Читать книгу Look At Me - Cara Lockwood, Cara Lockwood - Страница 10

JACKSON DRAKE COULDN’T get his mind off the dark-haired beauty who’d given him a show as he drove his Maserati down North Avenue later that day. He grinned to himself. He remembered her shock and embarrassment when she’d realized she’d shown him her left breast and almost all of the right, her dark nipples puckered just the way he liked them. They came in the perfect size, natural, but not too heavy, much more than a handful. He wondered what they’d feel like against his palms. The idea of having a sexy new neighbor who often went braless was a perk he hadn’t anticipated when he’d bought the old icehouse. Drake had made a fortune in real estate, in transforming old buildings into new condos and offices. He was one of the city’s most successful large-scale flippers. A real estate magazine had labeled him a renegade, since he always bet on buildings and neighborhoods others wrote off, plus, his bad-boy look made him seem more biker gang than Fortune 500. But his facial hair grew so fast, he’d need to shave twice a day if he had even a fighting chance of being clean shaven, so he decided long ago not to fight it. Goatees and beards came easy to him.

But those who thought he looked more thug than businessman would be wrong. He prided himself on doing more research, knowing everything there was to know about a neighborhood, before he invested in it. But somehow he’d missed the intel on the sexy neighbor next door.

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.

“Which one?” Jackson asked.

“1209.”

That was when Jackson realized it was Chloe’s building, his sexy new neighbor. Now it really didn’t sit well with him. He didn’t like the idea of Chloe having a new slumlord owning her lease, a man who’d no doubt raise her rent but then refuse to fix anything. He might not know Chloe well, but what he did know he liked, and besides, no one deserved that.

“What do you plan to do with it?” Jackson asked.

Kent grinned even bigger. “Why, sell it to you, of course.”

Now Jackson was on full alert. Kent was not the kind of man to ever do him any favors. “Why?”

“Because I know you’ll make me the best offer. You’ve got all that new money lying around.” He tapped Jackson’s desk to make sure he hadn’t missed the dig. “I’m sure you can afford it. Unless...you’d rather save your money for NASCAR, or whatever it is you like.”

Kent always made a point of referencing the fact that Jackson came from humble beginnings. Kent had inherited his wealth. Never really worked a day in his life. Jackson’s father worked as a carpenter. He just happened to have a heart attack on the job when he was near retirement, and that gave Jackson the ability to buy his first office and flip it. Sure, they’d both inherited money, but Jackson’s inheritance came with much fewer zeros.

“I earned my money,” he said. “I’m not embarrassed about that.”

Kent frowned. “Well, like I said, I think you should think long and hard about making me a good offer.” Jackson suddenly felt that if he didn’t buy the building, Kent might turn it into something terrible, like a truck stop in the middle of the city. Or a strip club. Something that would make living next door impossible. “How about I have my people get in touch with your people... I just know we can make a deal.”

Kent stood, arms crossed, a fixed grin on his face that said he was enjoying this little meeting a little too much. Kent loved lording this over Jackson. He had no doubt the developer would insist on the most unreasonable price for the building, just so Jackson would keep it out of his hands. Honestly, it was lazy and stalkerish of Kent. Was his plan just to follow Jackson around the city? Buy up anything next door?

Jackson sighed. “Fine,” he said, hating this little game of cat and mouse. He’d rather just ignore Kent, pretend he didn’t exist, but Kent had other ideas. He’d seemed obsessed lately with picking a fight, and it was in no small part due to the fact that Jackson was far more successful than Kent, had reality TV offers when Kent had none, and had outbid him on a recent parkland deal with the city, a lucrative project that would turn junkyards into public spaces. Jackson understood that Kent was a bad developer, that he’d lost out on a number of big deals recently because he hadn’t had the vision or the courage to jump into new projects. Jackson had both. Of course, if Kent spent less time in strip clubs and more time reading up on real estate, he could be as successful, too.

Kent hung around, standing near the door, that smug grin on his face that Jackson hated. Jackson glanced back at his computer, dismissal obvious. When Kent didn’t leave right away, Jackson reluctantly looked up. “Is there anything else?”

“I’ll have my people call your people,” he said, completely unaware of how pretentious and clichéd he sounded.

Jackson didn’t respond, but stared at his computer screen until Kent had left.

Hailey rushed in when he was gone.

“Everything...okay?” she asked, tentative.

“Fine. He’s just blowing hot air—as usual. The man has an endless supply.” Jackson shook his head.

“How bad is this rivalry going to get?” Hailey asked. “Should I schedule a fight after school?” Her mouth quirked up in a teasing smile. Hailey, who just married her longtime partner, Kristi, last year, had little tolerance for testosterone-fueled fights.

“I would totally win that fight,” he felt the need to say, for the record.

“Oh, I know you would, sir.” Hailey grinned.

“You’ll be hearing from him about a property near my house. I’m sure the first offer will be laughable. Just be on the lookout.”

“Will do,” Hailey said and ducked out of his office once more.

He took another sip of his now-lukewarm cappuccino and tapped on his keyboard, bringing his computer screen to life. After discussions with Kent, he needed to cleanse his palate. He thought about his new neighbor and her dark eyes and...exposed nipple. He loved her look, not quite Korean, not quite Irish, something in between. He was all kinds of mutt, mostly Celtic, a little bit Cherokee in there somewhere, German, and a spattering of Cajun, too. Curious about Chloe, he pulled up her building and saw it was a rental property, apartments, which he knew already. He saw old pictures of what must be her condo, a small efficiency. As he swiped through them, his phone lit up with an incoming message from his ex-girlfriend.

Miss you.

He stared at the message and shook his head. Laurie. Really? She missed him? He knew that was a lie. She missed his money, maybe. Him? No way. He deleted the message. Hearing from Laurie felt like a bucket of cold water over his head. Why was he thinking about the mystery girl next door? She was probably no different than Laurie.

Even Jackson realized he was slipping down into a dark place. He didn’t like it, either. Didn’t like his new morose attitude. He’d always been a go-getter. That was how he’d built his empire from nothing.

Then he got another message. How’s the move going? Bed assembled yet? This from Annaliese, one of his friends with benefits, an Eastern European model who was more than happy to be kept in rotation.

Maybe, he said.

If it is, how about I come over and help you break it in tonight?

Jackson thought about Annaliese’s curves, her sleek red hair and the way she had a knack for distracting him from problems, namely with her talented hands. And mouth.

He’d never fall in love Annaliese—she was far too single-minded for him, and it was purely just about the sex. She never wanted dinner or drinks. She’d made it clear from the start that she had no interest in any relationship, and even if she did, he’d be the last person she’d think about marrying. Annaliese had a theory that no one could be faithful, really, especially rich men. Not that she’d given him the chance. Still, he couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to sit across from Annaliese at a dinner table. Most of the time when she showed up at his place, she wore a raincoat and nothing else. Occasionally, she’d wear garters. Or transparent lace. Or thongs. He found himself wondering what she’d choose tonight.

It’s a date, he wrote.

You know I don’t date, she wrote back, and he grinned.