Cara Lockwood - Look At Me
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- Название:Look At Me
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I would’ve finished the renovations earlier if I’d known , he mused, grinning. And maybe added more windows. He was already regretting only having one on the second floor facing the alley.
The light turned green and he gunned his car, beating the BMW in the lane next to him as he roared down the street.
He thought about her cracked phone and frowned. He made a mental note: he’d grab one of the many smartphones they kept at the office to hand out to new Realtors. It would be easy enough to replace, and besides, he was just being neighborly. He imagined what she’d do when she saw the new phone. Would her face light up with delight?
Then, almost instantly, his excitement faded a tad. He’d wondered, briefly, if it had all been an act. Most women saw the money before they saw him. He worked hard on his body, but he’d begun to think that didn’t matter in the least. Hell, if some woman wanted him for his abs it would be a welcome change of pace. Most women saw the Maserati and Rolex, and then didn’t care what he looked like. Jackson shook his head. It was why he’d all but given up hope on finding someone who actually cared about him . His last relationship had been a disaster from the get-go: she’d been a social climber disguised as a bartender—Laurie, a woman he’d caught in his bathroom, legs up on the bathroom counter, as she tried to tip the contents of a used condom inside her to impregnate herself. It was a calculated move to get child support, or 20 percent of his gross income per year until the baby turned eighteen.
Every time Jackson thought he’d become as cynical as you could be about women, he managed to find a new level. The experience had been enough to make him want to never date again. Lately, Jackson had been relying on old friends-with-benefits relationships, the kind that came with no strings, no commitments. Women who liked nice meals out, the occasional gift, and didn’t mind that Jackson would disappear for months at a time. Having money wasn’t all bad.
He’d been telling himself for years that this was exactly what he wanted: a rotation of gorgeous and willing women. Mostly, this worked just fine, until he spent Thanksgiving with his cousin and his wife and kids in the burbs and wondered what it would be like to have a family of his own: a house full of love and laughter and a little bit of chaos. It was really why Laurie’s antics had hurt him so much. He worried that he’d never find genuine love, a woman who could see beyond the money and could love the man beneath.
He steered his car to the office bearing his name—Drake Properties—and pulled into the underground parking beneath the sleek skyscraper that housed his office in the Gold Coast near downtown Chicago, aptly named for its stunning multimillion-dollar condos and its proximity to the Magnificent Mile, home to the swankiest stores in the city. He was happy to see that most of the spaces dedicated to his office were empty. That was a good thing. That meant Realtors were out doing their jobs. After all, you couldn’t sell property from inside an air-conditioned office. He headed to the elevator, texting his assistant to let him know he’d be arriving soon. In seconds he was inside the lobby of the building, which they shared with a few other businesses. He waved at the security guard up front and then headed to the bank of elevators that would take him to the top floor.
The elevator door barely opened before his assistant, Hailey, greeted him with a piping-hot cappuccino, foamed up just the way he liked it, an elaborate swirled pattern down the center.
“Good morning, sir,” Hailey said, beaming her million-dollar smile as she handed him the perfectly foamed cappuccino. Blond perfection in a steel-gray pencil skirt and blouse, Hailey was all business, just the way he liked it. Clients were stunned by her beauty, but he loved the fact that she never missed the smallest detail.
“Here are the dailies,” she said, handing him a folder with the highlights of the day as well, including the brewing deals in the office. “And the Housing Network called again. They wanted to know if you’d given any more thought to their show.” Hailey paused at his door, waiting for his answer.
Jackson shook his head. “Don’t have time for reality TV discussions this week,” he said, even though he knew HN wouldn’t give up. They’d been hounding him for months to come do a guest spot on their show that put experts in touch with amateur home flippers. While the possibility was intriguing, Jackson had his hands full with current projects, and fame had never really interested him much.
“Thank you, Hailey.”
“Yes, sir,” Hailey said. “Oh, one more thing. Mr. Roberts is waiting for you. In the lobby.”
“Why?” Jackson frowned. Roberts was his major competition in Chicago, and the only other developer who flipped buildings as fast as Jackson did. But while Jackson believed in revamping the community and trying to keep housing reasonably affordable, caring about the city as a whole, Roberts was a typical slumlord: he’d been born wealthy, a trust fund baby who had gotten richer on the backs of the poor. He had a vast holding of decrepit properties on the South Side. The two never saw eye to eye on anything. So why was he waiting for a meeting?
“He would only tell me that you’d want to hear his proposition.”
“I’m not interested in any deal that man offers.” Jackson took a sip of his cappuccino and then headed into his spacious corner office, made almost completely of glass. His sleek glass-legged desk waited for him, as did his new laptop. From his vantage point, he could see Lake Michigan, dotted with small white sailboats, the beaches nearby filled with sunbathers, even on a weekday.
Hailey barely hid a smile. “That’s what I figured. Shall I tell him to leave?”
“No need, Miss Hailey,” came a baritone from Jackson’s office door. The two turned to see Kent Roberts standing there. Jackson frowned. He glanced at the tall, fit, dark-haired real estate baron hanging in his office door and hated the look of him: the preppy blue blazer, crisp khakis, expensive loafers and gleaming designer aviators perched on top of his wavy dark hair. His preppy, too-buttoned-up style rubbed Jackson the wrong way. It was as if he’d never grown out of the exclusive prep school uniform look. Then again, he probably went to boarding schools as a kid, so maybe he didn’t know how else to dress.
Jackson was a man who liked to get his hands dirty, who would be just as likely to pick up a hammer on a construction site as blueprints. Kent, however, had delicate, manicured hands that had never seen a day’s hard work in his whole life. The two were polar opposites.
“Sir?” Hailey asked, her single word loaded with meaning.
“It’s all right, Hailey. I’ll handle this.”
With a swift nod, she backed out of his office, leaving him and Roberts alone.
Jackson ran a hand over his goatee, which was quickly on the border of turning into a full-fledged beard. He took smug satisfaction in Kent’s baby-faced chin. The man couldn’t grow anything, he was pretty sure. Jackson sneezed and had a moustache.
“What can I do for you?” Jackson braced himself. He’d learned long ago not to underestimate his adversary. He might look like he never got his hands dirty, but he wasn’t afraid to stab anybody in the back.
“It’s what I can do for you , friend.” Kent smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I heard you moved into your house on MacKenzie. We’re neighbors.”
“Neighbors?” Jackson asked stiffly.
“Well, I just bought the property next door.”
Jackson frowned. How did he not know the building was for sale? He would’ve scooped it up, if only to protect his property values. Kent grinned, knowing he’d won that small victory.
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