by Kimber Chin
"I already did."
* * * *
"So what do you think?” At that moment, Cara was anything but distraught about Shirley's answer, sitting in her comfortable Volvo sedan with Wendy in the passenger seat.
The girl studied the offer they, moments ago, received. “The dollars are in the ballpark."
They were, Cara smiled, pleased that her assistant broker was good with the numbers. “Will they go higher?"
"It's the first offer.” She chewed her bottom lip. “But I've noticed that Ken normally likes to go in with his best offer. He's not strong on negotiating."
She was good at reading people, too. Partially Cara's training, partially instinct. “What about the closing date?"
"Thirty days is reasonable."
It was, for a normal homeowner. “Mrs. Beadice has been in her home for thirty-three years.” This was where experience came in. “She'll need more time."
Slight shoulders slumped. “How much time?"
"That's what you'll find out.” The elderly lady was on board about being Wendy's first close, flattered actually. Cara would be with her, every step of the way.
"Me?"
"Yeah, you. I'm riding shotgun on this one. It's your sale. You're ready.” Cara was counting on it. The build would take more of her time. Wendy would need to fill in.
"You really think so?” The girl's brown eyes glowed with pride.
"I know so.” It wasn't much of a risk. Cara had checks and double checks in place as she had with tonight, if Peterson, her financier, fell through...
"I won't let you down, Cara,” Wendy assured her. “I'll make it my first priority once we get back to the office."
First priority? “Aren't you forgetting something?"
Wendy's face went blank.
"The Thompson information?” Cara gave her memory a nudge.
"You still need that?"
Only if they wanted to win. “Of course, I do. Why wouldn't I?"
"His assistant said no.” Wendy wouldn't meet her eyes.
"Ahhhh...” The girl was green, and she considered the no a failure, for Cara, her hero. Oh, the injustice of it all. Cara almost chuckled. “The first no is only the beginning of a negotiation. Like a ‘Hi, how are ya?’”
Yes, Shirley said no. That was an expectation. It was common knowledge Richard Thompson didn't make public appearances. His assistant would have that as an auto-response. Shirley promised she'd run it by her boss, but she didn't expect the answer to change.
Though she hoped, she was wrong and that was a great sign.
If Shirley, his trusted friend, thought Richard too secluded, Cara figured that it was merely a matter of time before he rejoined the rest of the world. What better venue than the Handyman Charity Auction?
None better. It was perfect.
Cara could hold his hand, figuratively, of course, she didn't truly know the guy, but she could show him the ins and outs of working the press, ensuring that it was a happy, comfortable experience for everyone.
Richard would learn media management from a pro, the charity would benefit big time, and she and Wendy would get a few extra dollars for their troubles. Win-win, her favorite scenario.
Maybe Richard would treat her to some of that dry wit she was always hearing about. Maybe, when Richard finally decided to move out of that rat hole he called an apartment, he'd give her a call. Who knew?
"You think Richard Thompson is a possibility?” Wendy asked after mulling it over a bit.
"Very much, yes, and that reminds me, we have to swing by the condo to pick up a pie.” Cara kept a stash homemade, but frozen pie in her freezer. “For the Gumble open house."
"Get rid of the lingering pet smell.” Wendy scrunched up her nose. “No time to air the place out properly."
"Apples and cinnamon will do the trick.” Additionally, the apple pie, once baked, could prove useful elsewhere. “I wonder if Mr. Thompson likes pie,” Cara mused as she pulled out of the driveway. It was a rhetorical question. She knew the answer, Richard's citywide search for the perfect apple pie a Shirley story staple.
A dimple appeared in her cheek as Wendy grinned. “My research says he does."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Step Two
Rapport Building: Building a relationship of trust with prospects. Without trust, there will be no sale as most customers buy on emotion and justify with logic.
Richard stood in the surprisingly nice-smelling condo hallway wondering what the hell he was doing. Returning the glass pie plate, sure, but he could have sent someone to do that. Cara had it delivered to the office, the pie hot from the oven, wrapped in one of those insulated pizza delivery bags.
