of Maggie's living room.
By the time he'd reached the bottom of the stairs, Maggie was poking about the floor-to-ceiling, freestanding shelves, gushing excitedly that she felt as if she was in "a library for wine."
"Yes, although depressingly small, don't you think?" he said, lifting his quizzing glass to his eye as he peered at the dusty label of one of the half dozen or more wine bottles still lying in holders on the shelves. Those few bottles had probably gone to vinegar and had therefore been left behind at the time of the previous owner's departure. "I do very much fear that my own cellars—plural, Miss Rodgers—at Blake Manor would dwarf this paltry attempt."
"Oh, for God's sake, Alex," Maggie muttered quietly, "you don't have a wine cellar. Cellars. You don't have a Blake Manor. I made all that up, just like I made you up. Remember?"
"I remember, my dear, that the more interest one shows in a purchase, the higher the price and the less reason to negotiate toward a lower one," he responded just as quietly. "You take my point?"
Maggie shot a quick look toward Kiki, who was deep in conversation with Sterling about the joys of the kitchen they'd just viewed. "Oh, okay, I get it. Sterling's going a little overboard, right? Should we call him off?"
"Possibly," Saint Just responded, tamping down a smile. "Although I believe I was referring mostly to you, and this distressing tendency to gush 'oh, wow' every time a new door is opened."
"Oh." But then she grabbed his arm and pulled him behind the last rack, obviously not quite understanding the acoustics of a fifteen-by-fifteen foot cube constructed entirely of stone. "I want this house, Alex. It's perfect. We can be private, we can be together, we can—you know damn full well Faith doesn't have a wine cellar. A cooler, maybe. One of those under-the-kitchen-counter deals, but not a cellar. I mean, she lives on what, the twenty-sixth floor, or something? No way can she have an authentic wine cellar. Is that petty? Don't answer that."
"As I quite value my neck, yes, I do believe I will refrain from comment. I will, however, take my life into my own hands and ask if you're seriously considering purchasing a house in order to upset Miss Simmons, as it seems out of character for you, my dear."
"I know. My bad, right? But that's not why, okay? It's just that Faith got me thinking, you know? If she can buy a monstrosity like she bought, then I should be able to take a chance, a leap of faith—no pun intended—and believe in myself and my future enough to make a purchase of this size. You know what a purchase like this says, Alex? This house? This house says I've made it. I'm not going to get tossed out on my ear again, because I've got a real career. A real future. I'm secure. I mean, you can't owe as much money as mortgaging this place would cost, not if you weren't confident about your future. Right? This house, the mortgage—they'd be like affirming statements."
"Are you insinuating that you'd purchase this house in order to convince yourself of your own worth?"
Maggie frowned. "Don't be logical, Alex. And stop playing Doctor Bob, okay? I want this house. I want ... I want us to have this house."
"Ah, now that's comforting. You've decided that I'm ... staying?"
"It's been months, Alex, and you haven't poofed yet. So, yes, I've decided you're probably here to stay, that you're evolving, like you keep saying, becoming more your own person and not just my creation. Making your own place in ... well, in the real world. It's goofy, but I'm beginning to believe it. Is that all right with you? That I'm thinking about making ... plans?"
"I can say with all truthfulness, yes, I'm delighted. But you do pick your moments, my dear. We could hardly be less private, if you've taken it into your head to propose."
"I'm proposing us living in sin, not getting married," Maggie said, blushing delightfully to the roots of her thick, artfully sun-streaked brown hair.
"But you have been sadly compromised," he pointed out to her.
"Not exactly sadly," Maggie said, grinning at him.
"It is my duty as a gentleman to protect your reputation by offering my hand in—shall I go on?"
"No, I know the drill. But forget the drill. Are you with me on this house thing, or not?"
Saint Just peeked out from behind the rack as Kiki informed them that she and Sterling were going back upstairs for another look at the six-burner gas stove Sterling had been loathe to leave in the first place.
"You just follow when you want, sugar."
Maggie opened her mouth to answer—or to ask just who Kiki thought she was calling sugar —but Saint Just put a fingertip to her lips, keeping her silent.
"We'll join you in a few moments, Miss Rodgers," he told her as Maggie glared at him.
