Lust, Loathing And A Little Lip Gloss. Kyra Davis
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СКАЧАТЬ the first to make an offer the old man might take it before a bidding war has a chance to break out. The guy is motivated with a capital M.”

      I chewed on my lower lip and glanced at the Armani guy who was now knocking on one of the walls—probably testing to see if it could withstand the impact. This is what $1.4 million could buy you in San Francisco. I had written six New York Times bestselling novels and yet I could barely afford to buy this moldy rat hole with a view. With that in mind how could I not take Scott up on this once-in-a-lifetime offer?

      Another couple walked in and Scott flashed them one of his most charming smiles while whispering through his teeth, “So, we on for tonight or not?”

      I squeezed my eyes closed and forced myself to make the only rational decision available to me. “We’re on. Give me the address and I’ll be there at eight-thirty.”

      

      I drove my Audi through the residential streets of Ashbury Heights. Victorian after Victorian blurred into one another as I sped by. There were few pedestrians out although there were probably more than you could count several blocks over where the local shops and restaurants populate Cole Street. I was tempted to turn my car around and head that way now. I could play quarters with some bartender and laugh at the knowledge that my evil ex was standing around an empty house waiting for me. It would be petty, though perversely sweet entertainment. But as I brought the car to a halt at each stop sign, my mind came screeching back to the conversation Scott and I had earlier. I didn’t have a problem with being petty, but stupidity was not something I was comfortable with. I had to at least see the place.

      It was 8:40 p.m. when I found the address Scott had given me. He’d told me to park in the driveway, but for a moment I found myself idling my car in the middle of the quiet street and staring at the building to my left. The windows were all dark, but the streetlamp illuminated the details of the exterior. It was no bigger than the houses to the left or right, but still, it was superior. Unlike its neighbors, this house was not painted in pastels, but in a color that hovered between tan and a muted lilac. Its gabled shingled roof shielded its angled bay windows from the hazy evening sky. It was beautiful and oddly familiar. I must have passed it before and somehow taken notice of it. As my eyes traveled from the roof to the foundation I spotted Scott huddled between the Greek-styled columns bordering the front entrance. Watching me and toying with the zipper of his insulated brown suede jacket, his presence surprised me. When I had been married to Scott we had both considered punctuality a dirty word. Slowly, I pulled into the driveway, which was so narrow that it barely accommodated the width of my car.

      “How long have you been waiting?” I asked as I slipped out of the car and trotted up the front steps.

      “Got here at eight-twenty.” He got to his feet and brushed some nonexistent dirt from his jeans. “I figured you’d be late, but I thought I should get here early just in case you’d changed.” He smiled, bringing his dimple into view. “I’m glad to see that you’re still the same ol’ Soapy.”

      I let out a disdainful puff of air. Soapy was the pet name he had assigned to me after we had gotten into a soapsuds fight while washing my old car. It brought back irritatingly fond memories.

      “Let’s see the house,” I said coolly. As front doors went, this house had a pretty nice one. Tastefully carved without being too ornate or flowery. “Where’s the owner staying?”

      “Hotel Nikko,” Scott said as he fiddled with the key.

      “Really? Why doesn’t he just stay here until it sells…oh, Scott!” I exclaimed as he opened the door to reveal the foyer. “Are those crown moldings?”

      “Better believe it, baby. Crown moldings fit for a queen.” As we stepped inside he sniffed the air suspiciously. “That’s Pine-Sol,” he said slowly. “Oscar must have cleaned before leaving.”

      I barely registered Scott’s comment. I was in the living room looking at the bay windows and the lovely upholstered window seat. The furniture wasn’t my style, very flowery in a Victorian kind of way, but I wasn’t buying the furniture. The gorgeous built-in mahogany bookcases though, those would be mine!

      “That’s strange.”

      I turned at the sound of Scott’s voice behind me. I had almost forgotten he was there. “What’s strange…wait, that doesn’t look fake.” I pointed at the fireplace behind him. “It’s not just decorative? It’s real? A real honest-to-God fireplace that you can set fires in?”

      “Gas starter, too,” Scott confirmed. “But that’s not what’s weird. What’s weird is that Oscar seems to have rearranged all the furniture. This place has been totally redecorated since this morning.”

      “Oh, yeah, that’s weird…is that a formal dining room?” I ran past Scott into the next room. Sure enough, it was a dining room, and it was stunning. Not huge, but certainly bigger than anything I’d ever had. Right now it contained an antique oak sideboard complete with carved winged griffins and a beveled mirror. It also held a table that was long and rectangular and covered with a white lace tablecloth. In fact, the table was set as if someone had been preparing for a dinner party of six. There were two beautiful silver candleholders holding long, tapered cream candles, and each place setting shone with Victorian rose-patterned fine china.

      “He set the table?” Scott choked.

      “Guess he thought that setting the table would give the place a little more ambiance or something,” I muttered, glancing over at the door that led to the kitchen. There had to be a problem with the kitchen, right? No house was perfect.

      I carefully stepped inside and broke into a grin—a totally charming kitchen. The cabinets were white, and while I usually prefer a natural wood finish, this white actually worked well with the Victorian ambiance. There wasn’t a huge amount of counter space, which would be a problem for Anatoly, who loved to cook almost as much as I loved to eat, but I could always put in an island or something.

      The thought tickled me. Last month, Anatoly and I had been on the Marina watching the ferries riding over the bay. He had kissed my cheek and then my neck while mumbling about the way the salt water tasted on my skin. Then, out of the blue he had taken my hand and suggested we move in together. He wanted to wake up with me in the morning…every morning. Only a year ago he had expressed discomfort with the level of commitment implied by the words boyfriend and girlfriend and now he wanted to share his life with me. It had almost made me cry.

      Almost. The truth was that I didn’t want to move him into my apartment, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to move into his. I have come to believe that domestic partnerships have a higher chance of success when they exist within spacious houses. Conversely, cramped quarters and limited closet space is a recipe for domestic violence. But Anatoly made significantly less money than I did, so if my dreams of romance and elbow room were going to come to fruition I was going to have to find a house that fit my budget. He could help me with the mortgage if he chose (and I knew he would), but the down payment was a burden I would have to bear alone. I hadn’t detailed my objections for Anatoly, knowing that he would have dismissed them. Instead, I had stalled for time with whispered abstract promises of future arrangements. He hadn’t argued, but he hadn’t been happy, either.

      I glanced at a paned glass door in the back of the room and was hit by yet another wonderful revelation. “Scott, this place has a yard? Why didn’t you tell me?” I ran to the door and flung it open. Yes, the yard was about the size of your average master bathroom, but in San Francisco any house that came with grass was a huge commodity.

      “He took his small appliances СКАЧАТЬ