The US and Colombian governments had seized all her father’s assets—but they hadn’t found everything. Then the CIA turned her over to the DEA and the fun started all over again. She had no desire to repeat that experience.
She wheeled into the parking lot of the realty office and dragged her bag from the passenger seat as she exited the car. She’d just passed her licensing exam but didn’t have any listings of her own yet. She had to start from the bottom and work her way up, but she’d never been afraid of hard work.
The real estate business may not be her calling, but she’d had to find some gainful employment after she’d lost her business—the restaurant-bar she’d developed and run with Ricky before...before.
She slammed the car door. She’d tried bartending since that’s what she knew, but that hadn’t been her calling either, not if she couldn’t run the place, and she didn’t like leaving RJ with her mother so many nights of the week.
Gina yanked open the door of the office and waved to Lori, who was on the phone. Lori wiggled her fingers in the air in response.
A stack of binders piled on her desk greeted Gina and she plopped down in front of them with a sigh. Faith, the Realtor she was shadowing, had left a yellow sticky note on the binder at the top of the pile asking her to remove the old listings.
Gina flipped open the binder and perused each page, checking the house against a roster for those listings no longer on the market. For each lucky house that had sold, she slid the flyer from beneath the plastic sheath, making a neat pile on the corner of the desk.
Lori ended her call and slumped in her chair. “Clients from hell right there, but they’re looking high-end, art deco in South Beach, and I’m going to do my best to find the perfect place for them. Can you do me a favor?”
“If it involves white binders, I’ll pass.” Gina heaved the first completed binder off the desk and dropped it to the floor.
“It involves meeting a client at a town house. It’s empty. Owners already moved out, and it’s an easy show. I’ll cut you in on a portion of the commission if this person buys it.”
“Is this buyer one of your clients?”
“No. The sellers are my clients. This person is a walk-in. Just called this morning.” Lori jiggled a set of keys over her desk. “Easy show.”
Gina wrinkled her nose at the rest of the binders. “Sure. Give me the details.”
Fifteen minutes later, Gina was sitting behind the wheel of her car with a file folder on the seat beside her, cruising to South Beach. She enjoyed this aspect of the job more than sitting at a desk reviewing Florida property laws and regulations.
As she flew past the strip malls and heavily residential areas, she could understand why Lori wanted to spend her time selling in South Beach instead of this area, but Gina found the relative serenity of the southern end of Dade County preferable to the hubbub in South Beach where she and RJ had landed with Mom after the debacle in Colombia.
Debacle—was that what you called the deaths of your father and husband at the hands of some unknown snipers?
The Spanish-style building came into view on her right, the beige stucco, arched entrances and red-tiled roof a copy of several other residences on the street. This was a town house, not a condo, so it had a door open to the outside and two palm trees graced either side of the entrance.
Her heels clicked on the tiled walkway to the front door, and a palm frond tickled her cheek as she inserted the key into the lockbox. Pushing the door open, she left it wide, surveying the small foyer before taking a small step down to the living room.
She glanced at the flyers in her hand and left a stack on the kitchen counter. She should probably familiarize herself with the place before the potential buyer showed up, starting with the kitchen.
All the appliances cooperated as she flipped switches and turned handles. The kitchen didn’t boast the most high-tech gadgetry she’d ever seen, but everything worked and had a neat functionality. She could get used to a place like this.
She had to get out of Mom’s condo—and all it represented.
She poked her head into the laundry room off the kitchen, noting the side door to a small patio, and then backtracked to the living room. The gas fireplace checked out, as did the blinds shuttering the arched front window. The sun filtered into the room, as she pulled them back. A set of sliding glass doors to the right led to a small patio, a stucco wall enclosing it.
Finishing up with the half bathroom, she headed up the staircase to investigate the two bedrooms and two bathrooms. The master had a nice walk-in closet, and she mentally filled the racks with her shoes and layered the baskets with her sweaters.
She closed the closet door behind her with a firm click. She was here for the buyer, not herself, even if that buyer was late.
She glided into the second room, trying not to imagine RJ’s toys stacked in colorful bins against the wall.
A sound from downstairs had her pausing at the window that looked out onto a small patio in the back. She cocked her head, and then heard the shuffling noise again.
She walked to the bedroom door and called out, “Hello? I’m upstairs. I’ll be right down. Take a flyer.”
Facing herself in the mirrored closet door, she straightened her jacket and smoothed her hands over her dark pencil skirt. For good measure, she rolled open the closet door and peered at the empty rods and shelves. The place looked mint.
As she slid the door back into place, a bang had her jerking and literally clutching the pearls at her neck. What was the buyer doing down there?
She raised her eyes to her reflection and swallowed as the hair on the back of her neck quivered. Why hadn’t the client answered her?
She’d taken a safety class as part of getting her Realtor’s license and knew the dangers of women flying solo while showing open houses. But this was no open house. Lori had made an appointment with this person, had gotten identifying information from him over the phone.
Sweeping her tongue across her lips, she backed away from the mirror. She strode to the bedroom door, calling out, “Hello? Are you still here?”
She jogged down the stairs, her muscles tense, her senses on high alert. When she reached the bottom step, she tripped to a stop.
The blinds across the window that she’d just opened now shuttered out the sunlight. Her gaze darted to the front door, now closed.
A clicking noise from the laundry room acted like a cattle prod and she lunged for the purse she’d foolishly left on the kitchen counter. Strapping the purse across her body, she ripped open the side pocket and grabbed her .22, the cool metal of the gun in her hand giving her courage.
She flicked off the safety and rounded the corner of the counter into the kitchen, holding her weapon in front of her. Not a great start to her career as a Realtor, but she’d do what had to be done to protect herself. That much she’d learned from Hector De Santos.
The door from the laundry room to the back of the building stood ajar and Gina crept toward it, locked and loaded.
Her heart pounded as the laundry room door suddenly swung open and a large man filled the frame of the doorway.
She raised her gun and took aim at his head. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”
Josh didn’t trust Gina Rojas as far as he could toss her, but even he didn’t expect her to hold him at gunpoint this early in their relationship.
“Whoa,