A Margin of Lust (The Seven Deadly Sins #1)(12)
Gwen nodded. Technically, he was right. "I couldn't work if I refused romantic parts, unless all I did was TV commercials."
Art looked hopeful.
"That's not going to happen." Gwen shut him down.
"You could teach," Art said. "St. Barnabas has a Drama teacher. She runs the school plays."
Gwen wasn't sure how she felt about that. She wanted to be in the spotlight, not buried backstage. But the conversation turned to their post-wedding plans, and she was saved from having to comment. As Art talked, an understanding of his vision of marriage and family dawned on her.
She got it. Frequent trips to L.A. for a soap opera role in which her character jumped from steamy bed to steamy bed didn't fit the plan. She also realized a good man—the kind of man she wanted—would be protective, would cherish her but would struggle with seeing her embrace another man, even if the passion was only pretend
In that moment, she loved him more than ever. The shallowness of tinsel town became so obvious; she wondered why she hadn't seen it sooner. Gwen graduated with her degree in Drama, but other than directing the church Christmas pageant each year, she never used it. She’d had Jason a year after they were married and settled into a life without acting.
Gwen turned onto Sailor's Haven Drive and pulled up to the curb in front of the house. Most days weren't as hard as today, and most of her clients weren't as difficult as old Arnie, she reminded herself. Real Estate wasn't a bad gig, and some of the acting techniques she'd used came in handy.
Over the years, she'd learned something about herself. She'd learned her chosen profession wasn't as important to her as success. She also knew it was more likely to get to the top of the real estate ladder than it would have been to climb Hollywood's slippery slopes.
The Pauls' rental car was already in the driveway. Great. She was ten minutes late, and sure she'd hear about it. The driver side door opened and Arnold unfolded himself from the compact vehicle. Gwen walked wide, around the passenger side, so she wouldn't interfere with Etta's exit, but the door didn't open.
"I thought you said three o'clock." Arnold Paul raised an eyebrow above his bifocals.
"I'm so sorry, traffic..." Gwen gave him her brightest smile.
"Well, let's take another look. Shall we?" He marched toward the front door. Gwen peeked through the tinted windows of the car on her way past. Empty.
"Where's Etta today?" she asked.
"At the hotel. Migraine," he answered.
Gwen popped the key from the lockbox and opened the front door. She shouldn't be entering the property with Arnold, alone. Especially after the conversation she'd just had with Maricela. There had been two Realtors murdered in Orange County in as many months. This was foolish.
What was she going to do about it now, though? After putting up with Arnold's insults and condescension, she'd be damned if she would risk losing the fruit of her labors. He was interested in this house. If he purchased it, not only would she have a buyer before the Frobishers returned home, but she would double her profit having both the buyer and the seller as clients.
The door closed behind Arnold, snuffing out the noises of the street and leaving the house dim and quiet. Gwen flicked a hall switch on and fumbled in her purse for her phone. She planned to text Lance. Even though she felt silly doing it, she'd promised Maricela she'd get on board with the safety buddy program. Her cell was buried somewhere in the bottom of her bag.
Arnold shoved past her into the living room and began examining the woodwork. Gwen didn't think he'd find anything wrong with this house, but you never knew with someone like him. He could ferret out flaws in the Mona Lisa. She gave up trying to find her phone and walked over to the beautiful, bright windows.
"The view is wonderful, isn't it? You don't find harbor views in this price range very often," Gwen said.
Arnold came up behind her to take it in. He stood close. Too close. His hot breath crawled across her shoulders. Gwen's pulse quickened.
Silly. Arnold didn't even live in California, and the chances of there being two murderers with a penchant for real estate agents was too much of a coincidence. Still. She slid past him and moved toward the kitchen.
"I wish Etta was here," Gwen said, and meant it. "I forgot to show her the oven yesterday. It's convection. That's a big plus if you like to bake. Does Etta bake?" Etta didn't look like a baker, she was too thin and spindly to be a cookie devotee, but Gwen wanted to keep the conversation going.
"Poorly," he said, opened the oven door and looked inside. "Is this the fan here?"
"Yes," Gwen said without coming close enough to see it.
Arnold flipped the door shut with a bang. "I want to see the bedrooms again. I need to make sure all our furniture will fit."
Gwen dropped her purse onto a side table holding a vase of dead roses at the foot of the stairs. The yellow petals, crumbled and fallen, looked like old lace on its dark lacquer. Gwen made a mental note to toss them when she came down.
"I saw a house I liked in San Clemente with another agent a couple of days ago. It's a strong possibility." Arnold sniffed.
Gwen's first response to that news was indignation. You didn't run an agent all around town one day, then look at homes with another agent the next. Then, on the sixth riser, she froze. He rested a hand on her back, probably to stop himself from colliding with her. San Clemente?