Selling Forever by Kimber Chin
Champagne Books www.champagnebooks.com
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Selling Forever by Kimber Chin
Champagne Books www.champagnebooks.com
Copyright ©
NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.
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Selling Forever by Kimber Chin
CONTENTS Other Books By Kimber Chin Dedication Acknowledgements Step One Step Two Step Three Step Four Step Five Step Six Step Seven Step Eight About Kimber ****
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Selling Forever by Kimber Chin
Champagne Books Presents Selling Forever By Kimber Chin
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Selling Forever by Kimber Chin
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Champagne Books www.champagnebooks.com Copyright © 2009 by PKCS Incorporated ISBN 978-1-897445-56-3 July 2009 Cover Art © Trisha FitzGerald Produced in Canada Champagne Books #35069-4604 37 ST SW Calgary, AB T3E 7C7 Canada
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Other Books By Kimber Chin Breach Of Trust Invisible [Back to Table of Contents]
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Dedication Thank you to my Mom (hands down, the best Mom in the world) and to my hubby (my favorite salesman) [Back to Table of Contents]
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Acknowledgements No book, even fictional, on selling would be complete without mentioning the following sources for their expertise and research; Brian Tracy (www.briantracy.com/ ) has written many books on selling and success. Two of my favorites are Advanced Selling Strategies and Million Dollar Habits. Secrets Of A Great Rainmaker and How To Become A Great Rainmaker by Jeffrey J. Fox (www.foxandcompany.com/ ) are must reads for aspiring saleswomen. Originally published in 1937, How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie is an all time classic. [Back to Table of Contents]
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Step One Prospecting: Initiating contact with potential customers and qualifying them as prospects who can and will buy within a reasonable period of time. An uneasy buzz crisscrossed the room, speculation on everyone's lips. The reason for this Monday morning meeting, no one knew. It couldn't be good news, the resale numbers having been soft for the last couple of months. Although Cara hadn't felt the slowdown, other agents had. "Susie in human resources said they might get rid of the assistant brokers." Wendy Lee, Cara's assistant broker, chattered nervously beside her. "I don't know what I'll do if that happens. My parents are counting on my income to help with the rent and..." "We've talked about this before." Cara cut off her unproductive fretting. As long as the girl continued to perform, she would continue to receive her check, even if it came out of Cara's own pocket. Although that would be more challenging as her project progressed. "I know you gave me your word, but if all the other assistant brokers..." If all the other assistant brokers were let go, only Cara's exceptional position as the top agent would save Wendy's job. "When was the last time I broke a promise, either to you or to anyone else?" "Never." The reply was immediate. No thought required. 9
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And that was the way it should be. Despite the myth of sleazy snake oil salesmen, a saleswoman's word was her most valuable commodity. Cara never gave hers lightly. "Then stop worrying, Wendy." Cara worried enough for the both of them. If Wendy lost her job, if Cara was ever unable to cover her salary, the Lee's wouldn't make rent. If they didn't make rent, the landlord would evict them. They would be homeless. Wendy's father would blame himself. It would eat away at him, at his self-confidence. He'd never be the same, never laugh or smile and then... No. Renting was too risky. If Wendy's family owned their home, it would be different. They'd have equity to refinance if anything happened. Cara was determined to make that ownership a reality for the family. She rubbed her neck, shoulders aching from selfinflicted pressure. Tonight, the first lot closed. Once that took place successfully, all the moneymen would be fully committed and Cara could relax. "Listen up, people." The vice president hushed the crowd from his place at the front of the room. "Before you go back out there to sell, sell, sell, we have an exciting announcement to make." With the word exciting, a hundred plus agents and assistant brokers, Cara included, let out their collective breath. Exciting never meant layoffs or downsizing. "As you are all aware," the executive continued, seeming oblivious to the panic he caused, "We'll be participating in the 10
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first ever handyman or handywoman auction benefiting Shelter for Mankind." Wendy gave her a relieved smile. "To ensure that we get the very best participants, we've decided to hold a contest. We are allowing each agent to volunteer one participant. The agent whose handyman or woman has the highest winning bid will forgo paying any and all desk fees for the month." Cara's ears perked up. No fees? The realty had been pushing them even more than usual recently, needing the commission money. Now. "Cara?" Wendy asked, sounding hopeful. "Your usual percent would apply, but on the total sale," she answered and watched the young girl's smile spread. Other assistant brokers only received the standard starting salary. Cara paid that as a base, but topped it off with a minicommission, aligning Wendy's goals with her own. "Do you have anyone in mind?" Any one. One. They only had one shot at this. "What about the Mayor? He'd do it if you asked him." Her broker-in-training was in awe after the introduction to the politician last week. "Would you pay big money to meet the Mayor?" The politician was striving to be the People's Mayor, accessible to all, with his weekly public lunches. Wendy's face dropped. "No." Who would pay? The highest bids, Cara tapped her chin in thought, would come from either very wealthy individuals or corporations with large cash flows, like the media. They paid for interviews. 11
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Wendy snapped her fingers, her face lighting up. "Blake Rexdall owes you for selling his house so quickly." The actor. Society matrons would plunk down cash for some of that Hollywood glamour, the paparazzi would also pony up for an exclusive. However... "He has a two year shoot in Africa." "Oh, yeah." Cara liked the media angle. Recently Venture Magazine offered $250,000 for a one-hour interview with, yes, as if she could forget, the reclusive local billionaire, Richard Thompson. He turned them down, of course, like all the rest, but if he was approached again... "That's it." There was a flutter in her belly. From the competition. It couldn't be from anything else. Could it? "Cara?" Right, Wendy, although good as far as assistant brokers went, was not a mind reader. "What do you know about Richard Thompson?" The girl's sweet brown eyes almost popped out of her head. "You know him?" Cara shrugged her shoulders. They had never met, not officially. Okay, not at all, with the man harder to find than a penthouse overlooking the park, but after two years of talking regularly with Shirley, his assistant, she felt she knew him. Well enough to know that while it would be a tough sell, it wouldn't be impossible. If Cara framed the proposition attractively, he could solve one of her problems and one of his at the same time. Shirley knew all of Richard's business, 12
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and wasn't afraid to share it with those she trusted. Shirley trusted Cara. "Wow, Richard Thompson, I mean, wow. I'm on it, Cara." Wendy shook with excitement. "By noon today, you'll know everything there is to know, from his mother's birthday to what he ate for breakfast." Cara knew all that already. September 15th, an only son, he bought his mom yellow roses every year. As for breakfast? Today was Monday. That meant a white glazed doughnut with a cup of coffee, black. There could be something she missed, something that could seal the deal. Wendy would find that something. Wendy didn't have the social connections, yet. She didn't have anything more than her real estate license and a high school education. But she had a go-getter attitude, and she wasn't lazy about doing the research. Research, any good saleswoman knew, eased the way in even the harshest of sales climates. **** Richard was battling his own harsh climate. "Sorry I'm late." He shrugged out of his beat-up brown leather jacket as he walked. He hated being late, it threw his whole day off. "Had to drop the car at the shop." "Broke down again?" Shirley followed him into his office, her hands full of pink slips of paper. Messages. People wanting a piece of him. Where were they when he was struggling? 13
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"Yeah." Richard plopped down on the black captain's chair. "It broke down again." "My Bimmer's working. Hasn't broken down yet," she said a tad bit too cheerfully. His assistant had purchased the BMW before the buyout check cleared. Richard grunted as he flipped his laptop open and hooked it up to the network. "Why don't you spend the repair money on a new car?" Another helpful piece of advice. "I like my Jetta." He scanned through his in-box. Most of the names he didn't recognize, and those emails remained unopened. "You never liked it before." Shirley placed his filled coffee mug down on the desk, using a piece of paper as a coaster. "You cursed that car up and down." She was right. He had. However, that was before everything else in his life changed. "Posture, Richard." He straightened, biting back a profanity. "Something else is wrong." Shirley continued, studying him. "Isn't it Monday? Where's your doughnut?" About time, she noticed. "Didn't have time to pick it up." Lack of breakfast wasn't helping his bad mood. He couldn't think with his stomach rumbling. "Now if you had a car that worked..." Shirley leaned back in the guest chair, sipping her own coffee, unsympathetic to his hunger pains. If he had a car that worked, if he had an employee that worked.
