Page 133 of The Man I Hate

He’d purchased a Ferrari for $2,300,000. I’d take whatever time I needed to satisfy him. I gave a nod although I knew he couldn’t see it. “Sure.”

“Is it possible to have a container devoted to the vehicle?” he asked. “The thought of shipping it alongside others makes me cringe.”

“It was my understanding you were arranging the shipping,” I replied. “Is that not the—”

“The thought of a one-owner Enzo being scratched or scuffed sickens me,” he said. “My efforts to have the vehicle shipped in a satisfactory fashion have failed. I need your people to take every step possible to assure that it arrives at my port in the same condition that it leaves Los Angeles.”

I fidgeted in my seat. “I can have my technicians personally load it, secure it, and then cover it with a lambswool blanket. The containers we use are fitted with weatherproof seals. It will arrive unscathed.”

“The cost?” he asked.

“All I ask is for your return business,” I replied.

“Anna, you’re a class act.”

I fanned my face with the latest copy of Automobile. “Thank you.”

“Make the arrangements, if you will.”

“I will,” I said.

“I hate to ask, but the car isn’t out in the rain, is it?”’

“Heavens no,” I replied. “For one, it hasn’t rained in five months. Secondly, my facility’s vehicles are kept indoors at all times. Yours is in the detail shop.”

“What a relief.”

“I’ll email you photographs as we reach the milestones.”

“Thank you.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” I said.

“I look forward to seeing those emails.”

“They’ll be coming forthwith,” I said. “We’ll talk again, soon.”

An exotic dealership in Los Angeles was nothing like one in Oklahoma. $200,000 Lamborghinis were seen as high-end supercars in Oklahoma. In Los Angeles, they weren’t of interest to the city’s wealthy.

My customers wanted cars they couldn’t find elsewhere. Special colors, bespoke interiors, one-off collector cars, and special edition hyper cars were my specialty.

Instead of $200,000 a month in revenue at a high margin, I was doing $10,000,000 a month at a low margin. A good percentage of my customers were celebrities who followed me on Instagram.

“Mrs. Rourke?” Karen asked over my phone’s intercom. “I’m sorry, but I have a Miss Germanotta here to see you. The front door was unlocked.”

Regardless of the time of day, I hated to turn away anyone.

“Send her in,” I said.

I stood, tugged the wrinkles from my dress, and looked at my reflection in the glass. Whoever she was, she’d have to accept me in other than presentable condition.

A platinum blonde peeked through my office door. “Mrs. Rourke?”

She was wearing a wide-brimmed black hat, a white shawl, and cat eye sunglasses. She looked like money and had a New York accent.

“Call me Anna,” I said.

She removed her glasses.