The Dream Comes True Page 4

  “Right, and you could blow it all by getting greedy. The entire project will be jeopardized if we overprice the goods.”

  “Okay,” she said with a sigh, “if the units aren’t snapped up in six months or so, we can reduce the price.”

  He shook his head. “That smacks of defeat, and it’ll taint the whole thing. The longer those units sit empty, the worse it’ll be.” He sighed patiently. “Look, the duck pond will be completed six months before the pine grove, and the meadow six months after that. If we don’t sell the duck pond first thing, there’s no way the pine grove will sell, and if the pine grove doesn’t sell, forget the meadow.”

  “Okay,” Nina said, trying her absolute best to be reasonable, “how about this. How about we price the duck pond in the sixes, then move up into the sevens as we move toward the meadow.”

  “How about we price the duck pond in the fives, then move up into the sixes as we move toward the meadow.” He reached for more books.

  Bowing her head, she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed two fingers to her brow. “This isn’t going to work.”

  “It’d work just fine if you’d listen to reason.”

  Her head came up, eyes open and beseeching. “But I’m the expert here. Pricing property is what I do for a living! If I was off the wall, I wouldn’t be as successful as I am!”

  Arms filled with books, John straightened and gave her a look that was shockingly intense. “You’re successful because you push with such force and persistence that you wear people down. But you’re barking up the wrong tree when it comes to me. I’m not the type to be worn down.”

  Nina stared up at him, stunned by the vehemence of his attack and its personal nature. She couldn’t believe what she’d heard, couldn’t believe the anger that had come from the quiet, contemplative, laid-back bookseller. Swallowing something strangely akin to hurt, she said, “Why do you dislike me? Have I done something to offend you?”

  “Your whole manner offends me.”

  “Because I work hard and earn good money? Because I know what I want and fight for it? Or because I’m a woman?” She took a step back. “That’s it, isn’t it? I’m a strong woman, and you feel threatened.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Don’t feel singled out or anything,” she said quickly, and held up a hand. “You’re not alone. I threaten lots of men. I make them feel like they’re not fast enough or smart enough or insightful enough. They want to put me in my place, but they can’t.”

  John’s look was disparaging. “I wouldn’t presume to know where your place is, and I doubt you do, either. You want to wear the pants in the family, but you’re so busy trying to get them to fit that you blow the family part. How old are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does. You should be home having babies.”

  She stared at him in disbelief, opened her mouth, closed it again. Finally she sputtered out, “Who are you to tell me something like that? You don’t know anything about me. You have no idea what makes me tick. And even if you did, these are the 1990s. Women don’t stay home and have babies—”

  “Some do.”

  “And some work. It’s a personal choice, one for me to make.”

  “Clearly you have.”

  “Clearly, and if you were any kind of a man, you’d respect that choice.” She was suddenly feeling tired. Hitching her bag to the other shoulder, she headed for the door. “I think we’ve reached a stalemate here. I’ll call Carter tomorrow and let him know. There’s no way you and I can work together. No way.”

  “Chicken.”

  She stopped in her tracks, then turned. “No. I’m being practical. My standing here arguing with you is an exercise in futility. My arguments won’t change your mind, any more than yours will change mind. We’re deadlocked. So we’ll have to do what I wanted to do from the start, let the whole committee hear the arguments and take a vote. And we’ll chalk up this time to—to—client development.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That some day when you’re selling this house and you want the bitchiest broker to get the most money for you, you’ll give me a call.” With that, she tugged open the door and swept out into the night. She was down the wood steps and well along the front walk before she heard her name called.

  “Nina?”

  “Save it for the bank,” she called back without turning, raised a hand in a wave of dismissal and rounded her car.

  “Wait, Nina.”

  She looked up to find John eyeing her over the top of the car.

  “Maybe we should try again,” he said.

  “It’d be a waste of time.” Opening the door, she slid behind the wheel.

  He leaned down to talk through the open window. “Why don’t you give me some time to think.”

  With one hand on the wheel and one on the ignition, she said, “Buddy, you could think till the cows come home and you wouldn’t see things my way.”

  “Maybe we could meet halfway, you’d come down a little, I’d come up.”

  That was the only thing that made any sense, she knew, but the idea of meeting John Sawyer again didn’t appeal to her in the least. “Why don’t you suggest that next Tuesday at the meeting?”

  “They’re expecting a recommendation from us.”

  “We can recommend that the consortium take a vote.” She started the car.

  “Look,” he said, raising his voice so that its even timbre carried over the hum of the engine. “It doesn’t matter so much to me if they think we couldn’t come to some kind of consensus. Hell, I’m just a bookseller who’s trying to make a little money by investing in real estate on the side. But you’re supposed to be the master of the hard sell. I’d think you’d want to impress those guys at that table in any way you can.”

  She did. No doubt about it. Staring out the front window into the darkness with both hands on the wheel, she said, “If we can agree right now to go with figures halfway between what you want and what I want, we’ve got our consensus.”

  “I think we ought to discuss it.”

