She levered herself upright a few seconds later. Sweaty and more than a little nauseated, but then, she was an old hand at both of those conditions.
Everyone was still staring at her. They now, to a man (they were all men), seemed faintly alarmed.
She smiled placidly back at them.
Handmade Loafers was Los Angeles–thin and his gray hair was ruthlessly barbered. She would bet all of her cashier’s checks that he smelled like expensive aftershave. His charcoal-gray suit was meticulously tailored if unadventurous (though arguably, any suit in Hellcat Canyon would have been noteworthy). He looked like a G-man or a lawyer. Her money was on the latter.
She knew instinctively this was the guy to beat.
She scanned them and summed them up as Overalls, Cardigan, Timid Guy, Button-down Shirt, and Handmade Loafers. A fly had begun orbiting all of them. Avalon was a little worried she was the attraction. She needed a shower.
She was the only woman, the only one in black, the only one in yoga pants; the only one in sunglasses, a sweaty T-shirt, messy high ponytail, and a cardigan speckled with lint. These were all the things she’d found in her gym bag. The blazer she’d worn to speak to the young entrepreneurs yesterday was hopelessly crumpled.
But one thing she’d learned in her by-the-seat-of-her-pants school of business was when you’re feeling underdressed, too young, too...female...in a room full of men: hold yourself as if you own the place. As if you’ve graciously granted everyone present audience and they are there on your sufferance.
“Good morning, folks!” The auctioneer boomed into the sleepy silence, which made everyone give a little start. “I’m Chuck Beasley, and I’ll be your ringmaster for today’s proceedings. Today you’ll be bidding on thebeautifulfairy-tale Victorian manse at Devil’s Leap, once belonging to the storied Coltrane billionaire dynasty, whose history stretches back a few hundred years and contains heroes and rogues alike. Three thousand five hundred square feet, ten rooms, five bathrooms, breathtaking grounds, glorious hardwood parquet floors, nine-foot ceilings, and as if that wasn’t enough, it also comes with a groundskeeper under contract through the end of the year. Presumably you’ve had a chance to review the photos online, yes?”
A sort of assenting murmur rustled through the little crowd. Avalon had spent the good portion of last night perusing all those photos. And the house looked the same inside as it had the last—and only—time she’d seen it. It did need some updating, a little TLC, and paint.
“Excellent!” Chuck Beasley was clearly a force of nature. “All bidding is at your own risk! Bid early, bid big, bid often, and bid at your own risk! Do we have an opening bid?”
“Fifty thousand,” said Overalls. Avalon had pegged him as the sort who was here for the spectacle, given that entertainment options in Hellcat Canyon ran the gamut between A (bingo at St. Anne’s) and B (whatever was going on at the Misty Cat or The Plugged Nickel). If you wanted to elevate your pulse at all in Hellcat Canyon you had to get creative.
“Do I hear fifty-five, fifty-five. Fifty-five,” Chuck Beasley ratta-tat-tatted in auctioneer cadence. “Fifty-five ispeanutsfor a magnificent house, are you clever people going to let this gentleman outsmart you and outbid you and take home a bargain? Give me fifty-five, fifty-five.”
Avalon raised her finger coolly.
“Lady in the shades bids fifty-five!” the auctioneer crowed. Every head whipped in her direction again. “Do I hear sixty thousand? Sixty thousand is pocket change for a Victorian palace, do I hear sixty thousand?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Avalon saw Handmade Loafers nod subtly.
“Sixty from the well-groomed gentleman!” Chuck Beasley bellowed with pleasure. “Do I hear sixty-five? Sixty-five thousand, you know you want it, you know you came to play, don’t be coy or it’ll get away. Who’ll give me sixty-five?”
“Sixty-five?” said Timid Guy in a little voice. Avalon was pretty sure that would be his first and last bid.
“We have sixty-five, and I know the rest of you can beat that. Do I hear seventy, seventy?”
“ONE HUNDRED,” shouted Button-down Shirt.
It caused a unanimous momentary blip of astonished silence.
“One fifty,” Avalon said coolly. Taking pains to sound bored. She glanced at her fingernails and frowned a little distractedly, as if dropping tens of thousands on property was something she did every day, so commonplace it was all she could do not to whip out her cell phone and start playing Words with Friends.
The auctioneer whistled low. “One fifty to our Lady in the Shades, who reveals herself to be hardcore. Now we got ourselves a horse race. Do I hear one fifty-five? One hundred fifty-five thousand for the house at Devil’s Leap?”
“One sixty,” Handmade Loafers said evenly. He had an English accent. That was interesting.
Avalon would love to beat out an Englishman.
She would love to beatanyguy today.
“One seventy-five,” she all but drawled.
“Two hundred thousand,” he countered with great disinterest, before the auctioneer could even say a word.
Thus launched some swift-bidding ping-pong between the two of them.
Up the price went, up and up, with Chuck the auctioneer, who clearly could not believe his luck, merely shouting out their bids as they were made, until: