The real-estate agent fluttered around Blade like some annoying but harmless insect, humming the praises of the house. He seemed totally undaunted by the fact that the black-haired man beside him was nearly twice his size, six foot one and two hundred and fifty pounds, all of it muscle, which even Blade's heavy tweed sports jacket couldn't conceal. If Blade had wanted, he could have crushed the man like a fly.

Instead Richard Blade tried to ignore him. He already knew everything he needed to know about the place. It would be nearly perfect for him, and it would also cost much more than he could afford. The initial cost wouldn't be outrageous for a house, outbuildings, and thirteen acres of land. It was making the place fit to live in that would break him. The house was built around 1760, and it had never really been modernized. Even worse, the last two owners hadn't bothered to keep the place up properly. Blade wasn't about to bankrupt himself doing all the work they'd left undone over the last fifty years.

The agent was still talking. Blade listened briefly, decided he still wasn't saying anything important, and started doing mental arithmetic. He wanted the house so badly he could taste it. He also wanted to find some flaw in his previous calculations which would let him make an offer. All his training and experience warned him against this sort of wishful thinking, but this time he wasn't facing a KGB agent or some monster in Dimension X. This was his private life, and he was damned well going to do some wishful thinking if he felt like it.

Unfortunately all Blade's desire for the house couldn't make the figures come out in his favor. He would still be a good fifteen thousand pounds short. He was about to cut off the agent's humming when a thought struck him. «Are you allowed to sell an option on this house?» he asked.