Granddad's House (On Geneva Shores) (3 page)

Beau finally perched on the edge of his desk, his jaw working, one foot tapping the floor impatiently. They didn’t usually work on Sundays, but the old Victorian demanded their attention.
That gorgeous realtor.
His thoughts conjured up her image, blocking out his questions about the house. No doubt about it. He needed a run around the lake to settle his nerves.

“Beau, sit down,” George urged. “You remind me of a hawk ready to pounce on a mouse. Sit.” One finger jabbed the air. “Down.”

Yeah, me hawk. Olivia, mouse.
But she certainly was not timid like a mouse. If anything, she posed a problem. She kept intruding, muddling his brain, generating bodily responses, forcing his thoughts elsewhere than on business. Maybe he’d come on too strong. He lowered himself into his desk chair and George grabbed the upholstered visitor’s chair, pulled it close to Beau’s desk, opened his laptop and slowly scanned the interior pictures.

Beau pointed to the picture of the master bedroom, willing himself to concentrate. “Great bones. This room is especially nice. The client is going to really like what we can do with it. On a big lot, almost a full acre with those two outbuildings.  The carriage house has lots of potential. Now that the county is allowing lot line adjustments on this street to add more housing, it would work perfectly for what we want to do. And in a stable neighborhood. No foreclosures or short sales in the last two years.” He stopped talking and frowned.

“So, why are you hesitating?” George asked. “I hear a giant but.”

Beau tensed, warning bells clanging in his mind.
Her butt’s just right.
“The realtor. She didn’t seem all that happy about my offer. Lots of people were there before me. That’s why I went ahead and told her we’d take it—cash.”

“So, call the broker. Johnson Brown’s owned the agency for years.” George interrupted. “You can deal with him if you want to write an offer. You know how some brokers work—he runs the show, but stays in the office. He probably has his newer agents hosting the open houses, servicing the buyer clients.”

Beau rose and began pacing again.

“Why are you so jumpy?” George demanded. “Did Heidi call you again? Focus. On this project.”

“Sorry.” Beau raked a hand through his hair. “He’s not the broker anymore. He’s deceased. She owns the company now.”

“So what?  Until Heidi you’ve always worked well with women.” George peered at him. “Let me guess. You’ve decided to get back on the horse—regarding women, I mean. Never mind about that right now. Tell me what you think the place needs, besides what we’d have to do in those outbuildings.”

“Updating in the kitchen and the bathrooms. But the high ceilings are what you like. It would make a great B&B—perfect for our client who authorized us to find something, buy it, fix it and then let them take over.”

Beau studied each picture again. His left eyebrow rose. Maybe he would call another broker. So he wouldn’t have to deal with that prickly woman. Except that she represented a challenge, two, actually. One professional, one personal. And he’d never backed away from a challenge. Not before Heidi, anyway.

George continued. “I detect hesitation. Is it the agent? She seemed very nice—easy to look at, too, when she toured me through the place, and eager to sell it. She talked off my ear during the showing.”

“It’s her grandfather’s house. Maybe that’s why she didn’t like it when I mentioned we were going to turn it into a B&B.”

George chuckled. “From the way you’re acting, it’s gotta be more than that. Look, it’s been more than a year since Heidi tried to cut off your balls and take your money. Just ’cause she couldn’t be trusted doesn’t mean every woman in business is the same.”

Beau swiveled in his chair and stared out the window. “You’re right. And it’s not fair to assume she’s like Heidi.” But he’d lost his confidence along with his ability to judge people. In his line of business, that was a problem.

“So Heidi hoodwinked you. She threw you off your game,” George said, as if reading his mind. “As long as you’re not thinking with your …”

“Don’t say it. I should have figured her out. Good thing you saw through her.”

“Yes, well, we did that together, before she stole the business away from us.” George closed the laptop. “This place is a golden opportunity. Want me to call the agent and ask her to write up the offer—so you don’t have to?” His partner gave Beau a sidelong smirk.

Olivia’s face framed in that riot of red curls topping a beautiful body again came to mind. “Not necessary. I’ll send her an email and follow up. You’re right. The place is too good to pass up. Much more promising than that Tudor we considered last month.”