He should have sent it back right away, the pie. It was a bribe, but it smelled so good that he tried a piece, a tiny sliver turning into half the pie before Richard could bring himself to share with his colleagues.
He should have also left the licked clean pie plate downstairs with the security guard. That would have been the logical solution. Not that he got the chance to think about it. The sleepy-eyed man took one look at what was in his hand and waved him up. No need to ask whom he was here to see.
For him to do that, Cara Jones must bake a lot of pies. Why would a real estate agent be baking pies? Richard didn't know. Nevertheless, he was grateful. It was very good pie.
The least he could do was thank her personally for that very good pie. That was it though, just a thank you at the door. No crossing the threshold. No volunteering to be auctioned off like a prize bull. And definitely, no buying a house.
He pushed the doorbell before he changed his mind. About anything. Especially the buying a house bit.
"Be there in a sec, Dave,” a singsong voice called from inside.
Who was this Dave character, why was he visiting Cara, and why did it irritate the bejesus out of him?
No time to think about it, the door swung open, and Richard faced...
Cupcakes, chocolate with rainbow sprinkles on top, sitting on a plate. Looking good.
His eyes drifted upward over a pair of perky breasts covered in a body hugging t-shirt to a long neck, a pointed chin with a dark smudge across it, full luscious lips tinted brown at the corners, one of those ski jump noses, and wide blue eyes. Looking even better up close.
Shirley was right. The photo didn't do Cara Jones justice.
Golden-tipped eyelashes fluttered expectantly.
He had to say something, so Richard stated the obvious. “I'm not Dave."
"Oh.” Cara took a step backward, away from him. No, no, wrong. He wanted her closer, not further away.
"But if those are for him...” He nodded at the cupcakes, ignoring her breasts and the way they bounced, bra free, or at least trying to, they were so ... he swallowed hard. “If those are for him,” Richard repeated. “I could be."
A big, face-lighting smile rewarded his cleverness. Charming. There was chocolate stuck between those white, white teeth of hers. Made a man want to lick it out. A man like Richard.
No, he wasn't going to kiss her. He'd thank her for the pie, then leave. Stick to the plan. Much safer that way.
"I'm Richard Thompson.” He offered a sheepish grin.
"I know.” Duh, of course, she knew. He was a billionaire, wasn't he? A billionaire. The only reason a woman like this would deem to notice him.
"Your.” No, that wouldn't sound right. “The...” Better. “Pie was delicious.” He held out the empty pie plate.
"I'm glad you liked it, Richard.” She placed one well-manicured hand on the glass. This was when he was supposed to let go.
He didn't. Not yet.
Not until she said his name again. He liked how she did that, not clipped and efficient like he imagined she would, but husky, with a rolled r. “Are your cupcakes as good?” Now, why'd he asked that?
Because he didn't want to leave, he wanted to talk to Cara some more. No, he wasn't going in. No way. He peeked over her shorter frame. It didn't matter how comfortable that bei
ge leather couch looked.
She tilted her head, capturing his complete attention again, her rather messy ponytail swinging to the side. Blonde hair escaped from what resembled a tired looking dishrag. Cara wasn't at all how he pictured her. Not perfect like the agency headshot, but barely pulled together, almost out of control. He liked that, too.
"You can have the cupcakes if you wish,” Cara offered. Generously. She put everything she had into the pie. She put everything into the cupcakes. Bet she put everything in her kisses.
No, no thinking of kissing. It wasn't generosity. Cara wanted something, Richard reminded himself. That something being his money.
"I could never take another man's cupcakes,” he quipped. Though hidden motives or not, he was tempted. They would taste like her mouth.
"I have more.” Another smile, a little less chocolate in her teeth. “I made a whole batch, could be a few less now, but plenty left."
Could be a few less, indeed. Considering she'd been eating them. “Then I'll have some of those.” He bought some more time.
Her mouth formed into a little moue of a frown. “They're not iced yet."
