Optical Delusions in Deadwood (2 page)

      As much as I wanted to stomp next door to his office, slam things around, and threaten bodily harm if he didn’t ravish me all over again, my self-respect barred the way, doing its job of keeping my dignity intact.

      “Nice of you to show up for work, Blondie,” Ray said. I’d been so distracted fuming about Doc, I hadn’t heard him hang up the phone. “Did you enjoy the pair of nut-jobs I sent your way this morning?”

      I didn’t waste a glance on him, logging on to my computer instead. “If you’re referring to Millie and Wanda Carhart—two very nice ladies—then yes, I met them.”

      Okay, I didn’t really know for a fact whether Millie and Wanda were nice. But in the face of Ray’s snide smirk, they could be professional puppy spankers and I’d still speak well of them. Any other reaction would let Ray think he put one over on me.

      “
Nice
, right,” Ray said. “Nice and fruity, maybe. Homely as a pair of inbred hillbillies, definitely. It’s a wonder Junior didn’t get busy on them with that rolling pin.”

      “
What?
” My jaw agape, I glared at the scumbag. He’d hit an all-time low. I was used to him taking shots at me, but not at innocent bystanders.

      “If I’d had to go home to those two women every night, I probably would have—”

      “Ray!” Mona’s brown eyes flashed, her fingers frozen above the keyboard.

      “I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking.”

      “Not everyone,” Mona said, her tone clipped.

      I crossed my arms over my chest. “Just certain assholes.”

      “Oh, Christ. Don’t tell me you guys actually feel sorry for those two losers.”

      “Sunshine,” Mona used the nickname she often employed when trying to out-condescend Ray. “Just because they don’t wear designer cowboy boots and visit Gilda’s Golden Glow for a spray tan three times a week doesn’t make them losers.”

      “Really, Red? Tell me, then, what do they offer to society besides a drain on its resources via that Social Security check they’re now squandering every month?” His chair squeaked as he leaned forward, his nostrils flaring as he huffed his point. “That Millie could work if she wanted to—not in the public eye, mind you, not with those glasses. Unless the goal is to scare away customers. But she could make an honest living just like the rest of us taxpayers instead of leeching off the system. She’s not even fifty yet.”

      “You call what you do honest?” I faked a laugh. Ray was the King of Schmooze. He had a Ph.D. in exaggeration with a master’s degree in bullshit.

      “At least I’m making this place money, Blondie. How many sales do you have on the Sales Pending board?” He pointed at the white board that Jane, our left-brained, list-happy boss, used to keep track of upcoming sales.

      I lifted my chin. “One.” It was my first and only, and I was damned proud of it.

      “Oh, is that an actual mark? I thought Jane just slipped with the marker when adding my eleventh sale last month.”

      “You can shove your eleven sales up your—”

      “What’s your point with all of this, Ray?” Mona’s crimson lips were pressed thin, her cheeks a shade pinker than usual. “Or are you just being rude to pass time?”

      Ray leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, kicking his Tony Lama boots up onto his desktop. His icy blue eyes locked onto mine. “I don’t want a Calamity Jane Realty sign sitting in Wanda Carhart’s front yard. It would be a black mark on the reputation that I’ve worked damned hard to build for this office.”

      My neck bristled. Of all the elitist, arrogant, pompous—

      “That’s a legitimate point.” Mona interrupted my mental rant, surprising me by siding with Ray.

      My tattered eyebrows shot to the top of my forehead. “What?”

      Ray’s gloating grin made me want to grab my stapler and play whack-a-mole on his pearly whites.

      “I’m not saying I agree completely with him, but as agents of Calamity Jane Realty, we need to appear as professional and trustworthy as possible. The locations we choose to represent reflect on our character. Our feelings for the client can’t cloud our judgment.”

      I opened my mouth to object, but then thought of my handful of clients and how fuzzy the dividing line was between my personal and professional relationships.

      Old Man Harvey now came for dinner a couple of nights a week. Jeff Wymonds and I took turns babysitting each other’s kids. Wolfgang Hessler had wined and dined me before trying to sacrifice me to appease his dead sister’s ghost. Doc and I had knocked boots once already, and given the opportunity, I’d most likely do it again. That left Detective Cooper, Harvey’s favorite nephew, who was on my calendar for a business lunch tomorrow. Lord only knew what was going to come of that.

