The hum of an engine draws my attention skyward—a jet taking off. I follow its trajectory to when it’s high against the cobalt blue sky, a streak of white far above me. Where the hell is this real estate agent? Hardly an auspicious start for a multimillion-dollar transaction...
* * *
Crappety, crappety hell. ‘Can you go around it?’
‘Sorry, love. Police’ve got it cordoned off right to the intersection.’
‘Shit.’ I blink apologetically at the driver. ‘I can’t be late for this. And I’m so, so late. Is there anything you can do?’
‘A car’s rolled into the intersection.’ The driver shrugs, his thick grey brows shooting skywards as he meets my gaze in the rear-view mirror. ‘We just have to sit it out. Won’t take long to clear the crash.’
‘Shit.’
I sit back in the seat, glaring at the digital time read-out on my phone.
Shit.
I’m a bundle of nerves. Why? Pick your reason.
Gareth’s wedding? Sure. Imagining my ex dressing in a tux, his family, his mum—who I was so incredibly close to—all dressed up and ready to welcome someone else into the fold. My stomach is in knots, acid lining my gut. Because it should have been me.
Why wasn’t it me?
From day one he told me he wasn’t into marriage, but he was. He proposed to her—Alicia—within a month of dating. So it was just marriage with
me he didn’t want. Or maybe he didn’t want marriage with anyone until he met her, and he realised she was the only person who could get him down the aisle?
How can you go from someone you’ve been with for two years—a happy two years—running a business together, living together, working as a team together in every way—and end up with someone else entirely? And so fast.
So blindingly, breakneck fast.
But it’s not just the fact that right now the guy I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with is currently making that pledge to someone else.
There’s also the fact my body is feeling all the things this morning. I’m sore between my legs in the best possible way, my breasts are tingling beneath my bra and every time I close my eyes, I see him, Jagger, going down on me, taking me from behind. I feel the ghost of his touch and my stomach loops into knots and it’s like I’ve crested over the high point of a roller coaster.
So there’s that.
But then there’s the question of Silver Dunes. It’s not just one of the most beautiful properties I’ve ever seen, though it is. It’s also my ticket to a whole new life. If only I can get this sale through before the owner gets impatient and takes the listing away—if only I can get this sale through within the week, contracts signed, deal done, I’ll be able to go to the bank and borrow what I need until the golf course settles... I’ll be able to buy Gareth out while he’s on his bloody Mauritius honeymoon and, with any luck, never have to see him again.
My mum would say I’m counting my chickens before they’re hatched, and I am, but I know this deal’s so close to being done. The golf course is ah-mazing. There’s no way anyone could see it and not love it.
And I’m going to make sure this investor agrees with me. The first time I saw the course was in the evening. The lights were warm, leading us from the five-star restaurant at the clubhouse to the twelfth hole, for which the course was named. For here, at the right time of night and the right time of year, so long as the sky is clear, the moon casts the sand dunes in a perfect silver light, making them look like moondust.
It’s magic.
My driver beeps the horn, jolting me away from the idyll of Silver Dunes and, thank God, we’re moving forward. He’s weaving around a small purple car and pushing us onto the footpath.
‘Bloody jokers don’t know how to drive,’ he grunts, and I smile because, whatever has pushed his patience, I’m glad for it.
For the tenth time since getting in the car, I check my bag for the brochure, our itinerary, the financials, the contracts and the brief bio I’ve got on the investor.
J Ryan Hart, one third of Hart Brothers Industries. 29. Estimated personal worth $152.7 billion USD plus investments.
Can you even imagine having that kind of money? Maybe I should just ask him to float me a loan to buy Gareth out—I only need a million, Aussie. Small change to someone like him, right?
I skip my eyes further down the page.
Has bought three golf courses in five years. No property in Australia. Preapproved by FIRB.