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Chapter One
IVAN
“Here you are, Mr. Ivanovich. I’ve narrowed the list down to five of the best properties in the market right now.” Greta, my uber-efficient PA, hands me her iPad. “Each one offers everything you’ve specified for. Please press play when you are ready and the first video will start.”
I tap the screen and a property advert comes on. A woman in her early twenties smiles in front of an open doorway. She has an American smile, big and full of optimism. I call it the US-Dollar smile. No Russian woman would ever smile like that. Russian women are too pragmatic. They know there are bears in the woods, the winters always come early, and the Government is not your friend.
“Sorry, that’s not the property. That’s just an advert,” Greta apologizes. Her voice sounds slightly annoyed. Her whole life is an orderly, well-oiled machine and she hates it when even the littlest thing goes wrong.
“We are subscribed to the no advertisements premium subscription,” she continues. “This must be a glitch. I am sorry to waste your time, Mr. Ivanovich. Please click the skip button.”
The button comes on the screen, but I don’t click it. I am too mesmerized by the woman on the screen. My eyes eat her up as she walks down the narrow corridor of a cheap apartment.
“And here we have a spacious living room with a fantastic view,” she lies shamelessly to the camera as she walks into a ridiculously small room. Only a cockroach would find that room spacious. She passes by the window she had claimed had a fantastic view and the outlook is literally a brick wall. Undeterred by the tawdry reality around her she sails through her sales pitch. Stylish, modern, well-appointed, central… The ease with which she lies through her teeth is impressive.
“Just press that little button on the right-hand corner that says skip,” Greta urges, her voice flustered.
But I don’t touch the button. The girl has entered a tiny brown kitchen where she starts to wax lyrical about how wonderful and cozy it is. Apparently, the prospective buyer can have breakfast in that cramped space while the sun shines in through the east facing window. She passes by said window and I nearly laugh. Even a jail cell would have a bigger opening.
“Here, let me press skip for you, Mr. Ivanovich,” Greta says anxiously as she reaches for her iPad.
I look up. “I know how to press skip, Greta.”
Her eyes widen and she straightens her spine. “Oh, okay.”
I return my attention to the woman on the screen.
Something about her.
Something about her.
She leads the viewers to the bedroom and sits on the bed. Words are falling out of her sexy mouth, but I have stopped listening. My cock is rock hard. I freeze the advert and look up. “That will be all, Greta.”
“Oh!”
For a few unguarded seconds, she looks at me with a confused expression. Then she takes a step backwards. “Okay. You can call me when you have finished viewing all five shortlisted properties.”
I nod and she turns away.
I stare at the woman in the video. “Who are you?”
I watch the advert all over again. Something powerful, deep in the pits of my guts starts uncoiling, waking up. It has been asleep for a long time, so it moves slowly, but it will not be denied. It will stop at nothing to get what it wants.
And it wants her.
I have never had such a visceral and instant reaction to a woman. What is even stranger is that she is not my type at all. Generally, I gravitate towards long-legged models with nomadic lifestyles. Having a woman willing to fly out to different locations in the world at a moment’s notice is important to me.
I take a screenshot of her agency’s name when it appears, then I watch the rest of the video. The second property is the only one that appeals to me. I press the button that brings Greta into my room, and she appears at the door almost instantly.
“Are you ready for me to arrange appointments for you to view the properties, Mr. Ivanovich?”
I hold the iPad out to her. “I want to view the second property on your list, but first I want you to contact the woman in this advert. She is to handle the entire purchase transaction.”
She pauses momentarily, a strange expression on her face. If I didn’t know better, I would think she is jealous. But I do know better. Then she moves forward, takes the iPad from me and looks at the screen where the name of the agency is displayed.
“Fitzpatrick &Co is not one of the better agencies in the city,” she says stiffly.
I pick up my coffee mug. “The agency is small?”