The Aston Martin paused momentarily at the entry to what had become Joe Bloggs' New Zealand retreat.
Bloggs keyed in his private code, #OO67, and the louvered aluminum gate silently retreated.

The Aston growled as Bloggs accelerated through the gate and down past the house, as security lighting flickered into brightness, allowing Bloggs to reflect once more on the true magnificence of his home. The huge garage door opened remotely as Joe brought the car to a stop amongst a collection of his five favourite Astons, and the new electric Mercedes, he used on his 10-minute trips into the city.

As he passed the large workshop, he reflected on what a great gym/games room it would make when he finally retired. Knowing that may never happen now, with Bloggs dreading tomorrow's meeting.

As Joe passed the self-contained guest suite, he briefly glanced into the lounge to see if his good friends had arrived, before making his way through the entry gallery, which housed many of his favorite paintings, and up the bespoke American oak staircase, to the contemporary living areas.

At the flick of a switch the house came alive, with the strains of the London Philharmonic Orchestra seemingly bursting from every room. Bloggs hit the control again and the mood softened. Another flick of a switch and the automatic blinds rose gradually revealing the expansive view across the Inner Harbour to the magic of Tauranga's city's lights.

Joe fixed himself a martini in the openness of the kitchen, his every movement reflected in the graphic glass panels and cupboard doors. Joe removed his revolver, he wouldn't be needing it tonight, and placed it gently into the hidden safe, disguised within the spacious scullery. He slumped down into a massive chair in the lounge and again took in the expansive view of the city's lights before him, knowing that tomorrow's meeting would be extremely painful for him. The house, already warm from the sun, felt solid and secure as Bloggs reflected on how lucky he was to be home - it was only here that he had felt, truly safe.

Next morning Joe awoke. The hot morning sun blazed into the second level master and ensuite. Light filled the space, as he grabbed a silk robe from the walk-in wardrobe. A flick of the switch and again music filled the house - jazz this time - this is a fun house and Joe liked it that way.

As Bloggs descended the staircase, heading to the Spa, he heard splashing in the adjacent swimming pool, and a quick glance into the guest suite, confirmed that it was friends, enjoying the large pool and privacy provided by the extensive tropical gardens and palms.

Joe, however, was still in a somber mood as he took his coffee alone, out on the large, elevated deck, easily accessed through large cavity sliders from the kitchen, lounge and dining.

He took in the morning sun and views across the water to the city and around to Mt Maunganui and the Harbour entrance in the distance. Bloggs reflected on the many evenings he had enjoyed bar-b -ques, sharing good wines and stories, while entertaining his many New Zealand friends.

A buzz broke the peaceful scene, as his friends got out of the spa and flicked a switch, allowing the security gate to quietly open.

Bloggs knew they would be here very soon, but he hadn't expected them to be so punctual. He was fearful of facing these people, a meeting he had been dreading, feelings he had rarely experienced as he nervously recovered his revolver from the safe and reluctantly approached the front door.

The black Mercedes purred to a stop in the guest parking spaces outside the pivoting front door, and two figures emerged. The driver, dressed in a black suit with matching tie, aging now, but still strikingly handsome, and a much younger man, taller, with an athletic physique, and dressed to kill!

Bloggs knew there was nowhere to hide, they had finally tracked him down, as he reluctantly opened the front door.

The older man spoke first -

Hello Mr Bloggs my name is Gavin Perry, and this is my Personal Assistant and grandson Richie, we understand you need to sell.”

While some of the characters in this story are fictional, the house and Salesperson are not! The house is licensed to thrill, and the agent is licensed to sell.

For Your Eyes-Only Private Investigation Please phone the not-so-secret agent now.