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Didn't she have a job to do? Wasn't part of that job keeping her boss, him, happy? "Most assistants would run out and get their employer a doughnut," Richard grumbled. "Most assistants aren't millionaires." She sipped her coffee, watching him with a slight smile. True. Richard patted his shirt pocket. Then, he couldn't recall Shirley ever running out and getting him anything, even before the millions. Why had he hired her again? Where was it? Shirley handed him the memory stick he searched for. Oh yeah, that was why. He'd be lost without her. "Any messages?" Richard changed the topic of conversation to one he could control. "The usual. Requests for financing, advice for young entrepreneurs." Shirley flipped through the papers. What advice did he have? None. He got lucky, that's all. "Oh, Cara Jones called." She smiled fondly at her own handwriting. Cara Jones. Over the past couple of years, Richard heard enough about that woman to fill a database. If he wasn't sure Shirley was straight, he'd think she was halfway in love with the realtor. "Her folks affected by the hurricane?" Richard brought up her bookmarked website, her toothy smile and curly blonde hair filling the screen. He liked looking at her picture as they talked, despite Shirley's claim that she was prettier in person. Unlikely. Cara Jones had a face a man could spend a lifetime staring at. "Nothing major. One palm tree pulled up by the roots, and they now have an extra barbeque in their backyard." Richard 15
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smiled despite his grumpy mood. "No one has claimed it yet. Cara's dad hopes the next hurricane brings baby back ribs to grill on it." Baby back ribs, huh? Cara's Dad would appreciate that new online meat supplier Richard had discovered. The best cuts, aged to perfection. His empty stomach growled at the thought. He scribbled a note to himself on a Post-It, only to frown at the defective pen. He studied it a bit closer. Invisible ink? Did it say invisible ink on the side? Where was his assistant sourcing their office supplies? The CIA? "Pen not working?" Richard frowned at Shirley's cheerfulness. "Try this one." A pen appeared out of nowhere, the plastic shell warm. "Writes like a BMW." Richard ignored the comment. "You're not selling the house?" This was one of his standard Cara questions. Shirley first met the real estate agent when she considered upgrading her accommodations. "We didn't talk about it, but no, I'm not. I love my home." "I love the Jetta." He didn't, not really. "Hmmm ... Anyway, she called for you, not me." "For me?" Now that was a surprise. Why would she call? Only one reason, it must be business. A house she wanted him to buy. "What's with people trying to sell me real estate lately?" There had been an ugly incident last week in his favorite Chinese restaurant. Some pushy slickster trying to hard sell 16
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him a penthouse while he ate egg foo young. One more restaurant he couldn't go back to. "Maybe they don't like the dump you're renting?" Shirley held a low opinion of his place, even before the money. "Oh, on that subject, she gave me the name of her favorite Chinese restaurant. Thought you'd like to give it a try, instead." Great, they talked about that embarrassing incident. Cara must think him a spaz and... "I'm not buying a house from her." He was firm. No matter how good looking the woman was, how charming she supposedly was, or how the second hand stories about her made him laugh. "Good. 'Cause she doesn't want to sell you one." Shirley shook her head. "The realty is participating in a fundraiser, a handyman auction benefiting Shelter for Mankind." Lord. Another person with her hand outstretched. Always about the dollars. Richard glanced at the woman's white, white teeth, disappointed. "You like Cara, don't you?" "I do. When I talk, she listens." "I listen." Most of the time, when he wasn't thinking about missing doughnuts or work or how to get grease stains out of his favorite shirt. That damn car. He thought he could fix it himself and... "You do, but she..." She fiddled with her glasses. "She really listens, to more than the words. When we met, Cara knew right away I didn't want to move." "That's her job." Though that impressed him. A good house in a good neighborhood, an older woman falling into a 17
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pile of cash, it could have been two easy commissions, both buying and selling. The supper sabotaging agent would have pounced on the opportunity. "Send her a check." If it made his assistant happy, he could overlook this morning's lack of doughnuts. "She doesn't want a check." Where was this conversation going? "What does she want, then?" "Well." Again with the glasses. "They are one handyman short." "And?" How was that his problem? Try the yellow pages. "She would like you to be that handyman." "What?" Richard rose out of his seat. "Is she serious?" Him, a handyman? He wrote computer programs, for Pete's sake. "Where'd she get the impression that I'm a handyman? I'm not handy." "That's what I told her." He frowned, insulted at Shirley's ready agreement. He wasn't completely inept. Richard plucked at the grease stain on his white linen shirt. "Cara said it didn't matter. You can bring a contractor as long as you show up." He sat back down, considering the situation. "She wants to auction me off as an unhandy handyman?" Part of him was horrified, another part flattered. If it wasn't his handyman skills then why him? Richard glanced at his reflection in the laptop monitor and smoothed his brown hair down. Or tried to. It quickly returned to its natural state of sticking straight out. As persistent as a pop up ad. 18
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He wasn't bad looking, if a woman could overlook the hair. "An unhandy handyman," he repeated. "Seems that way." Shirley's lips twitched suspiciously. "Insane." His protest was weaker. "She must be." Richard glared at his assistant. Shirley's expression was too innocent. "Why me?" He was starting to like the idea. Richard Thompson, handyman; wearing a hard hat, one of those tool belts, driving a white cube van, and fixing leaking pipes for hot women. Maybe, he glanced at Cara's photo, for a certain hard working real estate agent. "Why you? Why not you?" There was a long, suffering sigh. "You're a billionaire, Richard, remember?" He had almost forgotten. A billionaire. His fantasy world collapsed with that word. It always came back to that. While before, he had worn dozens of labels—businessman, boss, friend, son, even lover—now there was only one, billionaire. A big smile full of white teeth mocked him for thinking otherwise. "Tell her no." "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." 19
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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. 20
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"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 autoresponse. 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 21
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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]
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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. 23
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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. 24
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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 wellmanicured 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 beige 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 25
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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. 26
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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. 27
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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." 28
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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. 29
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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 30
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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 fingers. "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." 31
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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 32
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arm surprisingly strong wrapped around her waist, pressing her hips against his. She fit against him the way she knew she would, perfectly, nestled in as though he was made for her. "Cara." It was a groan and he tilted her face up. Richard Thompson was going to kiss her. A man she only met today. A little over an hour ago. She should resist. Say no. Anything. Her eyelids lowered. No, not that. That wasn't helping. He pressed his lips against her chin, his hot breath puffing on her cheek. When his tongue darted out to sample her skin, Cara trembled. Then his mouth was gone. Cara opened her eyes to find him studying her, his eyes black. She should feel relieved. Instead, she felt cheated. He tasted her. She wanted to taste him. Her lips parted and that was all the encouragement Richard needed. He swooped down, she rose up to meet him as best she could, her back arching, mindlessly pushing her hips out. Too low. She was too short. Easily rectified. As his tongue explored her mouth, Richard scooped her up, lifting her onto the edge of the sink, her yoga pant-wearing butt hanging over the basin. Her knees parted to let him closer and yes, that was it, just right. His mouth was a tantalizing mix of molten chocolate and hops. He loosened her seen-better-days scrunchie, combing his fingers through her tangles. Her outside reflected her 33
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inside; she was coming apart, literally, shattering into tiny pieces. But not soon enough. Not before he broke the kiss, breathing heavy; his forehead resting against hers. "There." Richard's voice was edged with pure male satisfaction, with her, a woman well kissed. Cara was that, her lips plumped with passion. "Who says I'm not handy?" Who, indeed? **** He was going to kiss her again. Tomorrow night. Kiss her and touch her. Make her moan a bit. He liked that sound coming from the back of her throat. But no agreeing to the auction. And no buying a house. Richard rolled down the taxi window, letting the cool night air wash over him, the driver anxiously watching him in the mirror. The man probably thought he was going to be sick. A possibility. He ate a few too many cupcakes, resulting in a viscous sugar high and an upset stomach. Kissing Cara didn't help, either. So very sweet. She was a saleswoman, he had to remember that. She'd want him to do the auction thing. That wasn't going to happen. No way. No how. The press would use that as an excuse to pry into his personal affairs. Not that he had much to hide, not recently. His life was exceedingly boring: work, eat, sleep, work, eat, sleep, but he didn't want the name of every girl he ever dated in the distant past trotted through the papers, or heaven forbid, details of his sex life, what little there was of it. 34
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He had also done a few things in college, things he'd prefer his family, his mother—a shudder ran down his spine—his mother's friends, not know about. The streaking incident alone would give his mother a coronary. He had been very, very drunk and didn't remember much, but his buddies said it was one for the fraternity history books. Then there was that bachelor party in Vegas. And Brenda who had been married, he found out afterwards. Her poor husband. If that ever... No, no press time for him. Cara would probably be disappointed, but only for the charity. He could make a big, fat donation and all would be forgiven. As the cab pulled up outside his apartment building, Richard grimaced at the unsavory sorts leaning against the high wrought iron fence, drinking out of brown paper bags and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Was Shirley right about his place? Richard tossed some bills forward, clutching the tins of cupcakes to his chest as he exited. It wasn't in the best neighborhood. The people... He nodded to his personal thug, T-Bone, as he entered the building. The man was on the Thompson payroll, keeping the press away and his car in one piece when it was operational. The people, the best he could say about them was that they were real. Real scary. A one-eyed man pushed past, a scar running from forehead to chin. Richard couldn't picture Cara visiting him here. No way. He'd tell her as much. Though how could he tell her not to visit? Any woman would be suspicious at that news, like he was hiding a wife 35
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and kids. Or some other dirty little secret he was too tired to think of right now. Cara would want to visit and he couldn't really stop her. Lord. Richard sighed as he stepped over some sprawled out kid waiting outside another apartment door. He'd slip some extra bills and a description of Cara to T-Bone in case she didn't listen. He'd also think about his living arrangements. Especially if he wanted Cara to stick around, which, by the way she was kissing tonight, was a distinct possibility. No agreeing to the auction. That was a definite no. The new house? He'd consider it. [Back to Table of Contents]
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Step Three Problem Identification: Clearly identifying a prospect's exact problem or need. Until the prospect's problem has been uncovered, a solution cannot be presented. This date was supposed to be perfect. A nice dinner, a walk in the park, then back to her place. There she'd be, surprised by the daisies he had had delivered. According to Shirley, Cara's favorite flower. She'd want to show her appreciation. Yeah, Richard had the evening all planned. In his mind. The reality was much different. Being nervous, by mid-afternoon he had spilled coffee all over his best blue shirt, worn to match Cara's eyes. Not sexy. So he sent a grumbling Shirley out to get a replacement. Only she didn't pick up one from a rack but grabbed one folded in those compact packs. Richard would have wet down the crisp folds that signaled to the world he was wearing a new shirt if he had had a second to himself. But no, Duncan, the contractor, decided that now was the only time to talk about the infrastructure for the new project. The intense young man nodded when Richard suggested tomorrow was better but kept on talking. And talking. And talking. He didn't even pause when Richard told himself screw it, he was going to be late, and changed his shirt in front of him. 37
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He left Duncan talking to his back and passed Shirley, muttering something about his hair. He didn't have time to heed her warning, how bad could it be? But when he caught his reflection in the glass of the revolving door, he realized that was a mistake. His never neat do looked like he had stuck his finger in a light socket. Nothing he could do at that point but pretend he liked it sticking straight up. Of course, he couldn't catch a break with the press, either. Since that Venture offer, every freelance newsman in the country followed him around. The quarter of a million bucks was too large to ignore. They were waiting for him outside the office as he made the mad dash into Cara's waiting car. Lucky for him, she drove the only Volvo out front or some unwitting driver would have had a surprise guest. Richard now looked toward the restaurant door. He seemed to have lost them, for the moment. It was only a matter of time. They'd hunt him down, and he'd lose his temper, cause a scene, and Cara would never see him again. He'd end up alone and locked in an apartment he no longer liked that much. His lips twisted. Life wasn't fair. "I have it on vibrate," Cara mentioned, yet again. "That's fine." Her cute, little, coral pink phone was on the table. The model he had advised she buy, via Shirley, their interface. The phone was feminine and dainty like Cara, in her blush pink skirt suit and bubblegum lips. Holy hell, he swept a hand through his hair, hoping to calm it down, how could he impress a woman like that? "No one should call." 38
