Hoodwinked

It was ridiculous, of course, to let a neighbor interfere with her activities to that extent. She started thinking about stone walls and huge privacy fences. But they cost money, and she didn’t have any to spare. It took everything she made to pay the bills; there was nothing left over for extravagance.

The rest of the day was as lonely as it usually was. She watched a movie and went to bed early. Sunday morning she got up, made breakfast and went to church. Ordinarily she would have lain out in the sun that afternoon, but not with her new neighbor in residence. His pickup truck stayed in the driveway all day. But she hadn’t heard any sounds coming from his apartment, and about dark, she heard a car pull up next door. Peeking out through the curtains, she watched a Mercedes convertible let out the big, dark man just before it backed out into the road and took off.

He wasn’t dressed like a mechanic. He was wearing what looked like a very expensive light tan suit and a shirt under it that almost had to be silk. She darted back from the window as he glanced in her direction. Well, well, she thought. Wasn’t that one for the books? He was accusing her of dressing in an uptown way, so what would he call his own leisure clothes?

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Could he possibly be the saboteur? Her heart jumped. He was new at the company. He wasn’t known. He seemed to be a mechanic, but he dressed like a man with expensive tastes. Didn’t saboteurs make a lot of money? He could have been hired by someone to make the plane fail. Not Mr. Peters, she decided firmly. By a curious coincidence, Mr. Peters of Peters Aviation was a member in good standing of the church she attended, and she knew he wasn’t the kind of man to do something dirty like trying to undermine a competitor’s product. But there were other people who might try to topple a new design—like two renegade members of MacFaber’s own board of directors who’d wanted to sell out to Peters and were angry that Mr. MacFaber had blocked the plan.

She felt a surge of excitement as she considered her next move. She had the perfect opportunity to observe her next-door neighbor. Having him in proximity meant she could watch him. She could find out who his associates were, where he went, what he did. She could be—Maureen Harris, secret agent. She giggled. If only she had a trench coat.

She drifted off into a very satisfying fantasy. She’d just uncovered the saboteur and saved MacFaber’s company. They were pinning a medal on her. It hurt!

She gasped, looking down to the big beak that was sinking into her sneaker.

“Bagwell!” she muttered. She offered him a shirt-clad arm and he climbed aboard with happy little mumbles. So much for fantasy, she sighed.

She carried Bagwell back to the kitchen, frowning thoughtfully. Of course, she’d have to be careful about her observation. It wouldn’t do to let her sneaky neighbor see her watching him. Now she began to wonder if his moving in next door was really a coincidence, after all. Perhaps he’d known beforehand that she was Mr. Blake’s secretary and thought that he might find out things about the jet from her. But that wasn’t realistic, she decided with a sigh. What did she know about jet designs? She’d seen the blueprints only once, and her job involved less exciting things than the actual design of airplanes.

She pursed her lips thoughtfully. Her new neighbor might actually be a struggling mechanic, but he had some ritzy friends—if that car was anything to go by. She went to feed Bagwell, visions of trench coats and spy cameras running rampant in her bored mind. That was the trouble with living such a dull life, she told herself. It would get her into trouble one day.

The next week went by quickly, with only glimpses of her neighbor. Very cautiously, she kept an eye on him. She found subtle ways to question people, and she found out that his name was Jake Edwards and that he was from Arkansas. He had excellent credentials, but he kept very much to himself and nobody knew anything about him.

She felt guilty because of her snooping, even though she felt a sense of accomplishment that she’d found out so much. But her conscience and the mechanic’s evident dislike of her made her keep out of his way as much as possible. After all, he’d already accused her once of chasing him. God forbid that she should display any interest.

She’d started eating lunch in her office to make sure she didn’t run into him in the canteen. And the next weekend was a repeat of the one before. She darted out to do her gardening when he wasn’t home, otherwise never venturing outside. She had a post-office box, so she didn’t have to go out to a mailbox, and she only subscribed to the weekly paper, which came in the mail.

The only unpleasantless was when she tiptoed outside to the trash can very early Sunday morning, with her long hair tumbled to her waist, wearing the men’s pajama top that came to her knees. It was a shock to find her neighbor at his trash can, staring blatantly at her. She’d been too embarrassed even to speak. She’d darted back into her apartment and closed the door. After she got back from church, she hadn’t ventured out in the yard even once. She and Bagwell had spent the day in front of the television, watching old war movies together.

