Hot Property

by Jenna Bennett

  Tamara Grimaldi answered on the first ring, and after telling her where I was and what I was thinking, I hesitated for a moment. I wanted to control myself, but I wasn’t able to refrain from adding, “I hear that you and Rafe spent the night together on Saturday.”

  Her voice sounded amused. “Is that what he told you?”

  “At first. It took me a minute to figure out that he didn’t mean what I thought he meant.”

  “That must have been a relief.”

  I decided not to dignify that remark with a response. “You let him go again, so I guess I can assume he’s cleared?”

  “Hardly.” The detective’s voice turned serious. “I didn’t have enough evidence to keep him, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about him. Believe me, I’m going to keep a close eye on Mr. Collier from now on. You can pass that on to him if you want.”

  “I’m not sure when I’ll have the opportunity,” I said, “but I’ll be happy to. Wouldn’t that defeat your purposes, though, if I tip him off that you’re watching?”

  “Just tell him to watch his step,” Detective Grimaldi said, as if through gritted teeth, and hung up in my ear before I had the chance to say anything else. I arched my brows. Had it been something I said?

  I was in the process of locking the front door of the French Chateau when a bright blue Mini Cooper with white racing stripes zipped into the driveway and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. A young man jumped out. He looked to be in his early twenties, and was devastatingly handsome, in that glossy way that soap opera actors and matinee idols (and gay Realtors) are. His skin was luminous and as poreless and smooth as a baby’s bottom, his soft, brown hair flopped over his forehead in shining waves, and his eyes were midnight blue bordering on black and surrounded by lashes almost as luxurious as Rafe’s. “Hel-lo, beautiful!” he caroled when he saw me, his teeth shining with the radiance of a toothpaste ad. I smiled politely.

  “Hi.”

  He stuck out a hand. “I’m Beau. The house boy.”

  “The what?”

  “House boy. Here.” He dug into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to me. I caught quite a load of skin at the same time, because Beau – an awfully appropriate name, and one I doubted was legally his own; it was just too fitting – was bare-chested beneath. His jeans hung low on his hips, exposing a taut, tanned stomach and admirable musculature all the way around.

  I looked away, down to the business card, blushing. Way to go, Savannah; ogle the gay guy, why don’t you?

  Beau Riggins, the card said, House Cleaning, followed by a phone number. Feeling Dirty? the slogan underneath said, Call the House Boy!

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized, “I’m sure you are who you say you are, but I really can’t let you into the house.”

  “That’s OK, gorgeous. I’ve got my own key.” He pulled it out and dangled it in front of my face, something which necessitated another display of skin. “Mr. Givens will be here any minute himself, I’m sure. He always comes home for lunch on Mondays. To watch me work.” He winked.

  “I see,” I said. “Um... not that it’s any of my business, but wouldn’t it be better to wear a uniform of some kind? What if you spill bleach on yourself or something?”

  Beau ran a hand down his chest and stomach. It was as manicured as the rest of him. Whatever he was doing to the house, didn’t involve chapping his hands in hot water and ammonia. No calluses on Beau. “This is a bona fide, genuine tan, sweetie. The real thing; I was in Acapulco just two weeks ago, working on it. Bleach won’t take it off. And wearing a shirt would totally ruin everything. Nobody’s gonna pay me $100 an hour to vacuum the floors while I wear clothes.”

  “You clean in the nude?” I said. “For $100 an hour?” Truthfully, I wasn’t entirely sure which was more shocking.

  “I clean in a pair of Wonderjocks,” Beau corrected, unconcernedly pulling down his zipper to show them to me. They were bright blue, the same color as the car, and fit him like a second skin. The waistband identified them as Property of Australia in bright red and white letters. I stared in horrified fascination, although I still felt like I was missing something.

  “I’m sorry. Wonder... what?”