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"Fine." Why would he care if they did? It was the nature of her job to receive constant calls. It was in her nature. If Richard couldn't accept that, he shouldn't be dating Cara Jones. Damn it. "You don't like the restaurant." She squirmed in her seat. "We could go to the one across the street." "The restaurant is fine too." The one across the street was fancier than this dive, but the food wasn't as good, she earlier explained. Mei, the dark-haired waitress, bumped his chair as she poured his tea. Cara smiled at her and tapped a couple fingers on the table as a thank-you. So sophisticated. A middle-aged Chinese man with crazy hair rivaling Richard's own shuffled up to their table, studying both of them intently. Richard glanced away, willing him to walk on by. He didn't. He stopped in front of them. Oh, here it goes. Richard's shoulders tightened. "Cawa Jones," he chirped and Richard relaxed. For her, again. With an apologetic glance at him, Cara rose, smiling. "Mr. Leung, so nice to meet you." Handshakes were exchanged. "This is..." No, don't say it, Richard silently pleaded. "Richard, he's in computers." In computers? It made him sound like he was completing rebuilds in his mother's basement. Richard got to his feet. "Mr. Leung." Both of them bowed their heads slightly. Then he was forgotten as the older man asked if there was any financing specifically for newcomers. A unique experience for Richard before tonight, before Cara. 39
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He liked it. It was like having a social life without all the small talk heavy lifting. Included, but not expected to contribute. No one looking at him. No one asking him personal questions. If Richard wasn't so concerned about impressing Cara, he'd be enjoying himself. But he wasn't because she wasn't. Damn it, he was making a mess of the evening. Cara darted an anxious look Richard's way as she gave Mr. Leung her card, asking him to call her. The blunt-speaking man was more persistent than Richard's super keen contractor, and she ended up promising to speak to the entire family, including at least two dozen aunties and uncles. A chore, but he wouldn't know it to look at Cara. She was gracious and warm, no hint of resentment on her beautiful face. "I'm sorry about that." She primly placed the cloth napkin back on her lap. "Mr. Leung is a dear man." "Like Mr. Chow." The aptly named owner. Upon arrival, they had been beckoned back to the kitchen for a discussion on whether the chef/owner should lock in his mortgage or not. And the parking lot attendant before with questions about tenant rights. If Richard remembered correctly, he was a dear man, too. Cara said it like she meant it. Like she knew, without a doubt, that they were all dear men and she was lucky to have spoken with each and every one of them. Did she feel that same way about him? Was he merely another dear man? Cara's mouth twisted. "I know a lot of people." 40
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"You do. Is it always like this?" Richard transferred some lemon chicken onto his plate. Was this a regular outing for Cara? That wouldn't be bad, not at all. All the attention on her, not him. "Pretty much." She twisted a lock of blonde hair around her finger, an endearing nervous action. "You don't mind?" A whisper of a sigh, bringing his attention to those full lips of hers. How long before he could kiss her again? He pulled up his shirt sleeve to check the time. Too early. "Sometimes I do, like now." Cara's sad blue eyes were on his watch too. Was he boring her? "But my face is public property, on bus stop billboards, in the newspaper every week. People feel they know me." "They don't." They didn't know Billionaire Richard, either. He frowned as a familiar face passed the picture window, yet again, hands shading the glass, peering in. "Doesn't matter. It comes with the job. I knew how it'd be from the start." "I didn't." Richard stabbed a piece of chicken. All he wanted was a normal evening out with Cara. Was that too much to ask? Blue eyes widened. "You thought you could sell your company for billions and not come to the public's attention?" Oh, hell. Those damn billions again. **** No wonder none of her boyfriends lasted very long, Cara silently cursed. She thought she had arranged everything, 41
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leaving the saleswoman at home. Wendy was taking her appointments. She had sent both her personal and business lines straight to voicemail. Only her emergency number was active and that was, well, because it was her emergency number. Didn't matter. Even when she wasn't at work, she was at work, her phone on, her face recognized. They couldn't have a simple meal without being constantly interrupted. Richard was a private, private man. He didn't say anything, but she could sense his unhappiness, his uneasiness. Glancing at his watch, waiting for the date to be over. Looking at the exit. One wrong word away from bolting out the door. Cara groaned; many, many wrong words were headed in their direction, snapping photos rather indiscreetly. "Quick, Richard." She leaned toward him, ignoring how nice he smelled. "Name one neighborhood you'd never want to live in." To his credit, he hesitated for only a moment before saying, "Park Hill." Good answer. She wasn't a fan of that old money part of town, either. Too stuffy. "Fred." Again she got up, feeling like a jack-in-the-box, plastering a welcoming smile across her face and held both hands out to the newspaper man. "So nice to see you." "Cara." The hard faced reporter stepped back, slightly surprised at the welcome, but then moved forward, giving her a buss on each cheek. "Fancy seeing you here." 42
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"Yes, imagine that," Richard grumbled, his face as dark as an unlit attic. "Fred, have you met Richard?" Cara introduced the two men. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure." Fred extended a hand and winced as it was taken. "Are you?" Fred, a nice man in a dreadful business, knew perfectly well who her date was. "Richard Thompson, yes, he is." She didn't like the way Richard was gritting his teeth. A horrible time with her and now this. "And you two are?" He was looking for a story, so she'd give him one. "You know how it is, Fred, always working." "Yes, someone has to pay the bills." Those jaded eyes thoughtfully studying Richard told Cara who Fred thought that someone was. As she intended. "Any particular area?" Fred probed. "What area did you mention, Richard?" Cara flipped the question to him. Fred would get suspicious if she did all the talking. Brown eyes slanted to her. Cara tilted her head expectantly. Would he play along? "Park Hill." Resentful, but he would. Fred whistled under his breath. "Nice part of town. Wasn't aware there was anything available." "That market doesn't advertise in the paper." Not normally. "Have you seen inside 217, Fred?" Before the man could respond, she continued, "If you give Bunny a call and mention my name, she'll give you a private viewing, tonight, 43
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if you wish. I'm certain readers would be interested in the house." Bunny would be happy for the publicity. The mansion wasn't moving. "Cara." Richard wasn't happy. How could he be? He'd be in the paper tomorrow whether he wanted to or not. That was decided before Fred even reached their table. Might as well make it the best coverage possible. "Oh, and Fred, I see you brought your camera with you." Hard not to notice as it was in his hand. "Would it be possible, that is, could I?" She bit her lower lip. "Impose on you to take a photo of Mr. Thompson and me? For my files?" Her private files. "Cara." A louder warning growl in her ear this time, sending shivers down her spine. "Trust me," she whispered back. She would take care of him. Richard blew up a breath, flaring his nostrils, not even moving that gravity defying hair. "Okay." Cara turned back, pleased. He trusted her. She wouldn't let him down. "As a favor to me, Fred?" "Of course, Cara." An official photo. The newsman scrambled to get his gear ready. She wrapped an arm around Richard, stroking his tense back muscles under his jacket, and striking a pose. The camera clicked and Cara moved nearer to Fred. "Let me see." Cara kept her expression neutral as she saw the absolutely horrid face Richard made on the screen. Not printable, not at all. "Fred, I look ghastly, could you take another?" 44
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They'd do this all night if they had to. She'd give the press one half decent photo of him. So the rest of the world could see how handsome he was. Again she wrapped her arm around her pseudo date, but this time, instead of rubbing his back, her hand moved lower. "Cara," he squeaked as she grasped a handful of round, tight buttocks. "Smile." This time he did. A wonderful photo. Even his mother would be proud. "Thank you, Fred. I do believe that's the first photo of the night." If she didn't count all those nasty candid's he had been clicking. "'Course, if other photographers find us and ask, we'll have to be as accommodating, you understand? We can't give exclusives." "No, that wouldn't be right," Fred agreed, but by the speculation in his eyes, he understood her meaning. He was known to protect his stories. With his help and a little luck, they'd be left alone for the rest of the evening. This would allow Cara to try to salvage something of the night. To convince Richard she deserved another date, regardless of how horrible this one was. There was silence at the table until the newsman exited the restaurant, Richard scowling down at his now cold food. Poor man. He clearly hated all this. All this was part of her life. Would another date with her be any different? Did their relationship have a chance? "Again, I apologize." She took the blame, shrugging her shoulders. "Part of going to dinner with me." And that wouldn't ever change. 45
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His forehead wrinkled and nose scrunched up, making her want to kiss him silly. Oh, dear, he was too adorable. "Fred was looking for me, Cara." "Was he?" Of course, he was, but Fred wouldn't have found him if Richard hadn't been out with her. "Maybe. Mr. Leung and Mr. Chow were for me, however. You have to give me credit for that." "I do." He grinned boyishly, his brown eyes lighting up, making her heart flip. "Maybe we should start keeping score." Start, that had to mean another date. Cara beamed back at him. On impulse, she grabbed the hand he rested on the tabletop. Richard flipped his palm over, lining his warm, rough fingers up with hers. "No need to keep score," she grinned at him. "I'm already beating you two to one." **** 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.
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"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... 47
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"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." 48
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"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 49
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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]
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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. 51
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"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 be 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. 52
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"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. 53
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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." 54
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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. 55
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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 56
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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. 57
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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. With 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..."
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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 mindblowing 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.
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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. Brutally illustrated by their first date. Cara recalled the look on Richard's handsome face, the face now relaxed and smiling in sleep. It had grown darker as person after person interrupted them. That, even more than his apartment, needed fixing. She shifted and his arm tightened around her. "Cara." He nuzzled her chin, his shadowed chin gently scratching her delicate skin. "Help me out with the auction, Richard." It was the perfect solution. She could walk him through the process, show him how to cope, make it fun rather than painful. They'd laugh and... There was silence. Did he not hear her? "Richard—" "Am I being an ass again, Cara?" He released a short bark of laughter. "Or did you, after everything that happened last night, ask me to do the auction?" "The auction." Cara pulled back her words, resisting the automatic spin into a selling spiel. She didn't want to be the saleswoman with him. To deliver the perfect pitch. To manipulate Richard into agreeing with her. She wanted to be natural, unplanned, spontaneous. "Cara." Should she say? No. What about? Sugar, without the sales talk, the training, what did she have? How would a normal woman convince a man to do 60
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what she wanted? "It's for the best, for us." Didn't sound like her. "For us?" Richard snorted. "I don't believe you, Cara." He sat up quickly, uncaring that she bounced away from him. "Is that what last night, this, what we're doing here, is all about?" Big arms spread out. What this. He meant. "You think?" "What do I think? What should I think?" "That I care for you." She did, with all her heart, could he not feel that? "That you care about what I can do for you more like. I'm simply a check signer for you, aren't I?" "Never." That he could think that, of her, of himself. Heat flared in her face, rising to sting her eyes. "Sure I am. I'm your prospect, your mark, your oh-sogullible target." His voice rose. "You can't do anything without selling something. That's what you are, Cara. A saleswoman." "No." She wasn't. She was trying not to be. Selling was what she did, not who she was. Didn't he understand that? Cara reached for him. He slipped away out of bed, tugging on his dress pants, not worrying about his underwear. "Then what's with the auction? You know I don't want to do it. Why are you pressing so hard?" His back to her, Cara searched for her own clothes. Why was she pressing so hard? Because, unless he learned how to handle the media, he wouldn't be able to handle their relationship. She found her bra tangled in the sheets, her skirt on the floor. 61
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Despite him being an ass, yet again, she wanted their relationship to work. "What's in it for you, Cara?" "Nothing." Nothing really. Well, technically, yes, she'd get the reduction in desk fees but that would go toward reducing Wendy's down payment. So could she honestly say there was nothing? She shook out the wrinkles in her suit top, found across the room, and slipped it on, avoiding his eyes. Cara could only do that for so long. When she turned, he was watching her. "There is," Richard confirmed. She was never good at lying. "There's something, isn't there? You're getting something if I participate." "I wouldn't have pursued it if it wasn't in your best interest," Cara defended herself. Useless words. She could see by his granite hard chin that he wasn't listening. "You can't hide from the press. You need to do this." "No, I don't need to do anything. You need me to do this. You." He was right. She needed him to do this. To avoid more painful public outings like last night. "Answer the question, Cara." Richard's hands were clenched on his hips. "How does my being in the auction help you?" "The press." The real reason. "No, not the press, there's more. Why me? Why now?" Why, why, why, there'd always be another why. She should tell him everything, put it all out there. He couldn't be angrier with her than he was right now. "The Realty is 62
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offering a reward for the agent whose handyman earns the top bid." Wrong. His face, if possible, went harder. "A quarter of a million dollar bid from Venture Magazine would do that, wouldn't it? Make me the top handyman." Cara didn't reply. He knew it would. Richard cursed under his breath. "Is it money? Is that what you're selling me out for?" Selling him out? She would never. "It's not about—" "Is it money, Cara?" he repeated, walking through the living room, Cara tagging along after him. "Not for me." He glanced back and she winced at the disgust on his lips. Disgust at her. Just last night, his face had been soft and warm with what could have been the beginning of love. "Richard, it wasn't for me. Believe me." "Believe you? When were you going to tell me all this?" She wasn't. Because she hadn't thought it that important. All the money was going to Wendy. "You weren't, were you?" There was quiet as they stood there, not directly looking at each other. Even the saleswoman in Cara couldn't think of anything that would make a difference, would change the expression on his face. "I'm..." Richard opened the door, took one step into the hallway then stopped. "No, this is my place. You're leaving." "Richard." "No, no explanations. Go." His voice was flat, dead.