George rose and returned to his office.

Beau studied the newspaper ad. Brown Family Realty. Olivia Brown, a redhead. She looked to be in her late twenties, maybe early thirties. He wished she’d been old and fat and ugly, so he wouldn’t be tempted to think of her as female and appealing. He stared at the phone and debated whether he should call her again. Annoyingly, he felt like he was fifteen and getting ready for his first date.

Always before, a woman’s looks and whether he saw her socially, had never affected his negotiations. More like spicing up a dry and potentially boring transaction. This particular redhead qualified as someone he’d have wanted to get to know better, if he hadn’t already been burned by Heidi. Beautiful, too. One corner of his mouth curved up. But maybe this wasn’t the right time for it. He had to stay focused. On business. Nothing else. If he could.

He and George had been looking for an opportunity to show people what they could do with an existing residential building with nearby structures. Until now, no such property in the right neighborhood had come along.

He checked his calendar, typed in a reminder on his laptop, and stood up. As he passed George’s door, he knocked and said, “I’ll go see her tomorrow. But don’t hold your breath,” he warned.

Chapter 3

The next morning Olivia drove directly to the office, intent on calling each of the open house visitors to granddad’s house. Beau James’s image continued to intrude. Hopefully, one of the other visitors would show serious interest in buying. Then she would, for sure, check into recent zoning changes in her grandfather’s neighborhood. Maybe that was a way to make Mr. Manus Horribilis James go away. As she pulled into her parking space behind the office, she recognized the fancy sports car taking up the next space over. Her stomach clenched.

Damn and double damn!

She shut off the engine and sat there for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts. Her heart thundered in her chest and her cheeks felt extra warm. She ran one hand through her curls and remembered what Beau had said when she’d mentioned the cobwebs in his hair. She groaned. Now what?

Before she could answer her own question, the man unfolded his tall frame from the sports car and ambled toward her, his grin audacious as he opened her car door and offered his hand to her for the second time in as many days.

“Good morning, Miss Olivia.”

Is he always so cheerful in the morning?
She tried not to frown.

“I was on my way to another appointment on this side of town, and thought I’d save you a phone call,” he explained. “How’s your foot? Let me help you out—so you don’t twist that well-turned ankle again.”

His voice reminded her of Southern syrup, too slow to put on her quickly-flipped northern pancakes. Southern syrup, indeed. She refused to meet his eyes as he helped her out of her seat and pulled away her hand as soon as she was standing. She walked gingerly up the short path to the back door of the office, unlocked it, and flipped on the lights. She turned to invite him in, and almost bumped into him.

“I’m right here—
er, behind you, ma’am,” he drawled, and removed his hands, which were lightly touching her arms, as if preparing to catch her should she fall.

She backed away and did her best to stalk to her desk, fuming and wishing Genevieve, the receptionist, were here. Actually anyone. She didn’t want to be in the same room—alone—with him. His presence was too distracting. She wasn’t exactly afraid of him. More like frustrated. That must be what she was feeling: why she found it hard to catch her breath.

When she was seated behind her desk, he perched on the arm of the overstuffed chair against the opposite wall.

“Make yourself comfortable.” She waved at the seat.

“I’m just fine, Olivia. So what did the seller say? Is he ready to accept my offer?” His green eyes seemed to caress her face and her upper body.

She moved her desktop monitor to the center of her desk so she wouldn’t have to look at him. She pushed the on switch then busied herself looking for the file in the cabinet behind her while the computer booted up.  Anything to avoid having to look at the man.

She waited for him to speak again, feeling his eyes on her back, but he said nothing. Her heart continued to race.
How infuriating that he just sits there staring at me.
Why didn’t he say something? On the other hand, if he was just going to wait for her, well, let him wait. Till hell froze over! Then maybe he would leave and go find another Victorian to make into a B&B, another carriage house to strip of its character by making it into a god-awful modern duplex or triplex.

