Page 9 of Devil In A Suit

I come out of the shadows and head over to the grand foyer of the house. Sasha smiles, but it is so painfully forced I almost want to ask her if she is having a stroke.

"No phones are allowed," she says flatly.

I can't help frowning. This is prime social media content. What a sly bastard. Still, I control myself and with a smile at the two bodyguards, nod in agreement. They do not smile back. They have not removed their sunglasses and their eerily expressionless faces remind me of the characters from theMen in Blackmovie. One of them holds his hand out, and under my bangs both my eyebrows nearly reach my hairline.

“Oh!”

"Yeah. Mr. Ivanovich insists on privacy," Sasha mutters.

It is then I notice her phone is in his hand. I switch mine off and hand it over. The MIB drops both into a plastic bag, seals it, and slips the bag into his jacket pocket.

"Should we go over to welcome Mr. Ivanovich?" Sasha asks and starts to walk towards the entrance, but one of the MIBs raises his palm to stop her.

"No, please," he says coldly. "Which of you is Lara Fitzpatrick?"

"I am," I reply.

He turns to Sasha. “The showing must be done by Miss. Fitzpatrick alone. Your services will not be required.”

Hell freezes over in Sasha’s eyes. "What?" she explodes.

I shouldn’t be shocked, but I am. I know they did ask specifically for me, but we all thought it wouldn’t matter if there were two of us doing the showing. It shouldn’t matter. I don't understand what is going on. She is Russian, and he is Russian. Wouldn’t he prefer to have the viewing done while speaking in his mother tongue? What reason could this man have for insisting I do the showing myself?

I can feel my stomach cramping with panic. The plan was for me to do as little talking as possible so I spent no time learning about the history of the property or the important and interesting architectural stuff connected to the house. Only bits and pieces of what I’d heard Sasha say hangs around in my head. If he asks me for any details at all, I’m going to look unprofessional and sloppy. Besides, who will pour the champagne and serve the canapes?

"I am not the lead estate agent," I blurt out.

"This is not a negotiable request," the man replies indifferently.

If it’s not negotiable, then it’s not a request, is it, I think sourly, but obviously, I don’t say my thoughts out aloud. I make a face at Sasha.

"He's watching from the car," Sasha mutters fiercely under her breath, her expression and demeanor are now as hard as stone. "Control your expressions, be polite. Knock this out of the park. Remember, half of the commission is mine."

"Yes." I swallow. "Yes, of course."

“I’ll walk down to the beach and wait for you there.” She gives me one last flinty look before she walks away. I watch her stiff back disappear from sight and it doesn't feel real. Nothing feels real. My hand flutters to my stomach. I am shaken, nervous, and stressed all at once.

One of the men says something in Russian. Instinctively, I know that he is signaling to someone in the car that the coast is clear.

Slowly, I turn around and look out of the windows. The chauffeur is pulling open the passenger door of the Rolls Royce, and my gaze is riveted on the client as he is revealed in pieces.

First, sleek dark shoes attached to a tailored charcoal trouser leg. Then a head of dark unbelievably lustrous hair. A side profile of a clean-shaven man. Already I can make out he is beautiful and broad-shouldered. And supremely confident. Suddenly, he unfurls fully and I catch my breath.

No way!

This must be a prank. Billionaires are supposed to look like Warren Buffet and George Soros. Fat, old, money-obsessed workaholics. This man is ripping like freaking Tarzan. His green gaze meets my staring eyes through the glass window. And our eyes lock. I can’t move a muscle. I find myself struggling to breathe. I watch him the way I imagine a rabbit paralyzed by sheer terror watches a python slither quietly towards it. It knows it’s going to be crushed and swallowed whole, but there is nota thing it can do about it. It can only shiver helplessly as death comes.

His eyes never leave mine as his long legs stride forward relentlessly. It’s like watching a movie in slow motion. The wind catches his glorious hair, lifts it, and drops it. Wow! God sure gave him plenty. His gaze never leaves mine. I don't move forward. I can’t. For a moment my view is obscured by a column, and I am able to blink. Still, I can’t move. It is only when I catch the unimaginably expensive whiff of his cologne that I know I’ve nearly fucked up this sale.

Needing to rectify this, I take a deep breath and lift my foot intending to take a step forward, my hand extended. Then he comes back into view. Bigger and bolder than before. And I don’t know how or why, but my foot catches on nothing and my knees give way. I collapse to a crouching position on the floor. Shit. I stare at the granite floor. So highly polished I can see the reflection of my horrified face on it.

As I stare at my face with dismay, a sleek dark shoe comes into view a foot away from me. The python has arrived. I close my eyes. Oh shit.

Don’t fuck this up, Lara. It’s not broken. Just start again and everything will be fine.

The whole agency is depending on me. My father is depending on me. I have to persevere. I’ll just offer him a glass of champagne and take it from there. Everything is always better with champagne. I open my eyes and raise my head slowly, my gaze travelling the long length of him. And that slow journey becomes my first mistake of the morning.

I reach his eyes and my heart... stops.

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