The Master (The Game Maker #2)(55)

“You want my opinion?”

“As long as I have you here, I’ll take advantage of your brain.”

As long as he had me. How long, how long, how long? That reminded me of our ongoing mirror messages. In answer to my gonna miss this ass note, he’d written: Good thing I own that ass.

I’d replied: The door will hit it on my way out.

Though I’d tried to sound like my heart was still bulletproof, I could see myself falling for this guy. Not just an attachment. The real deal.

No, no, Cat. In three days, we’d be going our separate ways; I only had to resist him till then. Besides, my impulse to fall meant I should do no such thing. Science! “You know this computer has Wi-Fi. You’re trusting me not to send out an e-mail SOS?”

“Da.”

What had brought about this turnaround? “We’re going to . . . work together? Vetting proposals?” I couldn’t stop the grin spreading across my face.

“You’re happier than you were the day you ordered all your new things. The prospect of work trumps your bout of consumerism?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’ll look at them, then? And you won’t give me fifteen pages of f*ck you f*ck you f*ck you?”

My grin deepened. “I will look at these, just to keep you straight. After all, if you lose your fortune, I’ll have nothing to swindle from you.”

The left corner of his lips curved. “Have your fun. Then do your bloody work. . . .”

For hours, we read as a breeze blew in off the ocean. By midday, I had a pencil in my bun, his hair was mussed, and my feet rested on his thighs. Again I felt that strange level of ease with him, that sense of déjà vu. I still made a valiant effort to keep up my last boundary, but being with him like this was a battering ram to any wall I tried to maintain.

At lunch, we took a break, enjoying sex, leftovers, and coffee, then set back to work. I was able to go online and look up rents and property taxes, liens and foreclosures.

By sunset, there were printouts all over the floor, and I’d decided this was my best Christmas Day ever.

“Did you make any headway?” He rolled his head on his neck.

I slid him a cocky grin. “I completed cursory determinations on all nine proposals, querido. I was about to play solitaire while I waited on you.”

“Let’s see them.”

“You want to read them? Now?” I was suddenly nervous.

He snagged my computer. “Now.”

As he scanned my assessments, I studied his face. At times, he raised his brows. What did that mean? Wait, was that an unconscious nod? Damn, he read fast. Once, that left corner of his lips tilted for an instant.

Now that I’d been given the chance to impress him, I wanted to succeed! He’d liked my brain—wanted to take advantage of it. Would he still?

He raised his face and turned that penetrating gaze to me. “We matched on all but one,” he said, impressed.

Even as my toes curled with pleasure, I fake-examined my nails. “Oh, did my baby boy get one wrong?”

His eyes grew lively in that way I loved. “You didn’t ask me questions; you simply assessed proposals. Did you learn from all those econ books you read?”

My finance minor had actually been of more help today. “I learned a lot from those books.” Bob and weave.

“But why did you recommend moving forward on the fifth proposal?” A block of run-down apartment complexes. “These aren’t class A, B, or even C. I’d deem them class S for ‘shithole.’ That gulag you wanted to visit probably has more amenities.”

Bingo. My bus route to one of my cleaning gigs passed those apartments, and they reminded me of my own.

“The numbers are marginal at best,” he said. “Tell me your reasoning.”

The Shadwell Theory. “Gross mismanagement.” Emphasis on ooh, gross. “The managers are probably shaking down the tenants each month and under-reporting the rents collected. If you got even a semi-honest crew in there, you could lower rents, increase repairs and maintenance, and you’d still make more. Tenants are happy, owners are happy.”

“Lower rents.” He was looking at me in that keen way of his.

“It’s just an idea.” I bit my lip. “The property is in foreclosure. Banks like to clear their books of bad debts by year’s end, so if you offered cash this week, you could steal it. Or so I’ve heard. There are tax implications as well—oh, wait, la mafia Rusa probably doesn’t worry about taxes much.”

His keen expression deepened.

You’re talking too much, Cat. Muzzle it. To distract him, I said, “Can I see your takes?”

He handed over his own computer.

I read his notes and determinations, and nearly orgasmed at how his brain worked. Boundaries! “Not bad for a rookie.”

“Glad you approve.”

I was about to suggest we take “un cafecito,” a coffee break for caffeine and sex—not necessarily in that order—when he stood and stretched.

As he headed toward the kitchen, he tossed over his shoulder, “You’re going to the wedding with me.”

“Qué???”





CHAPTER 25




Heart in my throat, I followed him.