Free Hot Property (Irish romantic comedy) by Susanne O'Leary Page B

the owner. Do you have deeds or any other proof of ownership?”
    Megan took a step back. “Yes…I mean, no. It’s with some of the things I left in the B and B I stayed in last night.”
    “In that case, we can still look around.” The man took the piece of paper from Megan.
    Megan felt a rising irritation. “Who gave you keys to get in, if you don’t mind my asking?”
    “Uh,” the woman piped up, “we don’t have keys. We found this on the Internet and thought we’d come to have a look. The back door was open, so—”
    “You thought it was okay to break in?”
    “We didn’t break in,” the man said. “The door was open.”
    “It’s broken,” Megan snapped. “But in any case, wouldn’t it have been more correct to call the estate agent and make an appointment for a viewing?” She marched into her room and found her phone. “I’m calling my solicitor. He can confirm what I just said.”
    The woman tugged at the man’s sleeve. “Alistair. Please. Let’s go. We can check this out with the estate agent.”
    The man didn’t move. He kept looking at Megan, as if he was torn between believing her or brazing it out. “All right. We’ll leave.” He dug into the inside pocket of his wax jacket. “Here’s my card. If you really are the owner and you’d be interested in selling, give me a call.”
    “I’d prefer you to contact the agent, and make an offer.” Megan took the card. “Then I can consider it and maybe negotiate a price.”
    “Very well. We’d like to look into buying the whole property with the land,” The man said in a more polite tone. “It has planning permission for a caravan park. But we were thinking more like a boutique site. Very few mobile homes and a little fish restaurant.”
    “Sounds like a total nightmare,” Megan said. “But we’ll see. I’d like you to leave now, if you don’t mind.”
    The woman started down the stairs. “Come on, Alistair. Can’t you see we’re disturbing her?”
    Alistair followed her. “I’d be prepared to make a good offer,” he said over his shoulder. “How about giving me a call when you’ve thought it over?”
    “Talk to the agent, and I’ll consider your offer,” Megan said.
    The door slammed. Megan padded to the window and watched them get into a Land Rover and drive off. She looked at the card. Alistair Cooper-Maxwell. An address in Weybridge, London. She stuffed it into the breast pocket of her shirt, leaned her elbows on the windowsill and looked at the beach, the blue ocean and the endless sky. She turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes, cleared her mind of what had just happened, and smiled as she thought of the kiss on the back step the night before.
    ~ ~ ~

    “Why is my house advertised for sale on the Internet?” Megan tried to keep her voice cool.
      “Is it? I had no idea.” Dan’s voice brought her instantly back to the night before. “How are you today?”
    Megan cleared her suddenly dry throat. “I’m fine. Please answer the question. Oh, and another one. Is there planning permission for a caravan park?”
    Dan paused. “Oh, yes. I remember now. That was an old thing. Pat applied for that about two years ago. But I think it’s expired by now. Planning permissions last two years, and then you have to apply for a new one. I’ll look up the date.”
    “I see.” Megan put her hand to her chest, trying to slow down her heartbeat. “It’s just that there was a couple here this morning, walking around the house, with details from Daft.ie. An English couple. I think he’s some kind of developer. They just walked in. I was still in bed.”
    “ Oh shit. I hope they didn’t scare you.”
    “I got a bit of a fright, to tell you the truth. Of course, it was easy to just walk in. The lock is broken, and the hinges are so rusty on the door that it can’t be closed properly. I’ve called a locksmith to come and fit a new lock later today. Don’t want to be surprised like that again so early in