Jake made the first visits and saved the cream for her—not that any had risen up yet. He couldn’t give her first looks. Without him narrowing down the choices, they’d get stuck in some oversized ranch house like her sister and Ben. Phoebe lived under the curse of growing up beautiful and middle class. Life came too easy for her. People who never needed to stretch rarely reached for the stars. Jake pushed for both of them.
Rothschild Realty’s office appeared polished with sunshine and honey. The knockout owner who stood for a handshake may as well have modeled Herb Alpert’s Whipped Cream & Other Delights album cover: all tall and tan and lovely. Though not so young.
“Georgia Rothschild,” she said.
“Any relation?” he asked.
“I like to keep my clients guessing. Welcome. I’m picking out prime properties for you.”
They exchanged a few flirtatious comments and then she turned back to flipping through her listings, stopping at one and nodding, marking the page before moving on, leaving him to check out this real estate broker with the tumble of bronze hair falling over broad shoulders until she looked up.
“So. They’ve been taking you to Long Island?” She leaned back and lit a cigarette. “You know the Island’s for beginners, right?”
“What kind of beginners?” He stretched his legs out full.
“Beginners to nowhere. Why not jump right into the middle, eh?” She slammed the property book shut. “Not all of Long Island is a snooze, but the ones you can afford are. And getting to Manhattan from the Island is hell on earth. You work in Manhattan, right?”
Jake ignored her question and asked his own. “Where’s the middle tracking to the top? The top with kids?” he asked.
“Greenwich. Connecticut,” she shot back. “A fast ride to Manhattan. A decent train. Plus, Greenwich is small, especially compared with Long Island. Saying you come from Long Island could mean anything: a millionaire on the Gold Coast, a total nobody from Levittown. Say you’re from Greenwich, money’s always in the conversation. Come on. I’ll show you.”
? ? ?
Jake slipped into Georgia’s white Chevy Camaro, a low rider as sleek as Georgia. They were a coordinated pair—down to the baby-blue interior matching her eyes, which he bet she ordered for the impact.
“Nice car,” he said.
She offered an enigmatic smile, stretched her magnificent legs, and let her skirt ride up her thighs. Damn, how was she so tan in the middle of May? Jake didn’t hesitate to feast his eyes as Georgia sped up toward the New England Thruway. Frankie Valli’s “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” pumped from an eight-track car stereo sound system better than any Jake had ever heard. He imagined a life of fast cars, spring-tanned women, and a bulging wallet. All that and his perfect family.
Georgia pulled into the driveway of a small stone house. Oak trees filled the yard, making the house next door nearly invisible despite the homes being within yelling distance. Carpets of yellow tulips bloomed in a dense border.
“Not bad, right?” she asked. “The first time I saw this house, I pictured red shutters and a red porch. Barn red.”
Jake imagined wide red planks replacing the black painted ones and planters filled with a profusion of yellow flowers, white Adirondack chairs, and terra-cotta stepping-stones, looking like a spread from House Beautiful.
“Come on.” Georgia turned off the engine. “We’re on a move-fast schedule, cause I’m gonna show you every house in town near your price range.” Sex emanated from her half-smile. “Close enough, at any rate. I bet you’re a fast climber.”
Jake pegged her as near forty. Could even be forty-five, but hot. Old enough to want him simply for fun. He flexed his shoulders after rising from the low car.
“I’m not gonna play games with you, Mr. Pierce. Truth? I’m showing you the best first. Not the cheapest. Not the one I think you should buy. You look. You decide. This house will sell itself. The place only came on the market this week and won’t last long.” She waited a few beats. “Death in the family. Kids don’t want the house, only fast money.”
Jake spent his days selling, fast-talking, slow-talking—whatever the mark needed. He saw through Georgia’s “I don’t care what you do, because I know this is a winner” line. You don’t buy it—no problem. Someone’s waiting right behind you. Jake sold that way too. He recognized the approach, but despite his knowledge, the tactic almost succeeded.
Almost. He hid his interest like a pro.
“Let’s see what we got here. After, we’ll check out the rest. I’m in no rush.” He walked in front of her, keeping his shoulders wide.
? ? ?
After seeing a colonial, a split-level, and some modern monstrosity, they landed at a spread on the Long Island Sound that appeared to be way out of his price range.
The minute he saw the place, he craved waking to a water view.
“What’s up with this?” he asked. “Apparently you didn’t start with the highest priced after all.”
“True. This house is way above your ceiling.”
“Why bring me here?” They sat in deck chairs on the broad white terrace, feet up on the railing. Salty early-evening air settled over them. Georgia’s legs gleamed in the soft beach light. Sexy as hell.
“You wanted to see a house on the ocean. I figured you meant one for sale.”
“Good point.” The house toppled way over his ceiling price.
“By 1931, Greenwich’s per capita income topped every town in the area. Could be you’re not ready yet.”
“You sell via insult method?”
She swept her hand in front of them. Gold and sapphires flashed. Perfume wafted; the scent of expensive hovered in the breeze. “Don’t knock it. I don’t do badly. Not one bit.”
Jake started doing figures in his head, wishing his brother were here with his calculator of a brain, though nobody could figure the price of this place down to an affordable number. Then he thought about all the gains he made that day.
Not your money, boychik.
He estimated his take on the 20 percent.
Nowhere near the down payment. But with today’s hits, the Club account sat fat, happy, and at his disposal.
Not his to take, but surely his to borrow.
“Listen,” she said. “I’m sorry for bringing you here. My mistake. This isn’t an entry-level place.”
He maintained an impassive expression while inwardly cringing at her humiliating words. Treating him like a dumb Brooklyn kid—sure, he knew what game she was playing, but screw her. Screw her for thinking she could bullshit him.
Jake rose and leaned on the railing, his back to the ocean. He circled her brown ankle with his large hand, able to fit it all in. He ran his fingers up the line of her calf, the inside of her thigh, stopped, and went back down again. Then he traced his steps back up.
Georgia put her head back. Opened her legs a little. Then a bit more, as his hand traveled. Her hands clenched as she shifted lower in the chaise lounge.
“You cheated before?” Her words came out breathy.
“Who said I’m cheating now?” he asked.
“You’re gonna.”
“Nah. We’re not going all the way.”
Georgia laughed. “All the way? Are you sixteen?”
His hand went higher. “Nope.”
Fuck her.