Maggie pushed his finger away once Kiki and Sterling's footsteps could be heard on the wood floor of the kitchen above. "So what's your problem, Alex, because you obviously have one. You say you don't have a problem, but you do, don't you? Is it this house? Or me? Is it me? You don't want to live here with me?"
"There is a Spanish proverb, which says very justly, 'Tell me whom you live with, and I will tell you who you are.' "
"The Earl of Chesterfield," Maggie said, nodding. "So what do you think the earl would say about you, living with me?"
Saint Just thought on this for a moment. "That I, an esteemed member of the peerage and thus a person who should know better, should be horsewhipped? That, or that I, too, should be visiting weekly with Doctor Bob."
"Ha-ha. Nobody said ours was a ... a normal association. Well, somebody might, if they knew what was going on, how you got here, but then that person probably wouldn't be normal. But it's normal for us, right? So that can't be the reason. Maybe you don't want to share expenses? Maybe you want to stay where you are, not live with me again? Because I'm not staying where I am. It's time I owned my own house, put down ... put down roots."
"A commendable aspiration, I'm sure. I also thank you very much for your kind invitation to include Sterling and myself. I have absolutely no problems with the move, the purchase. However, I do feel somewhat unhappy over your motives, Maggie. You do have worth as a person, you have roots, as you say. And, if we're looking at facts, you already own the condo, Maggie."
She narrowed her eyes. "Don't confuse me with facts. I want this house. I mean, I really, really want it. The moment the page came up on the computer, I knew this would be the place. Kismet, fate. Something."
He relaxed somewhat, and teased, "No matter the price?"
Maggie opened her mouth, undoubtedly to say yes, no matter the price, but then the frugal part of her rendered a figurative slap to the side of her head and she coughed, probably choking on her admirable financial restraint, before bleating—oh, yes, the girl was bleating—"You'll talk to her? I can't talk price, Alex. I'd fold like an umbrella the first time she said the price is firm."
"Because, as you're so fond of saying, you're a wimp when it comes to confrontation?"
"And people with boobs the size of the greater Dallas-Fort Worth area, yes," Maggie admitted, flushing. "Confident people make me nervous. They're always so damn sure of themselves."
"I'm a confident person, Maggie," Saint Just pointed out, slipping his arms around her waist. "D
o I make you nervous?"
She rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous."
He moved his hands higher.
"Okay, that's making me nervous. But only because of where we are ... the way you're looking at me—stop looking at me that way. Those baby blues might do it for Lady Prestwick, but they cut no mustard with me."
"I beg your pardon. Lady Prestwick?"
"Your next love interest. I was picking out names for the new book this morning, before I called you to come look at the house with me. Lady Jane Prestwick. You're going to clear her name even though she was discovered standing over her husband's body, a bloody letter opener in her hand."
"How heroic of me, and how wonderfully predictable, although I'm confident you'll handle the entire situation in a way unique to my tremendous powers of deduction."
"Bite me," Maggie told him, then shook her head. "One of these days I'm going to write a scene where you lose, if only for the moment. It would probably be good for you, build your character."
"And anger our readers. Saint Just never loses, you know that. So, what does Lady Jane look like, hmm? I believe my last amorous encounter was with a particularly fiery redhead."
Maggie pushed his hands back down to her waist. "I don't know. I didn't get that far yet. Why?"
"Well, if I might be so bold," Saint Just said, his mission one of hardening Maggie's resolve when it came to their confident Realtor. "I believe I might suggest a tallish, confident young woman. Blonde. Slim, but with a remarkably extraordinary bosom."
"Kiki," Maggie ground out, pushing herself free of him. "You want Kiki? You want that plastic, bleached former Miss Kudzu queen? Right. That's going to happen. Now come on, let's go lowball the woman and see how she comes back at us. Well, at you. I'm planning on just standing there, looking bored."
Saint Just retrieved his cane, which he'd leaned against the wall. "Lowball? I'm not familiar with the term."
"Neither am I, but it sounds good," Maggie said, climbing the stairs ahead of him. She didn't hesitate when mounting stairs, but only when descending them. "We'll ask her to take us through the whole house again, and you point out all that's wrong with it, okay? Then we'll hit her with a figure. What do you think of five and a half? I think that's reasonable."
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