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Cara hesitated. Was there a point in staying? He wasn't hearing her; he wasn't hearing anything right now. But she wasn't giving up. What they had, have... Time, he needed time. After Richard calmed down, then she'd explain. She'd explain that it was all a big misunderstanding. She'd ask for forgiveness and they'd piece back together what they could of their relationship. But when she saw the headline smattered across the front page of the paper waiting outside his apartment door, she knew there'd be nothing left to salvage. [Back to Table of Contents]
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Step Five Answering Objections: Responding to the resistance prospects have toward a new solution. Successful presentations have more objections than unsuccessful presentations. "You want another piece of pie, Richie?" His mother hovered over him with a full spatula. "Sure." He held out his plate, not having the heart to turn her down. The first pie he requested had too little cinnamon. This second pie, the pastry wasn't as light as it should be. As a certain real estate agent's pastry was. His mom slid the pie over then gave him an impromptu hug. "Isn't this fun? You being home? Us spending time together? Talking?" More like her talking. His head was buzzing, full of the intimate details of half the town's population. Information he didn't need to know. "We talk," he shrugged off her emotion, embarrassed. After that incident with Cara and seeing the blaring headlines, Richard packed up for the week and headed home. He thought it would ground him, reset everything to zero. Instead, something was missing. Someone was missing. "No need to look so sad, Richie." His mom sat down beside him, patting his arm. "I understand how it is in your line of work. You can't make it home as often as I'd like, that's the sacrifice a mother has to make. Even last night." 65
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"I had to work." It was an excuse. He couldn't sleep and didn't want to think of... "Keeping the country safe, yes." Tight gray curls bobbed. Keeping ... "Huh?" He put down his fork, waiting to make space before eating more. "You know." His mom made the face she always did before she spilled a secret she had sworn to keep. "I don't know." Richard had no clue. But he was about to find out. "The..." her voice lowered to a whisper, "spy business." Then she looked around again to ensure that no one had infiltrated her cozy kitchen. The spy business? Oh, lord. "Mom, I was writing code." Funneling his frustration into product development. "Exactly." She looked pleased with herself. "Computer code." "Of course. Don't talk down to your mother, Richie. I'm not completely out of it. I've seen James Bond. I know you use all those fancy gadgets." James Bond. A spy. That explained why yesterday Mr. Constance at the hardware store hustled to get him his screwdriver. He'd never seen the old man move so quickly in his life. "I'm not a spy." He had to fix this before it spread past the town limits. "Of course you aren't," his mother said loudly and winked at him.
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Should he? Richard opened his mouth to argue. Then he thought—had logical explanations ever swayed his mom's opinions in the past? No. And he closed it again. "Mary down at the Shop'n Go gets the city papers." His mom reached under the perennial stack of stuff on the kitchen table and unfolded a well worn paper. "She thought I'd like to see this." Richard didn't have to look at the front page to know which one it was. New Home for Reclusive Billionaire? In big, bold type. "Was I. This is the nicest photo you've ever had taken, dear. Even Susie at the barbershop agrees." Too bad he was standing next to ... Richard grunted and stuffed his mouth with tough crust, coughing at the dryness. "You look happy." His mom hummed a bit, the way she did when she was nervous. "Smiling. You're handsome when you smile, like your father. You should do it more often." So he smiled for her, cheeks full of apple pie. She laughed and slapped his shoulder lightly. "You are a real fool, Richie Thompson." He certainly was. Richard glanced at the blonde hair and white teeth. What he would give for her to sell him something. That said it all. Then his mom got down to her true business. "Cara Jones," she read. "She seems like a nice girl, your real estate agent." Not his real estate agent. A real estate agent. Richard prudently said nothing. His mom was fishing and he wasn't giving her anything. 67
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Didn't matter. His mom, like Cara, could carry a conversation by herself. "Is Cara?" His girlfriend? The possible love of his life? A once-in-alifetime woman? "A business associate?" Richard clenched his fork, thinking that sticking it in his eye looked more and more appealing. "She's not a spy." "Richie." His mother's eyes grew big. "You never know." She glanced around her again. "Is she?" Back to the whispering. "Your cover?" For the press, yes, yes she was. "Mom." "That's okay. I understand. Must be tough being a salesperson, even..." Hushed. "If she isn't, really." Then louder. "Always having to sell people stuff." He moved a piece of apple around his plate. "She's good at it." Too good. "Oh." Her lined face brightened. "She only sells to people she likes, then." "What do you mean?" And how was that better? Selling to loved ones. Or pretending to love them in order to sell to them. "If she's good then she'll have more than enough business. Your Cara Jones, I do like her, son, such a good girl." She could tell all that from a newspaper photo? "She can pick and choose." His mom picked up a speck of crust and put it back on his plate. Pick and choose, and she chose him. A flicker of hope lit within Richard before he remembered. "The market is slow right now." 68
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"The market's never slow, not if she's good. Marcie, the best real estate agent here in town, says she can't keep up. Only yesterday she sold a house to that single woman, the one who's..." Her voice dropped. "Pregnant. We don't know who the father is, though she's spending a lot of time with that Kenneth boy down at the firehouse. Trudy Dwyer, on the other hand." Her slightly hooked nose wrinkled up. "She's not as good an agent, mixes up her paperwork. Ended up selling a funeral home to old Mrs. Nottingham, now that is a mess. The old lady thinks it's a sign from God. She phoned her relatives and is holed up in her home, even as we speak, waiting to die. Now Trudy's phone never rings." Like Cara's. "At the restaurant." He tapped the paper, careful not to smudge up the photo. "Her phone didn't ring." Only one emergency call for help from her assistant. "Of course, it didn't." He was beamed at, his mother having an answer for everything. "She was on a date with my baby boy." Right. Richard took a swig of his mother's lemonade, puckering at the sourness. Making lemonade, one area his mom shone in. "When I called her." "What!" He pushed his seat back, the wooden legs scraping against the linoleum. Please let him not have heard his interfering mom correctly. "Her number's listed in the article," she said defensively. "And you don't talk to me. How's a mother supposed to know what's going on?" 69
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Oh Lord. Richard sat back down, propped his elbows on the table and covered his face. "Anyway." She ignored his distress. "I called and it went directly to voicemail. She phoned me right back, straight away, like she was pleased to hear from me." Implying that he wasn't always pleased to hear from his mom. "And we had a lovely chat. Except every thirty seconds, there was a pause and I thought there was something wrong with the phone. You know that fancy spy phone you gave me doesn't always work quite right." Because she didn't know how to use it and no, it wasn't a spy phone, he bought it at Wal-Mart. "But Cara laughed, she has a wonderful laugh, son." A wonderful, wonderful laugh that haunted his dreams at night and a perky little butt that filled his palms perfectly and... "And said that her system can't always handle all the incoming calls. She's been trying to fix it for years. Once, even the Mayor, she knows the Mayor, Richie." "I know the Mayor." His mind swirled. For a real estate agent to have trouble with her phone system, that was a lot of calls. "You do?" His mom peered at him in admiration. "You never said. Did you ask him why he wears that dreadful purple tie?" One of his mom's pet peeves. "I didn't have the chance." How could he bring that up in polite conversation? And what did this have to do with Cara? 70
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"Don't worry, Cara is going to ask him tonight." She was seeing the Mayor tonight? The good looking, well-spoken widower Mayor? "She'll tell me tomorrow." Tomorrow, this was getting worse and worse. "Cara's a busy woman, Mom. She might not call." Him. Ever again. "Oh." Apron-clad shoulders shrugged. "She'll call. She calls me every day. Shirley says—" "Every day?" And ... "You talk to Shirley?" "Of course." His mom had the nerve to look wounded. "I'm your mother, Richie. That reminds me, that nice friend of yours, Fred, called." Not Fred, the newspaper reporter. Please Lord, no. "He's one of the nicest people you've met in the last few years." She had been talking to him for years? "Always has time for me." He would. "Don't worry, he doesn't think you're a spy." Richard groaned, "How do you know that?" "Oh, I asked him and he said that no, you're some sort of business person. That was a clever cover, Richie." "Thank you," his mouth said as his brain played catch up. "Fred wanted to know if you were going to buy a house. I told him how would I know? I'm only your mother. But I told him that I talked to Cara and she didn't think..." Richard started to laugh, laughing so hard tears rolled down his cheeks. Here he was, worrying about keeping the media and the general public out of his personal business, when his own mother, the small town gossip queen, 71
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broadcasted his private affairs to the four corners of the earth via the unlimited calling plan he himself paid for. It was too much. "Are you all right, Richie?" His mom smiled at him curiously. He wiped his eyes and kissed her forehead. "I love you, Mom." "Of course you do." But she looked pleased. **** The next night, Richard hunched over his laptop, a luxury he had at home, away from the posture perfect Shirley, and tried to concentrate on coding. Difficult to do. He could hear his mom giggling like a schoolgirl in the next room. Who was she talking to? Was it Cara making her laugh like that? Another one of those funny real estate stories? Like the time she got stuck in an attic crawlspace and they had to call the fire department to get her out? Or was Cara sharing witticisms from the Mayor, from their dinner together? Richard scowled at the screen. With a couple taps of the mouse, her photo filled the screen, white teeth gleaming. A sense of satisfaction fell over him. Then he brought up a photo of the Mayor, laying them side by side, and that satisfaction evaporated. An attractive couple, the man a little too good-looking. Even his hair was perfect. Calm and controlled.