Oh, darn. The cupcakes weren't ready. He'd have to wait. Didn't make sense to stand in the hallway. No, not when she had a cozy little condo to sit in. He bet that couch was soft as Cara's skin. Well, maybe not quite as soft.
Fine, he'd cross the threshold. It would be dumb not to, but that was it. She wasn't going to sweet talk him into doing anything he didn't want to do. No volunteering for the handyman auction. No buying a house. No kissing the woman. Or at least not the first two; the last couldn't hurt any.
"I'll help with the icing,” Richard offered. Although he didn't know the first thing about icing cupcakes, how hard could it be? Slap on some topping and he'd be out the door.
Cara glanced over her shoulder toward what must be the kitchen then back at him. Richard frowned. What was she looking at?
An alarming thought occurred to him. “You're alone, aren't you? I'm not interrupting something, am I?"
"No, you're not.” Blue eyes met his and a switch flipped, rerouting feelings Richard hadn't even realized he was capable of. “I'm alone."
He stepped closer until the cupcake platter pressed against his stomach. “I am, too.” Another given, but she seemed to understand. Cara's face tilted up, pink streaking her high cheekbones.
"I don't think this is a good idea, Richard,” those full lips were saying, her voice a little too husky to be taken seriously.
He didn't think it was, either, but damn it. “Don't you want to talk about the handyman auction?"
Talk. That was it. He'd cross the threshold and talk about the handyman auction. No saying yes and no buying a house. Kissing, fine, he'd kiss her, nothing more. That was final.
* * * *
Cara felt like celebrating. The first lot closed successfully and within the week, she'd be a partial, yet temporary, owner of a block of run down, about to be demolished flophouses in the middle of town.
Until that happened, everything was hush-hush. She couldn't say a word. She couldn't tell anyone why she was happy, scared, and slightly insane. So she baked cupcakes. Baked goods, in her experience, created the right party atmosphere at the realty office.
If there were any cupcakes left to bring in.
The elusive Richard Thompson, standing in her extremely humble, now highly leveraged kitchen, was making a mess of icing the remaining cupcakes. She couldn't be happier. It meant she was no longer celebrating alone.
"Want another beer?” Cara partially opened the fridge door, concealing her collection of week old takeout.
"No thanks, two's my limit.” He held up his empty bottle. “I'm driving."
"Interesting.” Cara grinned at the outright lie. “The taxi driver letting you drive tonight?"
"One of the perks.” His face reddened. “How come you know so much about me?"
Cara wasn't about to answer that loaded question. “How come there was a message from my very excited father on my machine?"
His head bent a little more over that cupcake he was mauling. “How should I know?"
"Something about a delivery of baby back ribs ring any bells?” He was thoughtful to send her dad, a complete stranger to him, the gift. He certainly didn't deserve the stingy label smacked on him by the press. But then, she already knew that. One of the things that first...
"Sorry, Quasimodo.” He wouldn't meet her eyes.
"Came from the account of one Richard Thompson,” Cara prodded. “Meat lover extraordinaire."
"Damn identity thieves."
Cara had to laugh. The goof. She concentrated on her cupcake, suppressing the wild impulse to hug him. Him. A complete stranger.
And do other things, much less innocent. The few photos Cara found on the internet, horrid candid shots, hadn't prepared her for Richard's subtle good looks, his long, lean body. He wasn't movie star handsome, but somehow she found him more appealing, more virile, and more male.
Combine that with his personality. Oh, sugar. The media had it all wrong there, too. Richard Thompson wasn't sullen and silent, but witty and engaging.
"Shit."
Maybe not so witty. She glanced up to find him folded behind the island, that butt of his sticking in the air.
He must have dropped another cupcake.
"Whatcha doing?"
"Nothing. Admiring the tile work,” he muttered, his voice muffled.
Sure you are. Cara lobbed a kitchen towel in his direction. “Thank you. I laid it myself."
"Did you?” A pause. “I'm not handy, you know.” He appeared again, his face slightly flushed, the towel covered in chocolate.
