Page 34 of Diamond In The Rough

“But I am willing to explore the possibility you’re not one of them.”

“One of them?”

“A murderous, treasonous, evil bitch who would make me regret my leniency.”

“Oh, good.” I snarl. “I’m so glad I’ve moved on from treasonous bitchery, to… what? Tolerable?”

His lips curl, the effect handsome enough to make my stomach flip.

He’s not allowed to be handsome. He’s not allowed to be endearing.

“How much do you make on these sales?” He nods toward my shoulder, though I’m sure he means the chest at my back. “Commission?”

“Five percent of the sale price.” But why I tell him that, I have no clue. “I make a base salary, plus commission on top.”

“And five percent of sixty-nine thousand dollars is…” He pauses for a beat, working the math in his mind. “Three thousand, four hundred and fifty.” He nods—impressed, I suppose. “That’s not a bad day at work, really. If you sell just one piece a day, you’re laughing all the way to the bank.”

“Uh huh. Except, I’m not likely to sell more than a piece a month, since our prices are a little steep.”

“But you said the chest is undervalued.”

“It is.” I hate that he’s wiggled a conversation out of me. That his bad behavior is being rewarded with civility. “The chest is easily worth three times more than we’re asking. But seventy-grand is still seventy-grand, and regular Joes aren’t often walking in off the street to drop that kind of cash. Though,” a small smile, genuine, even against my will, curls along my lips, “I sold a lovely desk yesterday. It was cheap, too, but the commission I made was… well…” Not polite to discuss. “Decent. So will you take the chest or not?”

“Only after you tell me the real story.” He looks down at his shoes, grinning like what he sees is entertaining. “I know you’re not selling me an antique in which the history is ‘she was a slut, and then she died.’”

“I might be. It happens more often than we think.” I turn and lean against my desk, setting my hands by my thighs. Getting comfortable, since it seems he’s in no rush to get out of here. “Women can be vindictive, nasty beings. Which,” I scoff under my breath, “I suppose you already know. Hence the threatening my life stuff.”

“You gonna keep mentioning that into forever, or…?”

“Certainly. But I don’t intend to see or speak to you again once you hand me seventy-thousand big ones and walk out of here. So I’ll tell my story to everyone else.” I breathe out a whimsical sigh. “That time the mafia nearly ended my life. I had a belly filled with gnocchi, and was sporting underwear I wasn’t keen on the medical examiner seeing.” I glance across and grin. “Not the best way to go out. But I figure we rarely get a say in these things.”

“Sixty-nine thousand big ones.” He steps right over the rest of everything else I say. “And the vine. They’re known for good fortune, did you know that?”

“Hmm?” I chew on the inside of my cheek and consider the man who trotted right past scummy slime territory and into he knows how to charm a woman once he puts the knife away. “The chest?”

“The ivy. Place them in a corner of your home, and they’ll purify the air and bring you good things.”

“And yet,” I sneer somewhat playfully, “it was in the corner here, and you still walked through the door.”

“Home being the operative word. Not some snobby shop in the lower East End. But they’re also known as the money plant. If you focus on the leaves and squint your eyes a little, they kind of look like coins.”

Intrigued, I peer past him and narrow my eyes. But all that does is turn the green mess into a larger, blurrier green mess.

Shaking my head, I blink once, twice, three times before I meet his stare again. “I’ll take your word for it. Are you ready to check out now? And do you want to carry your vine out of here yourself, or shall I have it couriered over tomorrow?”

“You in a rush to leave?” He rests on one leg, crossing his right over his left, so his right foot sits in front of the other. “You’re making a few grand off this sale, Ms. Hale. The least you can do is give me an hour of your time.”

I slouch. Because I’m tired, and I have no reason to want to impress this man. God knows, if I even try, he’ll assume I’m a whore just wanting his attention and a chance to kill him and his brothers. “It’s five o’clock, Mr. Malone. I’m ready to go home. I have a guest coming over, and a meal I still have to order so we can eat at a respectable hour. If you want the chest, you’re welcome to make the purchase and take it. If you want the whole experience—fawning from a woman who thinks you look good, a complimentary cup of coffee, and a little history lesson to go with the box—then I suggest you come back tomorrow around ten a.m. Jakeline will be in by then, and I’m sure she’d love to fluff your egotistical feathers.”

“I want you to fluff them.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t back up even a single step. But he smirks, roguish and challenging. “Three and a half thousand dollars in your pocket, Tiia. And a plant you never again have to clean. I’m certain your guest can wait.”

“You make assumptions.” I push off the desk and snatch up my spray bottle and rag. Because I still have work to do, and I want to get out of here. “We all know assumptions can make a man look silly.” Stopping by the door, I squirt fresh water onto the pothos and start wiping. “My guest is not typically a patient person. So no, he can’t wait.”

“A lover? You have a date tonight?”

“What I have is a right to privacy.” I swipe my rag along a green leaf with small, golden specks a bit like a leopard’s spots. “And no reason to share with you details of my personal life. He was a Mongolian warrior, by the way.”

Curious, he turns, his nostrils twitching. “Your date?”

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