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Richard ran his hand over his own mop. Had he combed it today? He couldn't remember, but if he wanted a shot at dating Cara, he should start. He did want to date Cara. He didn't care if she was a gold digging hussy, only after his money, as long as she took the rest of him, too. Though he suspected she wasn't. Not Cara. Not the woman who walked away from selling his millionaire assistant a house just because Shirley didn't want to move. Not the woman that held a young woman's hand through her first sale and humored an old lady digging for gossip. But if he was wrong and she was a gold digger. Fine. He could deal with that. He'd hand over all his cash and when Cara burned through that, he'd go out and make more. After all, he touched the display, outlining her cute little nose and stubborn chin, she was so pretty, so charming, so intelligent, he didn't have much else to give her, to convince her to be with him. He'd do the auction too, sacrificing more of himself to the press as a peace offering, a way to spend more time with her. He'd talk to the reporters. Be all nicey-nice. Hell, he'd pose naked if that's what she wanted him to do. Naked. Memories of Cara naked before him swirled through his mind. Richard squirmed in his chair, his blue jeans suddenly too tight. What the hell was he doing here when Cara was out there? **** 73
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"That was Mrs. Thompson." Cara flipped her phone shut, placed it on the countertop and dropped back down onto her foam covered knees. "Richie's mom?" Shirley's eyes danced merrily at calling her boss by that kiddie name. "She's a sweet lady. A little confused, but sweet." Cara smoothed the gray grout over the honed granite tiles. "She is." She felt funny talking to his mom, knowing how angry Richard was with her. "Do you have any idea why she thinks I work with him?" "Do I have any idea why she insists on calling me 'S'?" The executive assistant screwed the manly steel colored hardware into the cabinets. They had spent hours debating which set to buy. "Who knows? There's a reason why Richard is here and she's there." "Only one?" Cara wiped the excess grout off with a rag, an old t-shirt she'd stained beyond repair. "The main reason being situated between her nose and her chin." Shirley moved onto the next door. Cara laughed. "Mrs. Thompson does like to talk." Difficult to imagine that she was Richard's mom. "About everyone, including my closed-mouth boss. If it wasn't for her, I'd know next to nothing about Richard." Cara gained some real gems of information from his mom's lips, also. Like Richard has been requesting apple pie all week. What did that mean? "She likes you, of course, says her dear son has been mooning over you." "You mentioned she was confused." Cara frowned down at her work. Mrs. Thompson would have to be to think Richard 74
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cared for her. That look of disgust on his face, she would never forget it. She'd let the man down. But she wouldn't let him down about his apartment. She wouldn't about his beloved desk. She said she'd take care of both and sugar it, that's what she was going to do. "I don't know, I saw that photo." That front page photo. "Exactly." "Exactly," Shirley nodded. "If you can get a good photo out of Richard, you can do anything. I have never known a man to make such horrible faces. I have to show you his driver's license sometime." "Is it bad?" Cara could imagine. Normal people took horrible driver's photos, but Richard... "Let's just say, they added another line to the description and that was 'check human, yes or no,'" Shirley chuckled. "He needs you, Cara." "No, he doesn't." But she needed him, she missed him. "I'm not right for him, Shirley." Cara moved closer and closer to the counter. "Cara, you're so right, it's unbelievable." "Unbelievable is the right word." Unbelievable like Shirley's theory because ... "We don't suit. He's a private person and I'm, I'm a saleswoman." No sense fighting it any longer. Richard called it, it was who she was. Shirley looked up from polishing the cabinet hardware. "Richard knew what you did for a living before you met, Cara." True, but ... "I tried to sell him on the auction." 75
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The assistant sucked air through her teeth. "He knew that, too." Yes, Cara never hid that from him. "Then, what is his problem?" "That's exactly it. It's his problem, not yours." Shirley sat on the edge of the counter, allowing Cara to spread grout where her feet had been. "Confidence didn't come with the money." "I don't care about his money." Cara wished he didn't have a cent. That would simplify things. "That's right. You don't care. Period." Cara said nothing, but Shirley was wrong. She never said she didn't care about him. Never. "If you don't care about him, then what have you been doing here all week? Spending hours on your hands and knees, on the floor? Sweating over paint colors? Haggling over furniture?" Not sleeping at night? And when she did, dreaming of Richard? Of his smiling face and his crazy hair. Firm hands. Wide shoulders. "Mrs. Thompson said Richard will need a pick up from the airport." Cara abruptly changed the subject, not wanting to answer the questions. "Cara." "He'll probably give you a call." A big sigh. "Okay." "Let him know about the plants." Cara had hired the landlord's kid to come in once a week to water them. "I will." 76
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"The maid service will be in on the fifteenth of every month." Cara set that up, too. His apartment had been so dusty it was unhealthy. "Noted." "Don't let him change the apartment back." This step was important for Richard. He couldn't stay stuck in the past forever. "He won't. He might grumble about it, but it's perfect for him." Shirley stood back, pleased with their efforts. "Plus, it'd be too much work." Cara counted on that. If Richard truly didn't care about his place, he wouldn't care enough to put it back the way it was. "I'll give you a list of media people." All middle-aged males, peculiarly enough. "When he's ready to rejoin the rest of the world, they'll help him out." As she would have done, if he was talking to her. "Careful, Cara, your lack of caring is showing." "I'd do this for anyone," she grumbled. A lie and Shirley called her on it. "My powder room needs retiling." "I'll send someone over." "What?" Hands fluttered to Shirley's chest. "No personal service for me?" "Sorry, don't have time." She really didn't. The last of the lots had closed, and demolition was underway. "Not for the next few months." Cara welcomed the upcoming rush of activity. It would help her deal. "Too bad about the auction." 77
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Yes, too bad. A part of Cara expected Richard to change his mind about participating. A silly part. And that silly part cost her money, her assistant broker money. She ended up not submitting anyone to the auction, much to Wendy's disgust and her own. Her phone buzzed, dancing across the countertop. Shirley caught it before it shimmied off the edge. "The Mayor's office, Cara." Her eyebrows rose. "Excuse me," Cara apologized. "I gotta take this." The Mayor was a difficult man to get a hold of. They had been playing phone tag all day. Plus, she didn't want to talk about Richard anymore. [Back to Table of Contents]
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Step Six Closing The Sale: Securing a firm commitment from the prospect to take action on the offer. Successful salesmen or women ask for this commitment. "Your mom's doing well?" Shirley popped open the trunk of the BMW. The ride from the airport was so smooth and quiet it almost lolled Richard to sleep. "You'll find out for yourself. She's coming for a visit." He lifted his suitcase out. Luxurious and practical. The car had more storage space than the Jetta. He wasn't buying a new car. Not unless he moved to a new neighborhood. To do that, he'd need a real estate agent. A real estate agent with blonde hair, big teeth, and the ability to bake the perfect apple pie. But, she wasn't exactly happy with him right now. Richard's personal thug, T-Bone, slouched against the parking floor wall near the elevator, heavy-lidded eyes sweeping over the available inventory, clearly contemplating which car would disappear next. No, no new vehicle. Even with an increased payoff, Richard suspected a BMW would be too much for the man to resist. "Maybe you shouldn't see me up." Shirley's car shone under the lights, a spotlighted target. "Of course, I'm seeing you up. Wouldn't miss it for the world." What did that mean? Miss what? "Watch your posture, Theodore." His assistant clucked her tongue, distracting 79
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Richard. Was the hoodlum's name Theodore? Must have been. T-Bone straightened up. "You don't want to end up hunchbacked like your grandfather, do you?" "No, Ma'am." The bandana'd head bobbed as he held the elevator door open. Shirley didn't blink at the punk's unusually polite behavior, continuing on with her discussion with Richard. "Your mom's coming here? You sure you want that? The press will have a field day." His vocally free mom with the media, he'd have no secrets left. That was the plan. "I asked her." Richard pressed the number for his floor. "Ohhhh ... to meet anyone special?" Cara, if all went well. "The Mayor, she's been bugging me for an introduction. The tie story, you know." Ever since Cara relayed that the purple tie was a gift from the politician's own mom for his first rally appearance, it had been 'The Mayor this' and 'The Mayor that', irritating the hell out of Richard. "Cara thought it would." Shirley not-so-subtly let him know he wasn't fooling anyone. She kept her finger on the door open button as he rolled the case out. "Cara." What could he say? "Is a wonderful person," she finished. "Whom I treated terribly." Richard pictured Cara's face that last morning, her normally sunny expression dim. "Yet continues to cares for you." "You think?" Hope unfurled in his stomach. Had Cara said something? Had she talked about him? 80
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"Ummm, allow me." His assistant took the keys from his hands, lips twitching, then swung the door wide open. "And yes, I think." Richard stepped across the threshold then stopped, Shirley bumping into his back. "What the ffff..." This wasn't, it couldn't be, he checked the number on the door, that was right, and yeah, that was his high school pennant hanging framed on the wall, and, he stepped onto the hardwood floor, his science fair trophy on the mahogany shelves, but the warm tan walls and ... "I have curtains." They blocked out the morning sun. "Most normal people do." Shirley grinned at him. "And furniture." He wiped a hand over the oak table as he moved into the kitchen. "Adult furniture. No plywood." He crouched, fingers in a triangle on the floor. "And tiles." Beautiful tiles. "Cara laid them herself." Shirley polished her glasses with a tissue, holding them up to the art deco-type light fixture. "Spent a couple days on her hands and knees." Cara on her hands and knees, her butt in the air, wiggling. Richard's lower body tightened at that visual. Not good. Especially when Shirley was watching him anxiously. He concentrated on his apartment. His home. It looked like a home now. His with some of Cara's style thrown in. His and hers. Theirs. So much had been done. Painting. Tiling. Finding furniture. Must have taken her the entire week he was gone. 81
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Cara. She did this for him. The woman he treated so callously. Richard frowned. "You don't like it." Shirley flopped down on the new couch. A leather one, similar to Cara's, with springs and everything. "How can you not like it?" she asked with disgust. "Cara said you might not, but I told her she was crazy. Crazy. Turns out that she's not the crazy one, you are." "I'm not." Fine, maybe he was a little crazy. He must be to treat Cara the way he had. "I love it." I love Cara. How could he not? She spent the entire week working to make him happy. Based on a simple discussion about a desk. The desk, he walked toward it. It looked like it had when he was a child. The leather was repaired, not brand-new, but weathered. The scratches reduced. The wood gleamed. He sank down on the reupholstered seat, placing his hands on the surface, the way he remembered his father sitting. His father, he would have liked Cara. No, no thinking of that now. Too emotional. Richard rolled open the drawer, and rummaged through the space. Sitting under some bills was a pen case, the lid flipped, revealing a vintage Waterman. "Cara thought it belonged with the desk," Shirley said from over his shoulder. It did, it was perfect. He held the pen gingerly. An antique, yet usable. A gift from Cara. Why? Under the case was a folded piece of paper with his name on it and the writing utensil was forgotten. Cara's handwriting, his name scrawled in a flourish of big, bold letters. 82