  “That’s the only solution.”

  “I still think we ought to discuss it.”

  Earlier, she had thought him mulish. She thought it again now. John had to be one of the most stubborn men she had met in years. Turning her head only enough to meet his gaze, she said, “That sounds just fine, only there’s one small problem. We went through the whole week this morning, and the only time we both had free was tonight. Now tonight’s gone. So what do you suggest?”

  “We find another time.”

  She shook her head. “Bad week.”

  “Then the weekend.”

  “I told you. I have a seminar. It runs from nine to five every day, and I’ll have to allow an hour before and after for travel.”

  “So you’ll be home by six. We can meet then.”

  Again she shook her head. “I’m moving a week from Monday. Every night after the seminar is reserved for packing. I have to get it done.”

  “I’ll help you pack.”

  Like hell he would. Eyes forward, she set her chin. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can do it myself.”

  “Of course you can,” he said indulgently. “But I can help. I’m not the scrawny weakling you imagined I’d be.”

  Her eyes shot to his. “I never said—”

  “But you thought. So you were wrong. And I can help you pack.”

  “You can not. I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help.”

  He was silent then, his expression a mystery in the dark. Finally, sounding even-tempered and calm, the John she’d known from the bank, he said, “Tuesday morning before the meeting. I’ll meet you at Easy Over at seven-thirty. We’ll talk over breakfast.” Before she could say a word, he gave the side of the car a tap and was off.

  “John!” she called after him, but she might just as well have saved her breath. He didn’t move quickly, but he moved smoothly, cov
ering the distance to the house and disappearing inside without a glance behind.

  3

  Nina prepared carefully for breakfast Tuesday morning. After wading through her wardrobe and discarding anything red, purple or lime green, she chose a beige suit that was as reserved as anything she owned. That wasn’t to call it conservative. The blazer was nipped in at the waist over a skirt that was short and scalloped, exposing a whisper of thigh with every move. In an attempt to tone that down, she left the matching, low-cut gauzy blouse in her closet in favor of a higher necked silk. With a single strand of pearls around her neck and pearl studs at her ears, she felt she looked as traditional as it was possible for Nina Stone to look.

  Her goal was to impress John Sawyer—not in any sort of romantic way, because she certainly didn’t think of John that way, but in a business way. Normally she dressed in the bright, chic, slightly funky style that had become her trademark; clients came to her because they saw someone who was one step ahead of the eight ball. Somehow she didn’t think that was where John Sawyer wanted to be, but she wanted him to be on her side when it came to marketing Crosslyn Rise, so it behooved her to impress him.

  She arrived at Easy Over, a light-breakfast and lunch place not far from the bank, at seven-thirty on the dot. When she saw no sign of John, she took a table, ordered a pot of coffee and waited. He arrived five minutes later, wearing loose khaki pants, another plaid shirt, a slouchy brown blazer and glasses. Looking slightly sleepy, he slid into a chair.

  “Sorry,” he murmured. “Had a little trouble getting out.” His eyes fastened on the coffeepot. “Is that fresh?”

  She nodded, lifted the pot and filled the cup waiting by his place. “Anything serious?”

  “Nah.” He took a sip of coffee, then a second before setting down the cup, sitting back in his chair and catching her eye. “That’s better. I didn’t have time for any at home.”

  “What happened?”

  He took another drink, a more leisurely one this time as though he were just then settling in to being his normal slow self. “My son isn’t wild about the sitter. He didn’t want me to leave.”

  “I thought kids nowadays were used to sitters. Don’t you have one every day?”

  “He likes the afternoon ones. They’re high school girls with lots of energy and enthusiasm. For morning meetings at the bank, I have to use someone else. She’s kind enough, and responsible, but she doesn’t relate so well with him.”

  “He must be very attached to you.”

  “I’m all he has.”

  Nina thought about the boy’s mother, wondered how she had died and whether the child remembered her. She wasn’t about to ask John any of those things, though. They weren’t her business.

  “What’ll it be, folks?” the waitress asked, flipping the paper on her pad and readying a pen.

  Nina didn’t have to look at the menu. She’d been at Easy Over enough to know what was good. “I’ll have Ronnie’s Special. Make the eggs soft-boiled, the bacon crisp and the wheat toast dry. And I’ll have a large TJ with that.” She watched the waitress note everything, then turned expectant eyes toward John.

  He hadn’t opened the menu either, but he seemed thoughtful for a minute. “Make that two,” he paused, “only I want my eggs scrambled, my sausages moist and my rye toast with butter.”

  “Juice?” the waitress prompted.

  “OJ. Large.” Still writing, the waitress ambled off. John turned placid eyes on Nina. “For a little girl, you eat a whole lotta food.”

  “I have to. I rarely make it to lunch, and dinner won’t be until eight or nine tonight.”

  “That’s not healthy.”

  She shrugged. “Can’t be helped. I’m into my busiest season. If I don’t make the most of it, it’ll be gone, and then where will I be?” With the reminder, she pulled up the folder that had been waiting against the leg of her chair, set it down in front of her and opened it up. “I spent awhile yesterday working with figures.” She lifted the first sheet from the folder, but before she could pass it to him, he held up a hand.