      I snapped my jaw closed, a guilty blush heating my neck. A glance at Mona’s half-smile confirmed that she and I were in sync on her unspoken meaning.

      “I didn’t agree to sell the Carhart house,” I told both of them. No need to explain that Harvey had already talked me out of taking on the Carharts as clients because of the family’s recent tragedy. “I just said I’d go up to Lead and look at it.”

      Ray snorted. “That’s a waste of time.”

      “What Violet chooses to do with her time is her business, Ray.”

      “Thank you, Mona.”

      “You’re welcome.” She pushed her glasses up her nose and returned to clacking away on her keyboard. “But you might want to take a look at the clock. You’re running late.”

      “Crap!” The home inspector was probably at Doc’s house already, waiting to be let inside. I grabbed my keys.

      “Try not to burn the house down this time, Blondie.”

      “You should take something for that impulsive oral discharge, Ray.” I slung my purse over my shoulder, giving him my sweetest smile. “Before someone plugs your pie hole with her size eights.”

      * * *

      I cruised along back streets to Doc’s new place, during which I tried not to think about the Carhart women and their sad state of affairs. A small part of me felt akin to them on the social pariah front.

      The home inspector waited for me in the shade on the gabled porch of what would soon be Doc’s Queen-Anne-style beauty. The guy’s gray polo shirt stuck to his super-sized belly in several dark spots.

      I scurried up the porch steps, trying to smile away my tardiness. “Sorry I’m late.”

      He grunted, his red face rigid. Sweat ran down the side of his double chin.

      So much for small talk during the inspection. I unlocked the front door and pushed it wide; the air rushing out to greet us was stale, but cool. I followed him inside, my nose wrinkling. God, I should have brought a can of air freshener along. He must have rooted in a plate of red onions for lunch.

      Leaving the inspector to work his magic, I detoured to the kitchen, thirsty from the heat. A small stack of disposable cups sat next to the sink.

      I stared out into the backyard as I drank the lukewarm water, watching a dragonfly flicker around the birdbath, wondering what the Carhart house looked like. The way Ray had protested, I imagined another redneck kegger-mess like Jeff Wymonds’ place, with junk cars overflowing the driveway and coffee cans full of used oil sitting about like yard lights. With Jeff’s project house already on my plate, I didn’t need a second.

      Something thumped under my feet. The inspector must have found the door to the crawlspace on his own.

      Would any agent want to represent the Carhart house after the horror that had occurred within its walls? There was no way Millie and Wanda could pull off a For-Sale-By-Owner. They were way too timid, especially Wanda. Not to mention the amount of energy and stress that came with FSBO’s. They really needed a professional to guide them through all the paperwork.

      What would drive someone to bludgeon his own father with a rolling pin? It must have been marble; a wood one probably wouldn’t have been hard enough. Or would it? I recoiled at the direction of my thoughts and dumped the last swallow of water down the sink.

      “Hello, Violet.”

      Jerking in surprise, I dropped the cup and whirled around. “What are
you
doing here?”

      Doc leaned against the counter, his usual lazy grin on his lips, dark hair ruffled, hands in his pockets. Wearing a pair of blue cargo shorts and a white T-shirt that emphasized his broad shoulders, he looked tanner than he had the last time I’d ogled him. “Awaiting the inspector’s report,” he answered.

      “I thought you couldn’t make it.”

      “Something changed my priorities.”

      “What?”

      His dark brown eyes held mine. “You.”

      “I haven’t even talked to you.” Not that I hadn’t tried—
for almost two damned weeks now!
“Only your voicemail.” I couldn’t resist that little dig.

      “Frustrated?” He prodded back.

     
Hell, yes!
“A little. But only as your Realtor, of course.”

      His smile widened. “Of course.”

      More muffled thumps below reminded me that we weren’t the only two people on Earth. “The inspector is under the house,” I said. Pride held a tight rein on my tongue, keeping me from asking why Doc hadn’t bothered to call me back.

