The Millionaire Next Door

Amanda managed a watery smile. Then she turned on her shiny black pumps and walked away.

Chapter Two

Amanda’s face burned as she walked back to her office, and it wasn’t just the summer heat. What in God’s name had possessed her to tell Hudson Stack about her rivalry with Mary Jo Dickens?

“Hey, what’s with you?” Margie asked the minute Amanda walked through the door. “You look like a herd of demons is chasing you. Is Mary Jo hassling you again?”

Amanda set her things on one of the plush client chairs and sank into the other one. For once, she didn’t feel like rushing back to her office to generate new leads or update her contact list.

“It’s not Mary Jo, not this time,” Amanda said. “It’s me. I just chased down Hudson Stack in the street and gave him hell for writing me a bad check.”

“Good for you. He could go to jail for that.”

“Except that…I harangued him in front of his little girl. And maybe he did intentionally try to defraud me, but maybe it was an honest mistake. And if it was, I’ve alienated him permanently. And he’s friends with Ed Hardison. You know what’ll happen to my business if Ed tells people I’m a harpy?”

“You’ll never sell another house,” Margie added, deadpan, “and you’ll have to move out of town and go into another line of work. Maybe change your name. Go into the witness protection program.”

“I think you’re making fun of me,” Amanda said suspiciously.

“Oh, honey, you’re just too damn hard on yourself. No one can be sweet 24/7. So, you lost your temper. You got a little flustered. Who wouldn’t, dealing with that guy?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but he’s quite the studmuffin.” Margie fanned herself with the Cottonwood Conversation, the town’s weekly newspaper.

Amanda had noticed, all right. Even as she’d been yelling at him, her eyes had been focused on things they shouldn’t have been—like the worn places on his jeans, and that little tuft of chest hair peeking out over the top button of his shirt.

“I didn’t just yell at him for the check,” Amanda confessed. “I also told him about how Mary Jo was going to beat me this month in sales. As if that justified my turning his bad check into a federal case.”

Margie had the nerve to laugh. “Boy, you really are bent out of shape. Does it matter so much if she beats you one month?”

“Yes! I mean, no, except that it’s not just this month. She’s been nipping at my heels all year. If I’m not careful, she’ll take my title away.”

“And would that be so bad? I mean, jeez, Amanda, you’ve been top seller four out of the past five years. The whole idea of these awards is to inspire agents to work harder and make more money for themselves and the company. Obviously, Mary Jo’s inspired, and the competition has helped both of you. And you’re already doing better than you did last year. The company’s doing great. It’s a win-win situation, and that little trophy on your desk, and the plaques on your wall—they’re just dumb pieces of wood and brass.”

Amanda stifled a gasp. “Margie, they’re not dumb.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to minimize your accomplishments. I’m just saying, get some perspective.”

Amanda sighed again. “I can’t help it. I just get crazy at the idea of Mary Jo beating me. If it was Hank or Emily, it wouldn’t bother me so much. But Mary Jo? She just got her license last year!”

“And how do you think Emily felt when you came along? She was the queen of the Top Seller trophies and plaques before you, and the ink on your license was still wet the first time you beat her.”

Amanda had to think back. Had she been like Mary Jo? God, she hoped not. Amanda was ambitious, but she was ethical. She’d never snooped in other agents’ appointment books, stolen a list of contacts or slept with potential clients. Mary Jo had.

“Does Emily hate me?” Amanda asked.

“No, of course not! Her sales overall have gone up since you’ve been onboard. She has a healthy rivalry with you and with Mary Jo. You, on the other hand…”

“Just stepped over the line. I know.” Amanda stood. “Okay, I’m turning over a new leaf. Healthy rivalry. Team player. No more sniping about Mary Jo, the witch, behind her back.”

“Ix-nay, here comes the itch-way now.” Margie gathered up a handful of pink message slips. “These came in for you while you were gone.”

The door opened and Mary Jo swept in, all five feet, ten inches of her. She had a model’s slender hips and legs, but not the flat chest. In fact, her double-Ds challenged whatever blouse she wore, though she always managed to look stylish. Her midnight hair hung straight as water, almost to her waist, shimmering even in the artificial light of the office.

She came from a rich family in Tyler. She had a college degree in marketing, but it was her finishing-school sheen that Amanda secretly envied. Mary Jo had a natural confidence, an ability to talk about anything with anybody. And though she was always decently dressed, her sexuality billowed out from her in clouds, like cheap perfume did on other women.

In a crowded room, like a chamber of commerce meeting, people just naturally gravitated toward Mary Jo, whereas Amanda usually had to initiate contact with people.

“I just showed someone the Clooney mansion,” Mary Jo said exuberantly. “They spent almost an hour there. I think they might make an offer!” She addressed the comment to both women, but she looked at Amanda.

If Mary Jo sold the Clooney mansion, she would shoot ahead of Amanda and would probably be uncatchable.

Damn.

“Good for you,” Amanda forced herself to say, pasting on a smile. “It would be a plum for the whole company if one of us could sell that puppy.”

“Keep your fingers crossed. Do any good business today, Amanda?”

“Nothing to speak of.”

“Well, cheer up. The day’s not over.” With that she breezed past Amanda toward her own office, grabbing her phone messages on the way.

Amanda bit her tongue. She wanted to say something nasty. That gloating, patronizing bimbo! But the new leaf, and all.

“I’ll be in my office,” Amanda grated out. She picked up her things and shut herself off from the rest of the world. Maybe she’d have something interesting in her e-mail inbox.

The next time she came up for air, it was eight o’clock and starting to get dark. Her stomach was a gaping cavern of emptiness. She hadn’t eaten since she’d wolfed down a bagel for breakfast.

She reached behind her to the refrigerator to grab a Slimfast. But the sudden movement made her head spin, and she realized she needed to eat a real meal before she passed out. She grabbed a couple of real estate magazines—she wanted to draft some new ads, and she needed inspiration. She stuffed them in her briefcase for later, then headed out.

Amanda always felt a rush of pleasure when she drove up to her house on the lake. She’d bought it last year—her very first home. It wasn’t grand, as lake houses went, just a modest two-bedroom A-frame. But it was clean—most of the time—and snug. She hadn’t needed to do any work on it, and she’d hardly changed a thing except to hang a few pictures.

The important thing was that it was hers, and no one could take it away from her—unless she failed to make her house payments. That possibility was never far from her thoughts. Though she’d had no trouble qualifying for the loan based on her previous three years’ income, the real estate business was iffy. One turn of the economic roulette wheel and her income could disappear.

That was why she stockpiled so much. Though her banker urged her to invest in a diverse portfolio, she was content to keep her cash in a money-market fund, where it was readily available for any emergency. She had enough to see her through a whole year, should something happen to her income.

But that didn’t stop her from worrying.

She was just a worrier. That was her nature, and there was nothing she could do about it.

And speaking of worrying, what was that taped to her front door?

Instead of entering her house through the garage door, Amanda walked around to the front and up the stairs to her porch. A fat envelope with her name on it was taped to the door. She pulled it off and opened it. It was full of cash—and a note.

She read the note and smiled. Hudson Stack had made good on his check. All that worry for nothing—this time. Maybe she would keep her little desk trophy another month after all.

Her pleasure over this small victory was blunted when she saw what a mess the kitchen was. Her brother, Mick, had obviously been home, had dinner, then left again. The empty pizza box and cardboard had been left on the counter; her microwave was covered in melted cheese; and the greasy plate and leftover crusts had been dumped near, though not in, the sink. An empty pop bottle sat on the counter, mere inches from the pantry door where the trash was stored.