Breath of Fresh Heiress by Pru Warren EPUB & PDF – eBook Details
- Author: Pru Warren
- Language: English
- Formats: PDF / EPUB
- Status: Available For Free Download
- Series: None
- Price: Free
- File Size: 1 MB
IN WHICH REM MAKES A WRONG
ASSUMPTION
REM
March 15
Clearly, I’d been nursing a boy’s dreams.
I drove into Catlett, pulled into the weedy driveway of the River House,
and saw . . . a man’s dream. Parked casually in front of the house. Gleaming
in inky, rich blackness.
Lust swamped me.
It was an Audi e-tron GT. Car of the future. Not one of the Audis normal
mortals could buy—no, for this beast, you had to be able to drop $160,000
without thinking twice. Every line, sleek. Every detail, thought-out. Almost
no road dirt or dust. Had it been driven all the way to western Tennessee
without getting splattered?
Did the car repel road mud? It probably did. With mystical electrical
technology.
Parked by the pillared front porch of the decaying mansion, it was clearly
ready for a photo shoot.
Back when everyone thought I was headed to the NFL, I’d planned on
buying a boss car. A Porsche, probably, a Lamborghini if the contract was
good. But I never made it past backup quarterback in college, the NFL call
never came, and now I drove the ancient Ford Taurus I’d been assigned, the
seal of Frontier County on the door above the faded slogan: FORWARD TO
THE FUTURE.
Yeah. Right.
I was walking around the front of the Audi ( my God, so gorgeous) when
the screen door banged. An older guy stood on the porch, watching me
suspiciously. I gave him the Golden Boy grin and admired his car. Easiest
way to make a new pal.
“This is the RS, isn’t it? What’s the horsepower?”
The fighting posture relaxed, and a smile twitched at the corner of his
mouth. He came down the steps.
“Rated at 637. Feels like more.”
I whistled in appreciation. No need to feign my admiration. “That’s
rocket-ship speed.”
“Zero to sixty in three seconds.”
“My God. Assuming the g-forces don’t knock you out.” Now I was past
envy, past lust. Normal people didn’t get cars like this. The salt-and-pepper
guy in front of me had that easy assurance wealthy people wrap around them
like invisible superhero capes. He and I were of entirely different species.
He leaned closer conspiratorially. “I can get it to a hundred in just over
six seconds—but the little lady doesn’t like that.” He nodded behind him to
the house, where I was sure a busty, blonde trophy wife was touring their
new property. I grinned, and he held out his hand. “Dr. Kennett Fessenden.
And you are . . .?”
“Rem Jackson, deputy county commissioner.” We shook. Doctor, huh?
No surprise, then, that his hand was soft. No calluses. However he’d made all
that money, he definitely didn’t sweat doing it. “I assume you got my letter?”
“Letter?” He frowned.
“I sent it as Registered Mail. It was . . . hang on.” I checked my folder.
“Signed by a B. Nichols at Kesterson and Stickley. Aren’t they your
lawyers?”
“Ah. They handled the estate. But I don’t remember hearing about a
letter.”
Interesting. That would explain the lack of response. “I have a copy right
here, Mr. Fessenden.”
“Doctor.”
“Right. Sorry. Doctor.”
He fished out a pair of eyeglasses, snapping the case shut with a crisp
clap, and was reading my carefully worded offer when the screen door
banged again, drawing both our attention.
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