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Staying calm was a necessary component of Tia’s personality. She’d worked hard to cultivate it, to the point it was now ‘second nature’. Until it wasn’t.

“Lord Ashcombe?”

It was only as he turned that Tia realised a fatal flaw in the vetting process. Her assistant might have known the age of the man in question, but she hadn’t conveyed it to Tia. And why should she have? It wasn’t important. He was financially able to buy the apartment, and very much in the market. That was all that mattered. So why did Tia feel as though the rug had been very brutally pulled out from under her when the stuffy-sounding Lord Hamish Ashcombe of Abington, England moved and she saw not a man of the peerage in his sixties but a young, fit, and knock-your-socks-off handsome man not a day older than thirty-five.

He was tall, which Tia appreciated. At five foot nine, and a devotee of heels, she was used to towering over almost everyone, but with Hamish, she had to look up a little, which made a nice change. He had a slim athleticism to his frame that was revealed by the crisp pale blue shirt he wore, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows in deference to the warm evening, tucked into the waist of his navy blue trousers. His shoes were clearly bespoke. He wore his hair brushed back from his brow, a dark brown colour with a slight curl at the nape, and his face was a work of art. Chiselled as though he were some kind of thoroughbred human, all square jaw, aquiline nose, dark brown eyes that were thickly lined with black lashes, and a mouth that had parentheses grooved into the sides, as though he smiled often. His jaw was covered in a five-o’clock shadow, and in his chin, there was a perfect dimple.

It was so jarring a reality, compared to what her expectations had been, that her feet stopped moving, the clickety-clack falling silent, and she simply stared at him. “Lord Ashcombe?” she repeated, certain this must be a mistake. After all, he still hadn’t said anything.

His chocolate eyes were latched to hers, as though he were doing his own mental appraisal and calculations.

“Tia Stallone?”

Yes. Yes, that was her name. Tia Stallone of Stallone Realty. Global powerhouse, self-made success. She tried to bolster herself back into the game, to firmly place the rug under her feet, but the breath was having a difficult time filling her lungs.

She somehow managed to nod and force a smile.

“Thanks for meeting me so late in the day,” he said.

“Of course. This is one of my most prestigious listings. I’m always happy to show it.”

He nodded once, an air of distraction crossing his features, so she wondered if she’d been wrong about his ready smile. She wasn’t often wrong. A childhood living with drunken, abusive parents meant she’d become sadly adept at reading people. It was a skill she and Roman shared—for the same reasons.

“This way, please,” she nodded toward the bank of elevators and they fell into step, side by side, the length of his stride a pleasing match to hers.

The elevator concierge nodded from behind a marble desk as they passed by, then Tia pressed the button for the lifts. When the doors opened, she regarded the space with new eyes.

It was, like everything else in the building, top tier. Double the size of most lifts, a special elevator mechanism had been developed for the weight and size of the construction, and the bank of mirrors gave it an even more spacious feel. There was a chandelier hanging from the middle of the ceiling, and discreet security cameras were pointed to ensure residents felt safe.

And yet, when she imagined stepping into the lift with this man, it might as well have become a tiny little lock-box.

“After you,” he said, moving his hand to hold the door open, so Tia realised she’d been standing there like a stunned mullet, rather than doing what any rational person would have and stepping inside.

She compressed her lips into an approximation of a smile and carefully skirted the space around him to take her position inside. He followed and Tia belatedly reached past him to swipe the key fob for the penthouse.

Once they were ascending, she was able to rely on her professional muscle to (she hoped) pass through the awkwardness of their meeting. She’d been caught off guard but that was no reason to let the meeting turn into a disaster. Even when the woodsy fragrance of his hyper-masculine cologne was making her aware of things she really shouldn’t be, like the way his forearm muscles shifted as he put a hand in his pocket, or the sound of his breathing, and the discreetly valuable gold wristwatch that somehow made him look even more commanding. All that aside, she had a job to do, and the eye-watering commission made it imperative that she sell this place. That, and the fact she knew there were a dozen other high-end agents braying to take over her list of elite clients, if she should fail. Well, she had no intention of that.

“As you’d expect in a building of this calibre—” was she imagining a slight sneer cross his lips as she said that? “The Carrington boasts state-of-the-art security, from the underground carpark to the doormen, the mailroom, and the discreet monitoring and alarm systems.”

He didn’t react, but that didn’t matter. She’d found her groove now.

“This particular penthouse was fully renovated eighteen months ago, which included all new security features and alarms, as well as two luxurious kitchens, an overhaul of each bathroom, and the installation of a hot tub on the deck. The penthouse boasts a private rooftop garden with a lap pool, and there’s a helipad for the building tenants to use.”

“Yes, I’ve read the brochure.” His accent was clipped and British, his voice thick and deep, hoarse, too. She liked it. It was sort of smoky and raw, in contrast to the elite tailoring of his clothes. She was so taken by his voice that she missed the slightly mocking nature of his remark.

She arched a brow, inwardly cataloguing him into a certain folder she kept for entitled ‘old money’ sorts. The kind who were born and gifted five names, usually a Roman numeral for good measure, a trust fund worth more than most people would make in a lifetime and guaranteed acceptance into the toffiest schools on offer. Their pathway was paved with gold, and with that came an air of assuredness and conceit that no amount of existing in the real world could shake. Because the real world was a gloriously charmed notion for people like that. In fact, there was nothing ‘real’ about it. From the unseen and unappreciated team of workers who moved all the pieces around, all the time, to keep things operating smoothly, to the removal of any kind of barrier to hardship, men like Lord Ashcombe wouldn’t know hardship if it bit them on the butt.

Which was none of her concern. The property was the thing, and if he didn’t care about the features, then it was of no concern to Tia.

The elevator stopped and the doors pinged open, into a large anteroom boasting two glossy white doors. The room was wallpapered in yellow and white stripes and a bench seat was installed along one wall, for guests to wait on as necessary.

“The door can be activated by the unmarked fob or by fingerprint,” she explained, as she strode towards it, feeling more like herself. She swiped the fob and the door opened, the automatic hinges meaning ‘struggling with groceries’ would never be a concern. Not that the occupants of this apartment would ever do their own shopping.

The first step inside the space was utterly breathtaking. It reminded her, in some ways, of Roman’s apartment. But unlike Roman’s, this place had been decorated as a real show-off piece; it was made to impress, and every single part of it was an expression of extreme wealth. From the grand piano in one corner to the art that adorned the walls, to the furnishings which were mid-century modern, European, designer, and quite glorious.

“The furniture can be negotiated into the purchase price, but the art is part of the owners’ private collection and won’t be included.”

“I have art,” he said.