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If all you're to be is a check signer, then sign in style. Cara. Richard stood, the rolling chair forcing Shirley to step back. "Where is she?" No phone calls. This, he had to say in person. Shirley didn't ask who. She, for once, said nothing, flicking him the invite she held in her hand. He caught the card stock easily, scanning the words. A groundbreaking for Shelter for Mankind. The address familiar. The future. Her future. A parkette. Skipping ropes in the driveway. That reminded him. "The auction?" He had forgotten about that, selfish bastard that he was. "Closed on Wednesday. And no, Cara didn't have an entry." That was supposed to be him. "A shame, as she planned to use the winnings for a family's down payment." Not for her, she had said and it hadn't been. Not the auction, not the newspaper article, not this apartment, nothing had been for her. Richard grabbed his car keys off the counter and headed out the door. "You know where the lot is?" Shirley yelled down the hall. "Yeah." He had been there already. **** He'd be home by now. At the apartment. Did he like it? What did he think of the floor? Of the color choices? Of her? Was he thinking of her? She shouldn't be thinking of him, not right now. Cara started on another row, unfolding the lawn chairs. She had to 83
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concentrate on this event. There would be a crowd; people had been calling her all morning. Richard would hate all this. The press, the spotlight, the questions, yes, it was a good thing they weren't together. A good thing for him. For her, well, her heart ached. She was being silly, irrational. They had only met. Too soon to feel like this. To fall in love. Then why did she feel like every time she looked up, he'd be there? Why did she imagine she heard him whisper her name? Even now. "Cara." That was his tanned hand on the white chair back. Solid. Real. Not a figment of her imagination. "Richard." She swallowed the hard lump in her throat. He looked so good. A little sad. A little tired. But good. Well, other than his hair. It was flattened, respectable. Like he had combed it this morning. She preferred it wild and crazy. A camera whirled and Cara came to her senses. "You shouldn't be here, Richard. There's a lot of press here today." She tugged at the chair. He wouldn't release it. "I don't care. I need to talk to you." He would care tomorrow when their faces were plastered over the front page again. His jaw would clench, his lips would pull back into that ugly snarl, and her heart would break. Again. "They're kind of like your mother, Richard." She attempted a joke. "If they sense a story." 84
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He smiled back, his eyes holding onto the sadness. "You'll pose as my real estate agent; feed them some phony exclusive on a house I'm supposedly buying, allowing us time alone." Cara hadn't told anyone that, not Shirley, not his mom, no one. "How did you?" "I may be an ass, but I'm not dumb." "I never thought you were." He was one of the most intelligent men Cara knew. His mind, his wit, was the sexiest thing about him. Well, along with his shoulders. And his eyes. And... "Really." Those long fingers raked through his hair causing the ends to lift. "'Cause you sure can't tell by the way I've been acting lately." Another click of the camera. Out of the corner of her eye, Cara saw Fred watching them, forehead furrowed in speculation. He had been asking more and more questions about Richard, increasingly dissatisfied with her vague answers. "Cara, about what happened." What happened. If he was going to talk about that, they needed privacy. "Not here." Cara stopped him. "Fred." She tilted her head in the newsman's direction. Richard's eyes narrowed and his expression darkened. Great. All she needed now was a scene. "We'll go somewhere where we can be alone." "Fine." Richard smiled, but his eyes remained on Fred. She had to move quickly. Cara motioned to her new tenant relations manager. "Mr. Lee, take over for a second." She 85
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pushed her clipboard into Wendy's dad's hands as she strode toward the build site, expecting Richard to follow. Richard wasn't following. Cara glanced back to find him talking to Fred. The reporter nodded, grinning, and they shook hands. Richard returned to her side, jogging. "What was that?" Cara bit her bottom lip. Fred smiling was a sight to worry anyone. "Employing one of your tactics." His fingers entwined with hers as soon as they disappeared behind the disposal bin. Like there was no question that was where his fingers should be. And where she wanted them to be. Cara didn't pull away. "The house hunting story won't work again." Cara concentrated on the problem, not the feel of his skin, the musky scent of him. "No house hunting story, the real deal." Richard drew her close. Oh, sugar, she missed him, his touch. Why did he feel like home? "You're the real deal, Cara." Then he was kissing her, his mouth continuing the conversation, telling her all the things her heart wanted to hear. His thrusting tongue drove away the loneliness. His pounding heart said it beat faster only for her. His big hands cupping her rear told her they would support her. Lies, sweet, sweet lies. Even those vanished as he stepped back from her, breathing heavy, his hair spiked by her fingers. "We have to talk, Cara." Talking. More lies. She didn't want to hear them. She couldn't. "Why?" 86
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Cara tugged down her blazer, straightening her skirt. "Cara," he started, but she stopped him. "What has changed, Richard?" Nothing. She'd go back to face the press on her own. He wouldn't follow her. Even if he did, they would swarm him and he would run, leaving her alone. "Everything and nothing. The way I feel, that hasn't, but, me, I, I made a mistake, Cara." He reached out to touch her. She moved away. "I won't make it again. You're too important to me. I'll do..." "Anything?" Cara smoothed her hair back behind her ears, hardening her heart. This had to be done. They wouldn't work. "Would you give up your privacy for me? You'd have to. I can't change who I am." "I don't want you to." Cara wouldn't listen to him, not before she said this, "I'm a saleswoman, remember? You said so yourself. I love you, but I live in the public eye. And you can't live there with me, can you?" There was no need for words. His face said it all. Eyes blank. Jaw dropped. A hurtful silence. Cara straightened her shoulders, ignoring the band of pain tightening around her chest. "I didn't think so." She turned on her heel. "Goodbye, Richard." **** Richard watched Cara from his seat in the third row. She loved him, that wonderful woman. He should have said something. She had expected him to, but hearing those 87
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words from that pretty mouth, there was only so much a man could take before his brain shut down. His chair was bumped and Richard glanced back. "Sorry." It was Wendy, the assistant broker, twinned by an older version of her, settling in behind him. "Oh, Mr. Thompson, you, here, I didn't expect." Her face flushed. Richard eased the awkwardness. "I didn't expect you here, either." This wasn't agency business. The girl's chin jutted out determinedly. "Well, I am. We managed to get the house, my dad granted an advance on his salary, thanks to Cara." Richard suspected the source of that advance, his caring, generous girl. "And no thanks to you." Her mother glowered, supporting her daughter. Why was she so? Oh, Lord. The winnings. A family's down payment. Not any family's, Wendy's. "The auction." "Bailing without a word," Wendy huffed. "I never." But then he stopped. What would telling the agent-in-training that he never signed up for the auction solve? "If Cara knew earlier what you planned to do, or rather not do, Blake Rexdall could have flown in." Blake Rexdall, thebetween-wives-slick-talking movie star? "He said he would, even though he's on a shoot in Africa. As a special favor to Cara." Flying in from Africa, Richard frowned, the man was a bit too eager to return that favor. "I'm sorry." For being a complete ass.
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"You should be." Wendy wasn't letting the topic go. "Unlike some people..." Him, he gathered. "Cara keeps her promises. She says it's a sign of a good saleswoman." A woman of her word and she said she loved him. Why? He had no idea. "She's right." "Cara waited for you, you know," she said, a little less angrily. "She was so sure you'd do it. She believed in you." And he hadn't believed in her. Richard turned away from Wendy, away from the thought of having hurt Cara. Rexdall, a dashing young movie star, would have flown in from Africa for her. The Mayor, Richard almost growled as he realized the widower's eyes were following the twitch of a certain lilac skirt, the Mayor could give Cara any and all the public exposure she could ever desire. She could be the city's first lady. And him? What did he have to offer? Everything he had, including his heart. Was that enough? Must be. She loved him. Cara turned and he savored the sweet face studiously avoiding him. There was no sense trying to figure it out. This woman loved him. Him. Not Rexdall. Not the Mayor. Him. It was a fluke, like someone buying a computer company for an outrageous sum of money. He shouldn't question why. He should merely consider himself lucky and leave it at that. If he could. "She got you too, Thompson?" A sledgehammer of a hand fell on his shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. A heavy set man in an expensive suit squeezed into the seat beside him. 89
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"Peterson," Richard acknowledged the influential developer. "Cara is some saleswoman, huh?" His eyes found her again, buzzing around the platform, clipboard clenched against her breasts. She was some woman. The calm in a storm of activity. "I was all set to say no, the Mrs. and I had already given our allotment to charity," the man rumbled, not caring that Richard's attention drifted. "But this isn't charity, the little lady tells me, I'll get my money back, she says." He snorted an unattractive sound. "Sure I will." There was a pause in the commentary as Peterson hollered to a passing fox-faced man, making the press section laugh and nudge each other. "Damn, media vultures. Looking at us like we're roadkill." Peterson yelled, "I ain't dead, yet." "Let us know when you are." A man sporting a ridiculous gray fedora yelled back. "And we'll squeeze you in on page two." "Page two. Why you insolent..." Peterson grinned as he leaned toward Richard, "Gotta give them their quotes, then they'll leave you alone." They were only doing their jobs and that job didn't include embarrassing little old ladies. Even hardened newsmen like Fred, Richard found out, had mothers. The developer yammered on. "Yeah, Thompson, thought Cara was selling me a shady bill of goods." That got his full attention. "See here, Peterson." Richard straightened at the implied insult. Cara was... 90
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A hoarse laugh followed by a snort. "Calm down, young fella, didn't know that was how it was. You can't blame me for being damn cynical. Salespeople, including pretty little things like your gal, have had me in their sights since they first found out about my success decades back. Thought she was much the same 'til I heard she put her own money on the line." Her own money? "Damn idealist fool," Peterson muttered. "Mortgaged that shoebox of a place after she finally paid it off earlier this year, the bank showed me the papers to prove it." "She wouldn't ask you to do something she herself wouldn't do." Richard now understood fully. Why did she love him again? "Gotta admire that. Even love it." Emotion softened the big man's voice. "Thompson, I've only met one other gal like that Cara." "And what happened to her?" Richard watched Cara as she kissed the Mayor on his cheek and smiled for a photo, the Mayor standing closer than needed to Cara. He should be standing there, Richard knew. Beside her. The recipient of that upward glance. Maybe then her smile would be warm, genuine. Not the brittleness now etched across her pretty face. "What happened to her?" the real estate honcho boomed after a moment of contemplation, making heads turn. "Why, I married her, of course. I ain't no fool." [Back to Table of Contents] 91
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Step Seven Following Up: Ensuring that the customer is satisfied with the product or service, addressing any problems that may have occurred, and thanking her for her business He stayed. Cara never considered this scenario. She had been so certain Richard wouldn't stay that she didn't know how to take it. What did it mean? Did he simply need to talk with her some more? If so, he could have sat in the back row, near the exits, out of the spotlight. Not front and center, crushed up against Big Harold Peterson. He wouldn't stare at her as openly as he was doing. Drawing attention, interest from the press core. Including, the ever watchful and perma-crumpled Fred. Cara was more circumspect, gazing at him out of the corner of her eye as she stood behind the podium at the edge of the stage. Yes, she might have projected her voice in his direction during her introductions, and yes, she knew exactly where he was, his mood, his stance, during the entire event, but she waited until now to study him directly. The Mayor, the Shelter for Mankind representative, and a future tenant, posed for photos with their shovels full of new build dirt. The press snapped photos, getting their words, ensuring more coverage for the charity. Only Richard's eyes remained on her, even as the Mayor ran out of the planted loose dirt, hitting sod. Peterson 92
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hollered at him to put his back into it. Even as the press laughed, cameras clicking, Richard in more than a few photos, his eyes were on her. He gave no indication he noticed. Nothing that showed he minded the attention. He continued staring at her. The press distracted, Cara allowed herself to stare back. Why? She asked him silently. A semi-smile tugged up the corners of his lips, a twinkle appearing in his brown eyes, his head tilted in clear question. Why do you think? Why did she think? She could only fathom one answer. Her jaw dropped. But, why? Wasn't she a saleswoman? He wouldn't. Her? So soon? She shook her head slightly, in disbelief. He raised both eyebrows and nodded. Then he mouthed something. It looked like... I love you. No, couldn't be. Cara bit her bottom lip. It wasn't right. She was seeing only what she wanted to see. Fooling herself. Richard pointed to the pen in his shirt pocket. The Waterman. The one she hand picked for him, scoured antique stores to find. There in his pocket. Why? Her eyes traveled to his face and he nodded, mouthing the words again. He loved her. A warm flush spread up her neck, making her cheeks burn. He grinned and winked. It may not last past the next press event, but today, at this moment, charming, sexy Richard Thompson thought he loved her. 93
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He didn't love her. She immediately squashed that wild hope. Not really. He'd find that out once the novelty wore off. Even knowing that, Cara couldn't look away. She didn't notice that the staged ground breaking had been completed, that the Mayor finished his long winded speech that silence hung over the event. All she noticed was Richard. Finally Cara realized everyone was looking at her. Everyone. The Mayor. The press. The audience. Cara had missed her cue. Blushing deeper, she stepped forward. **** "You gonna sit there, Thompson, making googly-eyes at the woman?" Peterson's meaty hands almost pushed him off the chair. "Or you gonna join us on the stage?" Richard tore his eyes away from Cara's beautiful face. Sure enough. All the principals in the deal were gathering behind her at the front. Group photo op. "I'm not involved with the team." He didn't want to give that excuse. He wanted to be up there with her, but he didn't have a reason to be. He hadn't even participated in the charity auction. "Oh, you're involved, all right." Peterson snorted. "Come on, sunshine. It's safer to feed the animals as a group. Less likely to lose an arm." So Richard found himself where he wanted to be, on stage, inching toward Cara with each photo, Peterson covering his back. He tried to remember to smile, giving the press the same face Cara got out of him at the restaurant, but it was a halfhearted effort. Richard focused on his woman. 94
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Standing there, cool and collected, determined to ignore him, and what he had told her while sitting out there in the audience. He wouldn't let her. By the time the questions started coming, Richard was close. One step forward and his chest would rub against her shoulder blade. He was about to close the gap, to wrap his arms around her when... "Harry," someone yelled above the din. "What convinced you to give to this charity?" Damn. Richard had forgotten about the audience. "Now see here, young pup." Peterson scowled at the cameras and outstretched microphones. "You know ol' Harry doesn't believe in charity unless it is his charity of one. This is an investment in the city, and I expect it to have a darn good return." "Hear, hear." And the rest of them were relieved of talking as the Mayor took the opportunity to push forward his political agenda. Richard examined the top of Cara's blonde head. "You said you loved me. Why do you love me, Cara?" The thought nagged at him, he couldn't let it go. Silence. "Cara?" Had he heard her wrong? Had she not said she loved him? Was that his imagination? "I don't love you for your money, Richard," she whispered back, a fake smile fixed on her face.
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"I know." Rexdall was no pauper. "Nor do you love me for my good looks." Richard was well aware he was no movie star. "That's why I'm asking. I can't figure it out." A deep sigh. "Richard, remember when that family got burnt out of their home?" A couple with two little blonde haired girls, they lost everything, even the family pet. The doomed dog, a canine hero, barking at the first smell of smoke, waking them only to lose his own life. His assistance, compared to that sacrifice, was no big deal. Any person with a heart and the means would have coughed up the down payment on a new house. "How did you...?" "I handled the purchase." Pro bono, he suspected. That would be something she'd do. "I love you, Cara." The words he was holding onto escaped him. He couldn't keep it inside any longer. Cara turned her head to study him, Richard barely registering Fred's camera pointed in their direction. "You think you do now, but over time ... I'm a saleswoman, Richard." "A very good saleswoman." And he was proud of that. "Thank you," she said automatically. "No." A slight shake of her head. "You don't understand. I'm a saleswoman. This is a regular day for me. Questions, the press demanding answers. Of me. And if you're with me, of you." "Then I'll give them answers." What was the big deal? As long as she was by his side. "You won't have any secrets left." 96
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Secrets? Hadn't she talked to his mom? More than once? "I don't plan to keep secrets from you, Cara." "Not only from me. The world will know." Another question was asked, this time of the Mayor. Fate smiling on Richard, buying him more time. "Better the truth than..." How to explain? He ran a hand through his hair, searching for the words. "I never really talk to my Mom." "I know. You like to keep things to yourself." "Good in theory, but in practice..." In practice, it almost lost him the woman he loved. "Cara, my Mom thinks I'm a spy." A strangled noise came from her. Was that a laugh? Or a muffled scream? "She told the entire town." "Richard." Cara's blue eyes danced and he relaxed. He hitched a thumb toward the photographer. "Including our fearless reporter, Fred." "Oh, that's not good." A chuckle escaped her. The Mayor paused. Heads turned. Richard appreciated how Cara managed to look innocent even while her face was rosy and her body shook. He paused. Should he? He couldn't resist. "She thinks you're one, too." That set Cara off, she covered up her face, turning away from the crowd, coughing. Would anyone notice if he scooped her right off the stage, took her back behind that dumpster and... They would. The next question was his. 97
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"Thompson, Thompson." A blonde-haired lad yapped from the back. "You've turned down so many requests from charities, what sold you on this project?" So many requests? Shirley was right; he should have signed his name to some of those anonymous donations. Only Cara, now solemn faced behind the podium, knew. She knew and she still loved him. Loved him, complete ass that he sometimes was. "Hmmm..." Richard took his time answering, noting how the shoulders next to his stiffened. What did she think he was going to say? "There were many solid selling points, but I'd have to say the parkette, yes, definitely the parkette." "Thompson," the voice at his right boomed. "Are you telling me I'm paying for a parkette? What the hell good is a parkette?" Richard could have hugged the big man. A board member who also happened to be a Professor of Urban Development stepped forward, explaining the good of a little bit of green space. Giving him time to make it right with Cara before... "You remembered." A breath on the air. "Everything." Richard brushed the back of her hand with his. What would she do if he held it? Here, in front of the whole media world? "About you, I remember everything." "Richard, you think—" "No, I know. I know I love you now, and I know I'll love you tomorrow. This isn't going away. I'm not going away." "Thompson."
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Richard groaned softly, resenting the interruption, recognizing the voice. This question wouldn't go away either. "Fred." The other media people looked at the newsman with new respect. Fred stood up straighter. "I don't see your name on the contributor list." The program was waved in the air. "What exactly is your involvement in the project?" Richard knew this would be asked. He was banking on it. Prompted it. By blatantly devouring Cara's face during the entire presentation. If it were solely his decision, he would make his involvement clear. Clear to the whole world, including a super slick politician and a too-good-looking-for-Richard's-piece-ofmind Hollywood star. Leave no doubts in anyone's mind where Cara belonged. But it wasn't all his decision. "Cara?" **** She blinked out of her very pleasant, naked Richard-filled reverie. Why was he looking to her for input? This was a simple question to answer. All Richard had to say was he wasn't involved. There was no need to consult her. Unless ... The media chaos, the spotlight. He couldn't be ready for it, could he? Yes, it had to be faced sometime, but not now. She wanted one day, one night of happiness with Richard before the press tore that apart. Was that too much to ask? "Richard, no." 99
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"Yes, Cara," he whispered back. "Trust me." The resolute set of his chin reflected his commitment to this announcement. To her. To them. She braced herself for impact, nodding. If this was what he wanted, she would support him. He smiled at her, her cocky man, not having any clue what he was about to unleash, and turned back. "Ms. Jones said there was no use feeding you any false stories, Fred; you're too good an investigator." The way Richard pumped the newsman up guaranteed a friendlier write up. "And you've, yet again, proven her correct. I'm not on any thank you list." There was a buzz in the press galley. Peterson sounded like he was coughing up a fur ball beside them. Stop Richard. Cara mentally pleaded. You don't have to tell them more. Richard didn't leave it there. "Then what is my involvement in this project, you're asking?" He paused, every eye in the audience on him, the expectant silence adding to the drama. The realization slammed into Cara's gut. He is a complete and utter ass. Richard didn't avoid the press because he couldn't handle them. He was handling them quite well now, like a pro. No, he avoided the press because he simply didn't want to talk to them. Until now. Richard faced her, holding out his hand, palm up. Cameras clicked. The crowd buzzed. 100
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Cara felt the irrational need to run. She couldn't. She said she would stand by his side. And she always kept her word, even to herself. Cara looked into Richard's brown eyes for strength. He winked, laughter lines fanning out from the corners, and his lips spread in that little boy grin. A secret joke between them. She smiled back and placed her hand on his. His hand trembled slightly. Not as confident as he looked. His trembling strengthened her resolve. He needed her and she wouldn't fail him. Together, they could handle this. "It's simple, Fred. I'm here to support the best real estate agent in the country. That's the full extent of my contribution." They stood side by side, holding hands. "Could you clarify?" someone had the nerve to ask. Cara couldn't see who, as she was looking at Richard. The best real estate agent in the country. He'd said it proudly, as if it didn't bother him, her being a saleswoman. Like he was pleased with what she did. "Can you clarify?" Peterson mocked. "Are you blind, Smucker? The damn fool's in love." Big shoulders bumped into Richard's body so hard that Cara felt the impact. "Hell of a sound bite, Thompson." The developer's volume lowered for once. Blushing, Cara tucked into Richard's side, his arm around her waist as they smiled for the cameras. The tightness stretching his back muscles told her that yes, he needed her. Cara took over answering the questions as best she could. **** 101
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"They're gone." Bleary-eyed, Richard stared out at the bare pavement. No chairs, the rental company picked them up. No people, the media gorged their fill then left, buzzing and satisfied. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Because he hadn't cared to figure out a solution. Not until Cara. "They are." "Then I can do this." He brought her close, her body folding into his, and kissed Cara soundly, leisurely, the way she should be kissed. She opened up to him, a generous thank you for a rather painless public relations extravaganza. He'd do a press conference every day if this were the result. Her fingers threaded through his hair, making his skull tingle. Her scent filled his nostrils until all he smelled was her. Her hips pressed against... "Lord, Cara." Catching his breath, he leaned his forehead against hers. "What you do to me." He was seconds away from laying her on the ground and taking her right there. Now that would be front page news. "What I would like to do to you." She played with his shirt buttons. If it was anything like what he was thinking, there would be electricity. "Cara." "Your bed has a box spring now." Oh, Lord, she was thinking exactly what he was.