She found the file and turned back to the computer. She looked up, startled. He was now leaning over the desk at her, smiling broadly. The white shirt he wore must be silk, too, like the one he’d worn yesterday. In spite of the fabric, his chest muscles suggested he worked out.
Maybe he hits the gym every day.
  She blinked her eyes to stop the speculation.

“I can’t see you from behind all this machinery,” he said softly.  “So, tell me. Why don’t we get on with it?”

Her entire body started to flame, seemingly eager to do what he was suggesting.

He cleared his throat. “So we can write the offer,” he clarified.

Can he read my mind?
“Oh. Yes.” She dropped her eyes back to the computer screen and leaned away from him, holding the file just under her chin. “Your bank—account.” Why was she squeaking like an injured mouse? Her throat was dry. She coughed to clear it. “I need,” she began again. “I need a copy of your bank statement—the one that verifies that you have the money to buy the property.”

His expression turned studiedly neutral.

“You can block out the account number if you wish,” she rushed on and gulped again. “You said your offer was cash. That means I have to make sure you have the means, the money to buy it—since you’re not seeking a mortgage.”

He nodded. “Would you happen to have a piece of paper, so I can take notes?”

She handed him a notebook and a pen, surprised that her hand did not shake, though her chest and stomach were a riot of butterflies at war with her ribs.

“Where should I send that information?”

She handed him her business card. “My fax number is on there. Or you could email it. Or your bank could—do that.”

“What else do you want—or need?” he asked.

If you only knew
, certain low-lying body parts screamed.
Settle down!
She squirmed in her seat.
“The asking price is six hundred fifty thousand. How much earnest money are you offering? It can be in a personal check—from a local bank.”
From anyone else, maybe even out-of-state, but not from you, buster.

He reached into the chest pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a checkbook. “Would ten thousand do?” A tiny smile played about the corners of his mouth.

“Fine.” She did some quick math in her head.
Better than one percent. That’s good.
Er, bad, ’cause Granddad will be impressed.
“Are you planning to do an inspection?”

He nodded.

“Any other contingencies?” she asked.  She wasn’t about to help him. Maybe he would forget something important.

“I expect the title to be clean,” he said.

“Of course it is! What do you think, that my—never mind.” She caught herself.
That wasn’t professional. Stay calm.
“Do you plan to do a neighborhood review?”

“Not necessary. My partner and I have already scouted around.”

Granddad was right. The man probably already knew what the permit department would allow.
Damnation!
But she would check that herself to be sure. Maybe he’d missed something in the fine print.

“How soon do you want to close?”

“As soon as possible.”

When she frowned, he added, “But if your seller needs extra time to find a place to live, I’m sure we can work around that. Why don’t you say sixty days? Will that be enough time?”

Double damn, he thought of everything.
She completed the forms and punched the print button. She sat back in her chair and glared over the top of the computer at him. He waited quietly in his chair, casually glancing around the office.
Don’t think trying to look innocent is going to fool me, you thief in the night. Trying to steal Granddad’s house. How could you even
dream
of turning it into a commercial venture?

When the printer finished spitting out the papers, she marked in yellow highlighter the places he needed to sign and handed them to him.
Let’s see if he wants me to go over them. No way would I treat someone else like this, but I just want him to
go away
!

He seemed to read them, too quickly, and glanced up at her. “Perhaps we should sit over here—” he pointed to the conference table in the corner by the high windows— “so you can explain the fine print to me.” Before she could reply, he rose, took a seat next to one of the windows, and looked expectantly at her.

Damn, damn, damn!
But she joined him at the table and pulled the papers closer. Then, reading them upside down, she went over them line by line. He asked a few minor questions, but mostly nodded as she moved from one page to the next.

She went back to the listing file and pulled out the legal description, the sellers’ disclosure forms, so carefully filled out in her grandfather’s precise handwriting, and one other form. “Excuse me for a minute. I need to make a copy of these for you.” Aware of her still-tender ankle, she hobbled to the copy machine behind Genevieve’s desk in the next room and copied the papers before returning to the table. The sunlight glancing through the windows highlighted
the angles of the man’s face and the slight waves in his chestnut hair, no longer sporting cobwebs, as he studied the papers he had just signed.