So that was his issue with the auction. Cara glanced at the mutilated cupcakes sitting on the counter. “I gathered as much."
Richard was cute even when he frowned. She wanted to tousle that already messed up hair and make him smile again.
Not that she would. Though his hair would be soft and that smile, well ... wow.
"I could be handy if I wanted to,” Richard insisted. “I haven't had the time."
From what she'd seen thus far, he'd need an eternity. “Being handy is not a requirement.” For anything.
"Cara, about..."
She knew that tone. He was going to refuse the auction, and if he refused, that would be that. His pride wouldn't allow him to back down.
She wanted him to do the auction. Not for the charity, not for the extra cash; but because she wanted to see him again. To have an excuse. She could, but first...
Cara held up one hand to stop him. “Richard, it's midnight."
"Is it?” He glanced at his TAG Heuer knock off. “Oh lord, it is."
Said with such disappointment, curiosity compelled her to ask, “Are you going to turn into a pumpkin?"
"If I did,” Brown eyes flashed, “Would you make a pie out of me?"
Make a pie and eat him up. Suck the salt off his skin.
"Anyway.” Cara pushed away those thoughts to savor later. “If it's okay with you, I'd rather not talk about the auction right now. Actually, I'd rather not talk about it at all. I'll give you, Nancy, the coordinator's, business card.” Cara leaned across the center island to slip it in his shirt pocket then gave the concealed card a pat. A nice solid chest. “If by Friday, you decide to participate then fine. Give her a call and she'll set it up. If not, that's your decision."
His mouth fell open then snapped shut again. “That's it? You aren't going to hard sell me?"
Would that work? The hard sell? With this stubborn man? Not likely.
Even if it would, Cara didn't want to be the saleswoman with him. She wanted Richard, the man; not Richard, the prospect.
"That's it. I'll tell you a secret, Richard.” She liked saying his name. “I can't make anyone do anything they don't want to do. I'm not that good a saleswoman. I merely present the opportunities and leave it at that."
He took the card out, flipping it with his slender, tanned fi
ngers. “You think this is a good opportunity for me?"
Cara felt a zing course through her body, watching him touch that tiny piece of stock paper. “I think it's a good opportunity. Whether it is for you, only you can decide."
Whether she was for him, only Richard could decide too. Cara hoped she was. She placed his sad little cupcakes in tins. He'd take those with him. No one else would eat them looking the way they did.
"Difficult to decide without any facts.” Richard happily stacked the tins as she finished with them, making her suspicious that perhaps he wasn't as inept at icing as he led her to believe. He did like cupcakes.
"But not tonight,” Richard clarified. “No decisions need to be made tonight, tomorrow. We'll have dinner, something other than cupcakes."
Dinner? A date? With the woman, not the saleswoman. The saleswoman would stay at home. “Well..."
"Unless you're busy.” He provided her with an excuse she was trying not to think of. “With this Dave you're baking for."
Dave? The elderly security guard? “His wife packs him dinner.” The cupcake loving wife.
Why exactly was Richard coming closer? He rounded the center island, his gait loose and easy. She couldn't think when he stood too near. She found that out earlier, leading to her defensive position behind the counter.
"I hear you know a good Chinese restaurant.” He focused on her mouth. She licked her suddenly unbearably dry lips, and his brown eyes darkened.
Cara backed up until her butt bumped against the sink. “I could give you directions."
"My car's in the shop, remember?"
She shouldn't do this. Yet. He was a stranger. They only recently met. Oh, sugar, she could feel the heat rising off his body, the musky male smell of him, and her willpower broke.
"It'd have to be late.” Cara had showings around dinner time. Her rush hour.
"I'm flexible.” He reached out and tucked an errant curl back behind her ear. She looked a mess, she knew, but he wasn't expected. If she had known that he, that she...
"You have icing on your chin."
A bigger mess than she thought. Cara reached up to wipe it off. “No.” He caught her hand. “Allow me.” His hand dropped with hers, fingers entwining before releasing. His arm surprisingly strong wrapped around her waist, pressing her hips against his.