  “Wonderjocks,” Beau repeated, with a fond look down at them. Or himself. “They work the same way as that bra you’re wearing.” He demonstrated on his own well-developed pectorals. “The Wonderjock lifts and separates, too.”

  “Lifts and separates what?” I asked. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  Beau grinned. “They’re wonderful, aren’t they? Boosts the appeal of even the smallest guy, and for those of us who are OK on our own, they take us out of the merely average and give us a little something extra. And $100 an hour is my starting price. It goes up from there.”

  “Good Lord,” I said reverently, not quite sure whether I was reacting to Beau’s price or the briefs. They were the first pair of men’s undies I had seen since my divorce, and Bradley’s tighty whities sure hadn’t looked like this.

  Beau chuckled. “I do just fine, darling. Nashville is full of rich gay men and bored housewives who’ll pay through the nose to watch me swing a feather duster. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s gotta do it.” He winked.

  Just at that moment, a dark sedan pulled into the driveway and saved me the trouble of coming up with a response. A well-dressed, older man got out and came up the stairs. “Good afternoon, Beau.”

  “Hi, Mr. Givens,” Beau grinned. Mr. Givens, Beau’s employer – and audience for the next hour or two – turned to me.

  “Hello.” It was less a greeting than a request for me to explain who I was and what I was doing there, distracting his entertainment.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Savannah Martin with Walker Lamont Realty. Previewing the house. I was just leaving.”

  Mr. Givens nodded, but didn’t answer. His gaze had already returned to the beautiful Beau. “Did you lose your key, Beau?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Givens,” Beau said, brandishing it. Givens’s eyes glazed over at the display of skin, and Beau’s dimple made a brief appearance. “I was just shooting the breeze with Savannah. But now that you’re here, I guess I should get to work.”

  Mr. Givens didn’t answer, just turned toward the front door. It was answer enough. Beau winked at me and followed.

  I was halfway home when the cell phone rang. I glanced at the display before I answered, hoping that it would be Detective Grimaldi calling to apologize for hanging up on me and maybe to share some new and thrilling tidbit of information. It wasn’t, and I had to talk myself into doing the right thing and answering the call.

  “Savannah? Todd here. I was wondering if you were available for dinner tonight?” The query was unusually abrupt, without any of the usual introductory small talk. Most of the time, I could count on Todd to behave with better manners.

  “Unfortunately not,” I said.

  “Another date with Collier?” His voice held an undertone I didn’t like, and I had to tell myself sternly that there was no way he could have known I’d had dinner with Rafe the night before. Todd was just being his usual paranoid self.

  “Planning meeting for some charitable event or other. I forgot to ask what. I’m taking Lila Vaughn’s place, since she can’t be there.”

  My voice caught, but Todd didn’t comment. He hesitated for a moment, regrouping. “How about tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow’s fine.”

  “Would you mind driving down to Sweetwater to meet me? I have an early meeting on Wednesday morning.”

  I moved the phone away from my ear for a second and stared at it. Usually, Todd drove to Nashville to take me to Fidelio’s, and sometimes we’d have dinner at the Wayside Inn if I was going to be in Sweetwater anyway, but he’d never before asked me to make the trek there just for him.

  “I suppose I could do that,” I said hesitantly. “I have to be back in Nashville by Wednesday afternoon, though.”

&n
bsp; “Date?” Todd wanted to know, with the same strained note in his voice.

  “Funeral. Lila’s memorial service is Wednesday at 2 pm.”

  “Oh,” Todd said.

  I waited a moment, but when he didn’t say anything else, I added, “Is everything OK? You sound – I don’t know – strange?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Todd said. “There’s just something I want to talk to you about. Something important. But it can wait until tomorrow. 6:30 at the Wayside Inn?”

  I said I’d be there, and we hung up, me with the gravest misgivings. Lately, when Todd says he has something important to talk to me about, it means that he’s freaking out over my imagined relationship with Rafe. In this case, however, there was no way he could have known about yesterday. I had made sure we went somewhere where no one would know me – and with the Shortstop, I was convinced I had succeeded – and furthermore, if any of ‘our’ people (as mother would say) had been there, they would have stood out like a sore thumb, the way I had done. So Todd couldn’t possibly have known. But if this wasn’t about Rafe, what was it about...?