      “So I hear.” His gaze made a leisurely crawl down to my painted toes and back up. “Great dress. It matches your eyes.”

      “Thanks.” I straightened my green wrap dress; a blush heated my cheeks and spread south. I fanned myself with my hand. Dang it! How was it he could make me feel naked when I was fully clothed?

      “I like those shoes.”

      “They were a Christmas present.” My mother fed my shoe addiction annually—not that Doc cared about my gifts from Santa.

      “But I prefer your purple boots.”

      I shivered at the memory of digging my boot heels into his bare flesh and then fanned harder, my internal temperature spiraling out of control. “Doc, what are you doing?”

      “Making small talk while we wait for the inspector to finish.”

      “Right.” Bullshit. “What are you really doing here?”

      “Harvey called me.”

      I groaned. I should have known.

      “He said you were on the verge of signing a listing agreement to sell another albatross.”

      My blush roasted even hotter, fueled by exasperation. “Harvey has a bucket mouth.”

      “So you’ve mentioned before. Do you think this is a good idea after what happened last time?”

      I aimed my index finger at Doc. “Let’s get something straight here. It’s nobody’s business but mine which houses I contract to sell.”

      Having sex with me didn’t give Doc the right to question my actions, especially if sex wasn’t going to become a hobby for us.

      He raised a brow. “Maybe so, but you do tend to have a nose for trouble.”

      “Leave my nose out of this.”

      “But it’s a cute nose.”

      My libido sat up and panted for more. “Quit trying to distract me with your flirting.”

      “Is it working?”

      “No.” I glanced away from his dark chocolate eyes before my underwear caught fire.

      “Then why is your cute little nose twitching?”

      We both knew why, for the same reason I was rotten at playing poker.

      I heard footfalls going up the stairs. The inspector was heading north, probably into the attic.

      Sighing, I rubbed my forehead. There were so many questions I wanted to ask Doc, so many answers I needed to know about us—if there even was an “us.” But baring my soul like that, risking the ultimate rejection, scared the living daylights out of me. “So, let me guess. You think my selling the Carhart place is a bad idea?”

      “If that’s the albatross, then yes.”

      “Because it will add further damage to my already tarnished reputation?”

      “Partly.”

      I stared at him, waiting to hear what the other part was to his reasoning. When he didn’t elaborate, I nodded about nothing. “Okay, then. Your opinion has been heard. Shall we head upstairs to see how Mr. Inspector is doing?”

      I didn’t wait for an answer, moving past Doc toward the main stairs.

      “Violet.” He caught my arm, stopping me.

      I looked over my shoulder at him. The grin was gone from his face, a furrowed brow in its place. “What?”

      “This could be dangerous.”

      “Are we still talking about the Carhart house?”

      “Yes.” His frown deepened. “And no.”

      I glared. I couldn’t help it. It was that or pinch him. “Have I ever told you how much I adore the way you speak in riddles?” I tugged my arm free and tightened the belt to my dress. “I mean, really, is this some kind of special torture you save just for me? Because I certainly don’t see you spinning Harvey in circles.”

      “I spin you in circles?”

      A fresh dew of anger coated my skin. I dropped the professional veneer. “Yes, damn it. You do. With this whole hot-for-me one moment and then cold-as-a-glacier the next. I’m beginning to think I’m just some kind of plaything for you. A little toy to keep you from getting bored.”

      A muscle ticked in his jaw, but still nothing from him but a scowl.

      I threw my hands in the air. “This is exactly what I’m talking about! You can obviously see how twisted up I am about you, about us—about what happened back in your office. Yet you just stand there, cool as an emperor penguin in the middle of an Antarctic winter.” I huffed, which did little to calm me. I needed some space—and to stop letting my son talk me into watching the National Geographic Channel so often. “I’m going upstairs.”

      “No!” He moved so fast that my back was up against the kitchen wall before I realized he’d moved. He loomed over me, the woodsy scent of his cologne cranking up my senses. “You think you’re the only one messed up inside? The only one confused as hell?”

      “Yes ... I did, anyway. But with that crazed look in your eyes right now, I’m starting to have some doubts.”