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His bed, her naked. No. There was something he hadn't done yet. "I never thanked you for the apartment. It is..." What was the word? A home? That sounded hokey. She peeked up at him from underneath mascara blackened eyelashes. Richard preferred to see her natural gold dancing on the tips. "You like it?" She had to ask? "Love it." He kissed that adorable ski jump nose. "And the pen." He tapped his chest pocket. "And most of all, you." Which got him another long, passionate kiss. As Richard was calculating which was closer, the apartment or the condo, Cara paused and drew back. "I almost forgot. The daisies. I loved them." "Did you?" Her appreciation pleased him, but it could wait. He'd rather be kissing her. "Of course, they're my favorite." Or touching her. What was her hand doing? Traveling down his chest? "I know." He sucked in his gut when her hand stopped on his waist. The daisies. Think about the daisies. "Did I love you?" When Shirley found out Cara's favorite flower, she also told him about the childhood game. "You did not." Cara played with his belt. "Damn defective flowers," Richard swore. "Were they?" She chuckled, low and husky, two fingers slipping inside the waistband of his pants. "They were," he squeaked. Enough teasing. He grabbed her close again. His body was thinking about that new box spring and her, naked on the mattress, her blonde hair spilled 103
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around her head like a halo, blue eyes dreamy, those white teeth gleaming. "I never believed in love at first sight." She fitted her head underneath his chin. "I still don't." Mistake. Her spine straightened, her skull cracking against his jawbone. Damn that hurt, but not enough to move away. "I loved you long before then." "Oh..." She relaxed again. "Love at first pie?" Cara nestled further into him, Richard hadn't thought that possible, and any pain from his injury evaporated. When had he first loved her? "I don't usually send strange men meat products," he confessed. "Oh, Richard." Great answer. She balanced on her tippy toes, bringing their lips together. Richard took full advantage, swinging Cara back until she grasped onto his shoulders. He loomed over her and gave her his best wolfish leer. "You were mine from the start, Cara." To which she merely laughed, wiggling in his arms as he kissed her. Feminine, soft ... and his. All his. The apartment it was. They'd take her car, since his wouldn't start after spending the week dormant. A taxi brought him to the groundbreaking. Groundbreaking. Oh, hell. "You have to work?" "No." Her blue eyes shone. "Wendy volunteered to take all the appointments for the afternoon. Said she felt bad about giving you a rough time." 104
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"She should." He didn't care. "The phone'll be ringing off the hook, now." Did she know that he plugged her status as the best agent in the city deliberately? Not that it mattered, Cara was back to playing with his lapels. "It always is." Those busy, busy hands. "You have to work, Master Spy?" "I don't have to do anything." Who'd have thought he'd be happy to be a billionaire? "I don't work for anyone." "Shirley?" Richard laughed. "Okay, I do work for Shirley. Lucky for me, even that slave driver gave me the afternoon off." Cara brushed her hips against his and his lower body tightened. "You mean, lucky for me." She rubbed against him. His mind went blank. What were they discussing again? [Back to Table of Contents]
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Step Eight Obtaining Resales & Referrals: Selling more to the same customer and/or obtaining new prospects from customers. Successful salespeople have high resale & referral rates. Shirley put her aching feet up under the table on the chair across from her. It had been a long day, happy, but long. "Plain apple pie, Richie?" Mrs. Thompson, Clarice she insisted she be called, chided the groom. "Couldn't you have gotten something fancier? The Mayor's here." "Not to mention Blake Rexdall." Shirley eyed the handsome man, recently returned from his African movie shoot, kissing the bride's cheek. She knew now why the silver-tongued charmer had gone through two wives. What she'd do to be number three. "And Blake Rexdall." Richard's mom nodded. "Thank you, Shirley." "Yeah, thank you, Shirley." Her boss was not as appreciative. "Mom, we have other desserts and I happen to like apple pie." "Not to mention the apple pie baker," Shirley helped out again. "No, I like apple pie. I love the apple pie baker." The movie star's hand moved down Cara's bare back. "Whom I had better rescue." And Richard was off, cutting through the crowd with that single-minded determination he was known for in business. 106
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Although Shirley wouldn't have appreciated the rescue herself, not having had a male hand on that part of her anatomy in a while, Cara did. Her eyes lit up, the smile transforming from polite to genuine. In a mirrored response, Richard's lips curled, pride tinged with a touch of wonder illuminating his face. Shirley had never seen him this happy. She sighed with satisfaction. And to think it was all due to her. "They do love each other." "They do," Clarice agreed, taking another bite of her second piece of pie. "Cara's such a good girl." Meaning ... "She calls you." "Everyday. Her own mother insists on it. Wish I had thought of that." "You could have insisted. Richard wouldn't have done it." They watched as Cara reached up to plant a quick kiss on Richard's jaw when she thought no one else was looking. "Like his father that way. I could never tell him what to do, either." Clarice's eyes grew wistful. Clarice obviously missed her husband. It would be difficult to celebrate a day like this without him. Shirley knew that she wished, no, no thinking of him. "Not that it stopped you." Clarice's laugh reminded her of her boss's, full and heartfelt. "Yes, not that it stopped me." "What are you two ladies laughing about now?" A pintsized redhead stood before them, hands on her hips, a mock frown on her pretty pixy face.
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"Certainly not laughing about your lack of a date, KayKay," Clarice scolded her niece. "How come you couldn't find some nice young man to bring to your cousin's wedding?" "Oh, Momma C." Kaylin bounced around to plant a kiss on the top of her Aunt's head. "Perhaps I don't know any nice young men." "Don't give me that garbage, girlie." Mrs. Thompson waved an overly ringed hand. "Couldn't one of your nice rancher men?" Shirley hid a smile as the girl groaned. "I explained that." "Your explanation made no sense. How can you work with brands and markets and not know at least one rancher?" Green eyes met Shirley's and they shook their heads in agreement. There was no use. Once Clarice got a notion in her brain, there was no correcting her. Although, she had finally stopped calling Shirley, "S." At least to her face. Some raunchy, burlesque music filled the rented hall, capturing their attention. Cara waved the daisy-filled bouquet above her head. Richard watched his bride, bemused, standing behind the DJ, as women gathered near the podium, jockeying for the prime positions. "They're getting ready to toss the bouquet," Shirley pointed out. A cloud passed across Kaylin's sunshine face so quickly that if Shirley hadn't been wearing her glasses, she would have missed it. "Try to catch it this time, Kay-Kay," Clarice advised.
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"No this time. I'm passing on the mad scramble. The last wedding, I got a nasty scratch." A lie, Shirley easily determined. "You have to." Then Clarice's attention was diverted. "Yoohoo, Fred, come here." She waved the young newsman-slashwedding photographer over. A freebie granted in exchange for exclusivity. "Mrs. Thompson," Fred smiled. He looked halfway presentable in his tux, a change from his usual rumpled self. His posture, however, still left much to be desired. Continual slouch. "Fred, tell Kay-Kay she has to try for the bouquet." The newsman blinked a couple times at the girl, a dazed expression on his face. There was something. Shirley's matchmaking instincts tingled. "It's only for single women." "Oh, I'm single." Shirley liked the way Kaylin's face flushed as she avoided looking at Fred directly. Unless she was losing her touch, the attraction went both ways. "Then you should—" "And I plan to stay that way." She cut him off, waving an unadorned hand. "Not if I can help it," he muttered just loud enough for Shirley to hear. "Thankfully, you, Mr. Wedding Photographer..." slightly slanted eyes flashed, "have nothing to do with my marital status. Not now, not ever." Foolish of the girl, Shirley thought, to throw down a challenge in front of this bull dog, unless she wanted him to take it up. Hmmm ... that was an interesting concept. 109
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"Forever is a long time." Fred cocked an eyebrow in a rather more dashing way than Shirley thought him capable. "Don't you know there're no absolutes in life?" "I know you should be taking photos, Camera Man." Clarice gasped and Kaylin herself seemed taken aback by her rudeness. That prompted her to run away. "And if you'll excuse me, I see Wendy." "Kaylin." Shirley stopped the girl. She couldn't leave now. This was getting good. "Sorry," she mumbled. "Asking about her new house." She was gone in a flounce of rainbow-colored fabric. Leaving Fred staring after her like she was some mythical being. He was clearly intrigued. "I wonder what her story is?" He paused, undecided for only a moment before stalking after her, camera in hand. Shirley caught Clarice's eye. "I know what you're thinking, but there's no use," Richard's mom hummed as she played with the pie crust. "None of them last longer than a date or two." Something was wrong, then. Richard was the most steadfast person Shirley knew. His cousin couldn't be that different. "Her mom?" "Dead. Breast cancer. My sister passed away when KayKay was fourteen." That might explain it. Perhaps she felt that she too could die young. "Her father?" A blush highlighted Clarice's cheekbones. "Don't know who he is." 110
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Shirley gazed across the room. Kaylin made a show of visiting all the aunties, avoiding the feminine tussle on the dance floor. Poor, motherless child. "An older brother or sister?" "She's an only child. Since we took turns caring for her, Richard's close to her, as are her other cousins, but—" "Richard's useless for finding out what's wrong." Shirley dismissed that avenue of information. Her boss had required help with his own love life. "I wonder; does she need an assistant?" "I don't know." It was a distracted answer as Clarice's face wrinkled in dismay. "What is my son doing now?" Richard had every pocket in his tuxedo turned inside out. "He's lost something." Shirley glanced to his right where Cara posed with the lucky recipient of the bouquet. "And his new wife is busy." She was needed. Still. That pleased Shirley. "Be back in a jiff." [Back to Table of Contents]
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About Kimber Kimber Chin writes romance novels set in the exciting world of business, a world she continues to play in daily. She is happily married to her first and only love, a naturally talented (and cute) salesguy. They spend any spare moments they have traveling and starting new ventures. More details on Kimber Chin and her novels can be found at businessromance.com/ Visit our website for our growing catalogue of quality books. www.champagnebooks.com
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