“Please initial and date the legal description. Here is the seller’s disclosure. Take your time reading it. When you’re done, you’ll need to sign on the last page—that means you are acknowledging having received it,” she explained, forcing herself to stick to business even as her heart sank at the thought that the man might actually have the money to buy the house. Granddad’s house, the house in which she had learned to bake cookies at her grandmother’s elbow, the house where she had escaped for refuge in her grandparents’ arms when her mother had left them, and again, as an adult, after her father’s sudden death. The house that had sheltered and nurtured her. The house where she had kept her special dolls in a closet under the stairs with the half-sized door off the hall. Her own special cubby. How could she stop Granddad from accepting this offer?
How can Mr. Nasty do this to me? To our family? To Granddad?

When Beau finished reading the forms and signing them, he pushed them in her direction. “I’ll fax a copy of my most recent bank statement to you later today.” He looked at her, and his voice became quiet. “You don’t want me to buy the place.”

His statement brought her up short. Was it that obvious? She turned away from him and walked out of her office, surreptitiously wiping her eyes, not sure what to say.

“Don’t leave just yet.” She called from the other room. “You’ll need these. She tried to regain her composure as she gathered his copies and slid them into a large envelope. She squared her shoulders before entering her office to find him standing near the wall where service awards were displayed. “As soon as I receive your fax, I’ll present your offer. I’ll get back to you when my seller has made a decision.”

He extended his hand.  “Thank you, Olivia.  I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” Without another word, he walked to the door and left.

She returned to her desk with a sigh. His car’s engine barely made a sound as it left the parking lot. She put her head down on the desk and tried to compose herself.
I
have
to find another buyer. Maybe that other man who remembered that it was Granddad’s house. I’ll call him this afternoon.
She pulled the buyer leads from her briefcase. Nine other leads. A great open house. She would call them all, even the ones she was sure couldn’t afford the place.

Later that afternoon, after shutting off the computer, frustrated, she locked the door behind her. None of the other buyers had stepped up, though one had said he might wish to see it a second time with his realtor. Olivia had encouraged him to do so. She had to find another buyer, someone with a family, someone who wanted to live in the house and raise their children there, and not tear it apart. Tomorrow she would
doublecheck the cubby—to make sure none of her toys were still hidden there.

The next day Olivia knocked before entering.

“Granddad, are you home?”

The house was quiet until she approached the sunroom off the kitchen. The man was humming to himself, bent over a plant.

“Granddad?”

“Oh, good morning, Livvy. Have you got that offer for me?”

“Not yet. I’m waiting for written verification of funds. I wanted to talk to you first.”

“About what? Shouldn’t you be at the office? It’s already eight-thirty. Remember what your dad used to say—the early bird gets the worm.” He leaned forward to peck her on the cheek.

“I’m on my way there now.  I—something tells me—I’m not sure what it is, but I don’t trust this guy. I’ve been calling the rest of the people who came to the open house. One of them wants a second look. They may want to buy the house. A couple of the other visitors mentioned their agents’ names. I’m going to call them, too.”

“Do what you have to do.” He straightened up. “My back isn’t good for all this bending.” He looked her over. “That purple looks good on you, Livvy.”

“
It’s burgundy, Granddad.” She brushed one hand against the paisley pattern of the silk blouse she had bought the previous week to go with her suit.

“Whatever color, it’s nice with your long ringlets—you’re my own personal Red Riding Hood.” He smiled. “Why don’t you call that man and tell him I want to talk to him—before you present his offer.”

“What? Granddad, you don’t have to do that.” She frowned. “Let me handle it.”
No way am I going to let Mr. Beau whatever-his-name-is come near you, to convince you to accept his offer. No way.

“I want to talk to him. I’m not going to agree to anything, or sign anything without you being here.” He sighed. “You say you don’t trust him. Let me see if I feel the same. If I do, I won’t accept his offer, even if it is full price.” He placed one large hand over hers. “I want to talk to him,” he said softly. “Humor me. After all, it’s my house.” His hazel eyes held hers for a long minute. “I know it’s not the way these things usually go.”