Chapter 1

It was Friday evening and most of the team at Logan and Burke’s central Westmouth office had gone home to get ready for a night on the town. Only Josie and Carla, two of the more successful sales negotiators, were left.

“Are you coming, Carla? It’s nearly half six.”

“Not yet, I want to finish the paperwork on the Clarkson sale.”

“I don’t blame you. I can’t believe you managed to sell it. You did a good job there, girl. Worthy of a bonus, I reckon.”

Carla laughed. She and Josie knew there was only one sure-fire way to get a bonus out of their boss—and it didn’t involve selling houses. “I’ll have to ask him for a private meeting on Monday morning. Is the regular room at the Travel Inn free?”

“I don’t know, you’ll have to check the diary. Well, don’t work too late. If anybody deserves to party tonight, it’s you.”

“Thanks. This shouldn’t take me too long.”

“Don’t forget to lock up after you leave,” Josie said as she left.

“As if. I’ll see you at the club later.”

“Later.”

Once Josie was gone, Carla felt a little strange being left alone in the office. It was dark outside, and with only her tiny desk lamp to light the room, it was a more than a touch creepy. She shivered, shook from her mind the thoughts of what happened to nice girls alone in the dark and returned to the paperwork for the house sale she’d negotiated earlier that day.

The Daily Echo had dubbed Peter Clarkson “the filthiest man in Britain. He’d hoarded tons of useless crap in his one up one down terrace in Westmouth’s least desirable district and when the authorities had found him lying in his own vomit and asked the neighbours why they hadn’t noticed the potent aroma of dead old man, they’d replied that it didn’t smell any different than usual. After the house had been cleared, two elderly cousins from Stoke, the old man’s closest living relatives, had put it straight on the market to try to recover the clean-up costs. That was almost three years ago.

The house had been marketed by a string of estate agents but generated very little interest. It had been on Logan and Burke’s books for nearly six months, and the elderly cousins were getting restless. There was talk of changing agents again. But now Carla had sold it. That was something to celebrate. So what if the buyer had been hanging on to that week’s copy of Ladz, Britain’s best-selling men’s weekly. And so what if she was the star of the Local Lovelies feature that week. It’s not as if she had promised to fuck him if he bought the house. The idea had crossed her mind, but she’d dismissed it. Something told her he wouldn’t go for it. The dimwit actually seemed star-struck by her. If she’d suggested a little horizontal rumba, he’d probably have shot his load in his pants.

Carla hoped that wasn’t how all the men who’d seen her photoshoot would react. If it was, then the whole thing had been a waste of time. Sure, it had been a lot of fun and she’d been well paid for it, but that wasn’t the point. Rebecca, an old friend from university, had told her that after appearing in Ladz she’d had to fight men off. She claimed she’d never had so much cock to choose from and Carla liked the sound of that.

She completed the final form and took the papers to the back of the office, where she filed them away until Monday when she’d mail them to the solicitors. As she locked the filing cabinet, she heard the front door to the office open and whipped around to see who it was. The back of the office was dark and she knew whoever had just walked in wouldn’t be able to see her. She strained her eyes and was able to make out two young men that she didn’t recognise—one blonde, one dark, and both built like sportsmen.

The blonde one flicked on the lights which made Carla squint until her eyes adjusted.