  And then it hit me, and I almost drove off the road. What if Todd was planning to propose? He’d been hinting last week, with his comments about my needing a husband, and I had pretended I didn’t understand what he was getting at. What if he’d decided to just come right out and ask, so as not to give me any wiggle-room? And Good Lord, if he did, what would I say?!

  Chapter 10

  In the worry over Todd’s phone call and everything else that was going on, I almost forgot that I had promised to show Gary Lee and Charlene another house. In fact, I was so late that by the time I got there, they were getting back into their car again. I jumped out of mine.

  “Sorry. I’m so sorry. Something came up and I totally forgot the time.”

  Charlene grinned. “I told you that if something came up, you could call and cancel, Savannah.”

  Oh, Lord! I flushed. “Not that! I just got a phone call from a friend, that’s all.”

  “Ooooh!” Charlene giggled. “Phone sex.”

  “That’s quite all right, Savannah,” Gary Lee said with a quelling look at his wife. “We’ve still got time.”

  “Thank you. Let me open the door for you, and you can have a look around. I’ve got... um... another call to make, so I’ll just stay out here.”

  “OK.” They bounded into the house like eager squirrels, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, leaving me on the porch. I pulled out the phone and dialed my mother.

  “Hi, mom? It’s Savannah.”

  “Hello, darling,” mother said. “How are you, dear?”

  “Just fine, thank you. Listen, Todd just called and asked me to dinner tomorrow.”

  “Did he?” Mother sounded like she was smiling.

  “He wants me to drive down to Sweetwater to meet him. I wanted to make sure it would be OK for me to stay the night with you.”

  “Of course,” Mother said. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “No reason. I just didn’t want to assume.” It would be impolite, and believe me, if I’d shown up unannounced, Mother would have told me so.

  “No, darling, of course you can stay with me.” Mother hesitated for a moment before she added, “As a matter of fact, we’ll probably be seeing the two of you at the Wayside Inn. I’m having dinner with the sheriff.”

  “You don’t say?” What were the odds? “That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  And it made it all the more likely that Todd was planning to propose, if both our parents were going to be present, ready to jump up and congratulate us after I’d said yes. And of course I’d have to say yes, if Mother was sitting right there, waiting. Brilliantly reasoned on Todd’s part.

  “Well, it is the only four-star restaurant in the county,” Mother pointed out. “I mean, darling, you can hardly expect the sheriff to treat me at Beulah’s Meat’n Three, now can you?”

  “I suppose not,” I admitted grudgingly. “I’ll try to stop by the house first, but if I get a late start, I may just go straight to the Wayside Inn.”

  “Whatever you need, darling,” Mother said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She hung up. I did the same, gnawing the remaining lipstick off my bottom lip.

  Gary Lee and Charlene came wandering out of the house after another few minutes, and notified me that this wasn’t the house of their dreams, either. The master bedroom just hadn’t blown Charlene’s skirt up. But they had another house they wanted to see; this one a renovated craftsman bungalow in the Potsdam Street area, near where Rafe’s grandmother lived. Personally, I didn’t think they would enjoy living there – that particular neighborhood was still a bit too much like the Wild West for my taste, with desperados and guns behind every bush – but first-time buyers have been known to fall in love with unsuitable houses before, and I certainly wasn’t about to deprive Gary Lee and Charlene of the opportunity to do so. We agreed to meet the next day at the same time, and Gary Lee went to the car to make a phone call of his own. Charlene stayed on the porch making small talk while I locked the door and hid the key inside the lockbox hanging from the door handle. “That was quite a house yesterday.”

  “The Fortunatos house? It’s OK, if you like the type.”