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?”

  “Not before breakfast.” He settled more comfortably in his seat. “I can’t deal with business before breakfast.”

  “But this is a business breakfast. That means we eat while we talk.”

  His gaze touched the clean white Formica surface before him. “We haven’t got any food yet. Let’s wait on business.”

  Nina wanted to say that if they did that, they would not only be wasting good time, but if she had to go past Plan A to Plan B or C, they might well run out of time before they reached an agreement. She wanted to say that first thing in the morning was the best time to discuss business, while they were the freshest. She wanted to say that they were due at the bank at eight-thirty, which, given John’s tardiness and the time they’d already spent in chitchat and ordering, left them not much more than forty-five minutes.

  She didn’t say any of those things, because John’s eye stopped her. She saw something in them, something strong enough to penetrate his glasses, something with a quiet but forceful command. She also saw that his eyes were amber, then looked more carefully and didn’t see it at all. She remembered it. It must have registered on her subconscious the last time she’d seen him.

  Carefully, with her heart beating a hair faster than it had been moments before, she set down the paper, sat back in her chair, crossed her hands in her lap and wondered what they would talk about in the time before their food arrived. There were a million things she could ask him, things she was curious about, like his wife and his son and his interest in books. Only none of that was her business.

  She was used to talking. She always talked. Her role in life was to keep things moving, to win people over, to make sales. But she didn’t know what to say to John.

  She was beginning to feel awkward—and annoyed at that—when he asked, “Did you get your packing done?”

  Relieved, she nodded. “Most of it.”

  “I trust you had other people to help you.”

  “No.”

  He arched a questioning brow and shook his head.

  She shook her head right back.

  “No stream of admirers dying to show off their muscles?”

  His tone was deferential, his expression benign. Still she had the feeling that somewhere inside he harbored a grudge. “No stream of admirers. No men at all. Why would you think that there were?”

  “You’re an attractive woman. You must have men all over you.”

  “I’m an independent woman. I couldn’t bear to have men all over me. I told you I didn’t need anyone’s help.”

  “You told me you didn’t need my help.”

  “Then you took it too personally. I didn’t—don’t—need anyone’s help. When I do, I hire it and pay for it. By check,” she tacked on, just so he didn’t think she was trading her body for something. Men tended to think that way, and she hated it. The few men—precious few men—she’d been with in her thirty-one years had known that she gave because she felt affection and attraction, and because she knew they wouldn’t demand anything more. They never did. She was as free as a bird, and glad of it.

  “Where are you moving to?”

  “Sycamore Street.”

  His brow flickered into a frown. “I go down Sycamore all the time. I don’t remember seeing any For Sale signs—or were you able to get an inside scoop and snatch something up before it hit the open market?”

  There it was again, the deferential tone, the benign look, the little dig underneath. Looking him straight in those amber eyes of his, she said, “I’m not buying. I’m renting the second floor of a duplex, and, yes, I snatched it up before it hit the market. That’s one of the perks of being a broker, and it’s perfectly legal.”

  She had been direct enough to issue a challenge and expected him to meet it. Instead, he simply looked surprised. “You’re renting? I’d have thought a successful woman like you would
be living in a spectacular house on a spectacular piece of land with a spectacular view of the ocean.”

  “I’m not that successful. Not yet.” But she intended to be. One day, she’d have enough money to buy anything her heart desired. “Where I live right now isn’t as important as saving as much money as I can.”

  “You put a whole lot into Crosslyn Rise.”

  “No more than you.” They’d each seen the figures.

  “That’s a whole lot.”

  She thought about the sum. “Uh-huh.”

  “And you want to open your own business.”

  Her brow went up. “Who told you that?”

  “Carter,” he answered factually. “When the consortium was forming. Just like he told you about me. So when do you think you’ll do it?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on how much money we make on Crosslyn Rise and how soon.” Her hand went to the first paper on her pile, but before she could address herself to its contents, the waitress placed a large glass of tomato juice in front of her. She smiled her thanks and opened her mouth to speak to John when he stopped her with a hand.

  “Not yet. I need food first.”

  “There’s food,” she said, pointing to his orange juice. “Drink up, then I’ll talk.”

  Rather than taking a drink of the orange juice, though, he drained the last of his coffee and refilled the cup. “Aren’t you happy at Crown?”

  After a moment’s consideration, she gave a one-shouldered shrug. “As happy as I’d be working for someone else, but I’ve always wanted to be on my own.”

  “Independent.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you can rake in the most bucks?”

  She raised her chin. “It’s not as much the money as the freedom. I don’t like having to answer to someone else.”

  “Marty Crown’s a nice guy.”

  “A very nice guy. I could have done a lot worse picking a boss.” Not that she’d left that to chance. Before moving up from New York she had researched each and every real estate agency in the North Shore area. She’d picked Crown for its reputation, its connections and Martin.