She seemed to spend her life avoiding her new neighbor, she thought ruefully. But it never occurred to her that he’d notice, or that it would matter to him. So she got the shock of her life the following Monday when he came into her office at lunchtime to find her eating a bowl of canteen chili with some crackers she’d brought from home along with a thermos of coffee. She paused with the spoon halfway to her mouth and stared at him.

He stared back. He looked even bigger at close range. He had the kind of physique that must have required some careful eating. He was enormous, but most of him seemed to be muscle. He had a broad face, almost leonine in look, with large dark eyes under a jutting brow. His eyebrows were bushy, but they suited him, like his imposing nose and square chin. He was even good-looking in a rough sort of way. He had hands like hams, and Maureen thought that she wouldn’t have liked to run afoul of him if she’d been another man instead of a woman.

“Have you gone into hibernation?” he asked. He folded his arms across his massive chest and leaned back against the door with the nonchalance of a man who never doubted his instincts for an instant.

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve been studiously avoiding me for two weeks,” he replied. “Not an easy task when you’re living next door to me.”

“I didn’t think you’d noticed,” she murmured.

“That yellow car is hard to miss,” he replied. “Prepared flower beds seem to appear by magic in your backyard. Clothes go up and come down under invisible hands. I never see you, or hear you except accidentally.”

She put the chili down. “God forbid,” she said. “I’d hate to be accused of moving next door to chase you, even if I was there first.”

“You’re blushing,” he observed, noting her heightened color with an odd expression.

“You make me nervous,” she said. She didn’t look at him. “The last tenant was hardly ever home, and when he was, he was playing hard rock so loud that he didn’t know what was going on around him.” She sighed heavily. “I’ve been afraid that you’d mind Bagwell.”

“Your live-in lover.” He nodded. “I never see him, but I hear him,” he said with a contemptuous smile.

She hated that smile. The blush got worse. “He’s not my lover. He’s a bird. An Amazon parrot,” she said uncomfortably. “He gets noisy at dawn and dusk, but he’s…he’s sort of all I’ve got.” She looked up then, her eyes wide and soft and eloquent. “I can’t afford to move, and if you complain, the authorities might cause me some trouble. I can’t give Bagwell up. I’ve had him since I graduated from high school.”

He was scowling. “A parrot?”

“A yellow-naped Amazon,” she confirmed. “He’s seven years old and very vocal. He can even sing a little opera.”

His dark eyes went over her face very slowly, as if he hadn’t really looked at her before. “You’re very young.”

She shifted in her chair. “I am not. I’m twenty-four,” she protested.

“I’m thirty-seven,” he said.

He didn’t look it, but she didn’t dare tell him that. “Much too old for me,” she said quietly, not believing a word of it. “So that ought to prove that I’m not chasing you,” she added with quiet satisfaction.

He frowned. Her attitude irritated him. It had flattered him a little at first to think that she’d been interested enough to make a play for him, even though he was frankly suspicious of her. She wasn’t much to look at, but she had a figure that was disturbing. Odd, that, since women had lost their attraction for him in the past few years.

“I know that you’re not chasing me,” he replied, much more curtly than he meant to. He wasn’t that much older than she was, and she didn’t have to rub it in. “You’ve made it obvious that you’d run a mile to avoid me.”

“It wasn’t like that,” she murmured demurely. “I just thought…Well, if I started hanging around the canteen and spent a lot of time working in my flower beds at home—” she shrugged “—I didn’t want you to think I was trying to catch your eye. You’d already accused me of chasing you when I wasn’t. I don’t want any trouble.”

“You don’t have to garden after midnight to accomplish that,” he replied with faint humor. “It’s obviously something you enjoy. You don’t have to give it up on my account.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice soft, her eyes even softer. “I’ve missed digging around and planting things.”

He felt guilty. Not that he had any reason to. There was every chance that she was still mixed up in this somehow. But perhaps she didn’t know what was going on. She might be an innocent pawn.

He shouldered away from the door. “Don’t mind me. I won’t be spending weekends at the apartment very often. And the parrot won’t bother me.”

“Thank you,” she said, and managed a nervous smile. He intimidated her.

He glanced back at her from the door, and he wasn’t smiling. “Where do you go on Sunday mornings?” he asked unexpectedly.

She lifted a shoulder. “Church.”

“It figures.” He went out without another word, closing the door firmly behind him.

The confrontation had eased Maureen’s mind a little, and gave her back a sense of freedom at home. Now, she thought, she could spy on him even better. Then she felt guilty, because he’d obviously been disturbed that he was keeping her from enjoying herself at home. He might not be a bad man, even if he was an industrial spy or whatever.

