"I'm proposing us living in sin, not getting married," Maggie said, blushing delightfully to the roots of her thick, artfully sun-streaked brown hair.
"But you have been sadly compromised," he pointed out to her.
"Not exactly sadly," Maggie said, grinning at him.
"It is my duty as a gentleman to protect your reputation by offering my hand in—shall I go on?"
"No, I know the drill. But forget the drill. Are you with me on this house thing, or not?"
Saint Just peeked out from behind the rack as Kiki informed them that she and Sterling were going back upstairs for another look at the six-burner gas stove Sterling had been loathe to leave in the first place.
"You just follow when you want, sugar."
Maggie opened her mouth to answer—or to ask just who Kiki thought she was calling sugar —but Saint Just put a fingertip to her lips, keeping her silent.
"We'll join you in a few moments, Miss Rodgers," he told her as Maggie glared at him.
Maggie pushed his finger away once Kiki and Sterling's footsteps could be heard on the wood floor of the kitchen above. "So what's your problem, Alex, because you obviously have one. You say you don't have a problem, but you do, don't you? Is it this house? Or me? Is it me? You don't want to live here with me?"
"There is a Spanish proverb, which says very justly, 'Tell me whom you live with, and I will tell you who you are.' "
"The Earl of Chesterfield," Maggie said, nodding. "So what do you think the earl would say about you, living with me?"
Saint Just thought on this for a moment. "That I, an esteemed member of the peerage and thus a person who should know better, should be horsewhipped? That, or that I, too, should be visiting weekly with Doctor Bob."
"Ha-ha. Nobody said ours was a ... a normal association. Well, somebody might, if they knew what was going on, how you got here, but then that person probably wouldn't be normal. But it's normal for us, right? So that can't be the reason. Maybe you don't want to share expenses? Maybe you want to stay where you are, not live with me again? Because I'm not staying where I am. It's time I owned my own house, put down ... put down roots."
"A commendable aspiration, I'm sure. I also thank you very much for your kind invitation to include Sterling and myself. I have absolutely no problems with the move, the purchase. However, I do feel somewhat unhappy over your motives, Maggie. You do have worth as a person, you have roots, as you say. And, if we're looking at facts, you already own the condo, Maggie."
She narrowed her eyes. "Don't confuse me with facts. I want this house. I mean, I really, really want it. The moment the page came up on the computer, I knew this would be the place. Kismet, fate. Something."
He relaxed somewhat, and teased, "No matter the price?"
Maggie opened her mouth, undoubtedly to say yes, no matter the price, but then the frugal part of her rendered a figurative slap to the side of her head and she coughed, probably choking on her admirable financial restraint, before bleating—oh, yes, the girl was bleating—"You'll talk to her? I can't talk price, Alex. I'd fold like an umbrella the first time she said the price is firm."
"Because, as you're so fond of saying, you're a wimp when it comes to confrontation?"
"And people with boobs the size of the greater Dallas-Fort Worth area, yes," Maggie admitted, flushing. "Confident people make me nervous. They're always so damn sure of themselves."
"I'm a confident person, Maggie," Saint Just pointed out, slipping his arms around her waist. "Do I make you nervous?"
She rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous."
He moved his hands higher.
"Okay, that's making me nervous. But only because of where we are ... the way you're looking at me—stop looking at me that way. Those baby blues might do it for Lady Prestwick, but they cut no mustard with me."
"I beg your pardon. Lady Prestwick?"
"Your next love interest. I was picking out names for the new book this morning, before I called you to come look at the house with me. Lady Jane Prestwick. You're going to clear her name even though she was discovered standing over her husband's body, a bloody letter opener in her hand."
"How heroic of me, and how wonderfully predictable, although I'm confident you'll handle the entire situation in a way unique to my tremendous powers of deduction."
"Bite me," Maggie told him, then shook her head. "One of these days I'm going to write a scene where you lose, if only for the moment. It would probably be good for you, build your character."
"And anger our readers. Saint Just never loses, you know that. So, what does Lady Jane look like, hmm? I believe my last amorous encounter was with a particularly fiery redhead."
Maggie pushed his hands back down to her waist. "I don't know. I didn't get that far yet. Why?"
"Well, if I might be so bold," Saint Just said, his mission one of hardening Maggie's resolve when it came to their confident Realtor. "I believe I might suggest a tallish, confident young woman. Blonde. Slim, but with a remarkably extraordinary bosom."
"Kiki," Maggie ground out, pushing herself free of him. "You want Kiki? You want that plastic, bleached former Miss Kudzu queen? Right. That's going to happen. Now come on, let's go lowball the woman and see how she comes back at us. Well, at you. I'm planning on just standing there, looking bored."
Saint Just retrieved his cane, which he'd leaned against the wall. "Lowball? I'm not familiar with the term."
"Neither am I, but it sounds good," Maggie said, climbing the stairs ahead of him. She didn't hesitate when mounting stairs, but only when descending them. "We'll ask her to take us through the whole house again, and you point out all that's wrong with it, okay? Then we'll hit her with a figure. What do you think of five and a half? I think that's reasonable."
"Five and a half what, my dear?" Saint Just asked, following her up and into the main kitchen.
"Million dollars," Maggie whispered, although they were alone in the kitchen, Kiki and Sterling obviously having moved on to another part of the house. "I could go to six, but I want to start lower."
"So you'll pitch her a low ball and hope she swings at it? Yes, I begin to understand the concept, perhaps. We'll think of this in terms of baseball. What flaws, in particular, do you suggest I point out to the woman?"
"Hell, Alex, I don't know. I love every inch of this house. Just make it work, okay? It's vacant, it's ready to go. We could probably move here right after the first of the year. If ... if you want to, of course. Things are moving so fast, aren't they? Maybe you'd rather stay where you are?"
"I thought we were settled on that point. I am where I want to be, Maggie. I'm with you."
She rolled her eyes. "The Case of the Pilfered Pearls. Chapter Six, I think. You're feeding me the come-on line I fed you to feed to whatever-the-hell the woman's name was that I put you to bed with in that book. That's disgusting."
"Ah, but a good line is a good line, yes?" Saint Just teased as Maggie turned on her heels and headed out of the kitchen.
Saint Just tarried for a few moments at the immense, granite-topped island, considering all that had happened since Maggie had summoned him to her condo shortly before luncheon and shown him the Internet listing of this house.
He'd admired the way she'd convinced Miss Rodgers to meet with them that same afternoon although, of course, that was before Maggie had seen the confident young woman's imposing bosom. He admired her taste in having chosen a building such as this in the first place. The tall, white-stuccoed structure would look quite at home in Brighton.
And he was amazed to think that Maggie was finally coming out of her shell enough to realize that there was more to life than sitting at her computer tucked into a corner of her living room, creating a fantasy world that in no way resembled her own rather circumspect lifestyle.