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"Play the field," I suggested, trying to keep my frustration in check. "You’ll forget her."
"One day, you’ll understand," he replied, the tone of his voice making it clear he wasn’t budging.
I sighed and reached for my glass. "Have a drink with me."
"I have work to do," Talon responded, the stubbornness back in full force.
"One fucking drink," I insisted, trying to coax him out of his funk.
"I have a company to help Dad run," he said, like it was an excuse.
"It’s after five. Time to knock off for the day."
"You don’t have any clients this evening?" Talon asked, knowing my schedule as well as I did. Sometimes I negotiated contracts back and forth with other agents as late as midnight.
"I’m taking a break," I replied, swirling the ice in my glass. "I have an old bird on the line for at least thirteen million. You know what my commission is on that?"
"A lot," he answered dryly.
"Enough to not have to work for the rest of the year," I said with a grin, taking a sip of scotch.
Talon snorted into the phone. "Like that would happen. You love money too much."
"Damn right. I have two other deals I’m working on," I said, leaning back and savoring the burn of the scotch.
"It’s not all about money," Talon said, his voice taking on that irritatingly wise tone.
"No, you’re right, it’s not," I conceded, though I didn’t really mean it. "But it helps."
"I have to go. Got a call on the other line," he said, cutting our conversation short.
"Have fun, little brother," I said, already moving on from our talk.
We hung up, and I slipped through the slider from my terrace to refill my scotch glass with more ice. I was congratulating myself on a job well done. I expected Mrs. Ducane to call within the next few hours. But no sooner had I placed the scotch bottle back in the cabinet than my phone rang. I smiled as I glanced at the screen.
"Mrs. Ducane, pleasure to hear from you," I said, my voice smooth and professional.
"Darling, I want to put an offer on the Midtown property. Thirteen and a half million," she said, her tone sharp and to the point.
"Are you sure?" I asked, though I already knew her answer.
"Quite, and not a penny more."
"Suppose the owners want to negotiate?" I probed, knowing she wasn’t the type to back down easily.
"I’m not open to negotiation. They can take it or leave it," she snapped.
"Let me call the agent, and I’ll get back to you," I said, keeping my voice calm despite the tension building in my chest.
After hanging up, I took a long slug of scotch, letting the burn soothe my nerves. The property had recently been discounted by two hundred grand. I wasn’t sure the owners would negotiate down another half million, but it was worth a try. I dialed the agent, Erika Bramwell of Farley Associates. The phone rang several times before going to voicemail. I ground my teeth, pissed off. I left a curt message, jammed my finger on the end call button, and took another gulp of my scotch.
The glass left a ring of condensation on the counter, and I ran the pad of my finger around it, smearing the water on the dark granite. My frustrations were mounting, and the headache I thought I’d shaken earlier in the day was back with a vengeance.
It annoyed me to no end when agents didn’t respond immediately to potential offers. I wanted this sale so badly I could taste it. I was already planning a vacation at the end of summer with my earnings. Real estate was usually quiet during the warmer months, but not lately. I was drowning in clients, but Mrs. Ducane was my big fish right now.
I grabbed my scotch and went back out to the terrace, plopping onto a blue chaise and stretching out my legs. Drops of condensation dripped onto my black t-shirt as I sipped from my glass, and I absently blotted at them with my hand.
Things in my life were just the way I wanted them, aside from the current deal I needed to close. I had plenty of money, a fabulous apartment, and a bevy of women to choose from to share my bed. Life was good. All I needed was for Erika to get back to me with a yes.