  “Great bedroom.” She smiled reminiscently. I shrugged. Perry and Connie Fortunato’s master suite had toe-curling shag carpeting and mirrors all over the ceiling. Personally, I couldn’t imagine a worse mood-killer than having to watch my own imperfect body slide across those black satin sheets, but maybe Connie was made of sterner stuff. And of course Charlene had the nubile body of someone just out of her teens, and nothing whatsoever to worry about. As a matter of fact, she was showing more of it than I’d realized earlier. Her blouse was misbuttoned, and showed her midriff. I was just about to point it out when she added, “That guy that you were with... was he your boyfriend?”

  I shook my head. “Just a friend. He came by to make sure I was all right, what with the robberies the past two weekends and the murder last week.”

  “Oh.” Charlene dug her tiny, white teeth into her lip. “I assumed, with the way you were looking at him...”

  I hadn’t been aware of looking at Rafe in any particular way. Other than that I was afraid he was thinking of tying me to a kitchen chair, I suppose. “What do you mean, the way I was looking at him? I wasn’t looking at him any way.” I would never look at Rafe. Not that way.

  “Whatever you say, Savannah,” Charlene giggled. “See you tomorrow. If something comes up, whether it’s big or small, don’t hesitate to cancel.”

  She skipped down the steps to rejoin her husband, still laughing and with her misbuttoned blouse flapping. And just for that parting remark, I decided not to tell her about it. Walking into society looking like she had just rolled out of bed and put on the thing nearest to hand was no more than she deserved for making me think – even for a second – about the extent of Rafe Collier’s private parts.

  By 6 pm, though, any thoughts of Rafe or his body parts were banished from my mind, safely tucked away as if they’d never existed. I was on my way to Cheekwood: historic home, art museum, botanical garden, and special events center. And also the setting for the planning committee meeting for whatever charity Lila had been involved with.

  Back in the early part of the 20th Century, a Nashville man named Joel Cheek developed a superior blend of coffee, which was marketed through the finest hotel in Nashville at the time, the Maxwell House. In 1928, General Foods purchased Cheek-Neal Coffee for a whopping forty million dollars, and in the process made Joel and all the other Cheeks obscenely wealthy.

  Joel’s cousin Leslie and Leslie’s wife Mabel used some of their money to buy 100 acres of woodlands in West Nashville for a country estate. They hired New York architect Bryant Fleming to handle the project and gave him total control over everything, from landscaping to interior furnishings. The result was a 30,000 square foot limestone mansion in the style of an English country-house, s
urrounded by extensive formal gardens. The Cheeks moved in in January 1933. Leslie died just a few years later, but members of the family occupied the mansion until the 1950s, when Huldah Cheek Sharp and her husband Walter offered the property as a site for a museum and botanical garden.

  I’d visited Cheekwood before – most Nashvillians stop by occasionally, to smell the flowers or admire the artwork or lunch in the Pineapple Room restaurant – and I had no problem finding the small salon where the meeting was set to take place.

  When I walked in at 6:25, the room was abuzz with voices. Mostly female, although the occasional male stuck out like a sore thumb here and there. After a minute or two, I spotted Connie Fortunato on the other side of the room, and started weaving my way through the crowd toward her. When I came closer, I saw that she was deep in conversation with a redhead in a brown suede jacket, and I hesitated just out of hearing, loath to interrupt what looked like a fairly personal exchange. But the redhead looked up and saw me, and nudged Connie, who also turned to me.

  “Oh,” she said after a second, “Savannah.”

  “Hi, Connie.” I smiled brightly. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I saw you from the door and thought I’d say hello. You’re the only person here I’ve met before.”

  Connie hesitated, but the redhead stuck a hand out. “Hi, I’m Heather Price.”

  “Savannah Martin.” I took the proffered hand and shook. “Your name sounds familiar. Have we met?”

  “I don’t think so,” Heather said. “Although I’ve heard of you. Connie said you might be stopping by.”