She gave up her spying on Saturday for long enough to enjoy some gardening. She was out just past daylight, turning over more soil, with fertilizer and seed packages scattered all around and gardening implements littering the soft green grass.

It was a heavenly day, with azure skies and a faint cool breeze. Just the right kind of day to plant glorious flowers. She pushed back her long hair, wishing she’d had the good sense to tie it up before she began. It would be impossible to do anything with it now, unless she wanted to smear dirt in it from her hands. She was getting dusty all over, from her faded sneakers and jeans up to her blue Save The Whales T-shirt.

She was halfway finished with her day’s work when she sat down on the small sidewalk that ran around the back of the duplex and sipped a soft drink. She didn’t hear her big, dark neighbor until he was standing over her.

“You’ll ruin your hands that way,” he remarked.

She jumped, startled by his silent approach, and almost spilled her soft drink.

“Sorry,” he murmured, dropping down onto the sidewalk beside her. He smelled of expensive cologne, and he looked pretty expensive in moccasin-leather boots, charcoal-gray denim slacks and a designer knit shirt that was a few shades lighter than his trousers. His hair was neatly combed; he was freshly shaven. He looked much different from the man she’d seen only in coveralls at work, and now her suspicions were really aroused. No mere mechanic dressed like that.

“My ears don’t work when I’m tired,” she murmured, glancing at him. “I thought you were gone on weekends.”

He shrugged, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket. He lit it with steady fingers and repocketed his gold-plated lighter. “I thought I needed a day off.” He looked down at her curiously, taking in the smudges of dirt and the condition of her hands. “You’ll tear your nails. Why don’t you wear gloves?”

“I’m an elemental person, I suppose,” she mused, studying her hands. “I like the feel of the earth. Gloves are a nuisance.”

“How long have you lived here?” he asked conversationally while he smoked.

“Six months, almost,” she said. “Just after my parents were killed,” she added, wondering why she’d told him that.

He felt an irritating compassion for her. “I know what it is to lose a parent,” he said. “Both of mine are dead, too, though I didn’t lose them at the same time. Any brothers or sisters?” he asked then.

She shook her head. “No. I’m pretty much alone.” She glanced at him, wondering whether or not to risk asking it.

“I’m alone, too,” he said, anticipating the question. He raised the cigarette to his firm mouth. “I’ve learned to like it.”

“I can’t imagine liking loneliness,” she said absently, watching the sky.

“Don’t you?” he questioned, smiling faintly at her surprised look. “I’ve never seen you leave your apartment, except on Sundays. You’re always by yourself at work.”

“That doesn’t mean I like it— Oh, my gosh!”

She jumped up and ran into the apartment without saying why. Bagwell was on the table, helping himself to apples and pears with total disregard for neatness, taking a bite out of one and then another.

He looked up at her with pear bits dangling from his beak and a torn piece of pear in his claw. “Good!” he assured her.

“You horrible bird,” she groaned. “My beautiful fruit!”

There was a faint sound from behind her that turned into a literal roar of laughter, deep and pleasant.

“This is Bagwell,” she told her new neighbor.

“Hello, Bagwell,” he said, moving closer to the table.

“Don’t offer him a finger,” she cautioned. “He considers it an invitation to lunch.”

“I’ll remember that.” He smiled at the antics of the big green bird, who was enjoying the extra attention and showing it by spreading his tail feathers.

“He loves men,” Maureen mentioned. “I think he’s a she.”

“Well, he’s pretty,” he murmured dryly.

“Pree-tty!” Bagwell agreed. “Hello. Hello!”

Jake laughed. “Smart, too.”

“He thinks so,” she said. She looked at the big man shyly. “Would you like something to drink? There are soft drinks, or I can make coffee.”

“Good coffee?” he taunted. “I don’t care for instant.”

He struck her as a demanding guest, but she was lonely.

“Good coffee,” she assured him. She got down the canister and made a fresh pot in her automatic drip coffee maker. “Do you have a name besides Jake?” she asked carelessly, pretending that she didn’t already know.

“Jake Edwards,” he said. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

“No, but I don’t mind it.” She started the coffee maker and found him a big blue ashtray. “Here. My dad gave it to me for Christmas, so he’d have someplace to put his ashes.” She sighed, remembering that. It had been just after Christmas that she’d lost him and her mother.

He watched the expressions move across her face with curious, quiet eyes. “Thanks.” He leaned back in the chair, drawing her attention involuntarily to the breadth of his chest and the muscular strength of his arms. Where the knit shirt was open at the throat, a mass of black hair was visible, hinting at a veritable forest of it beneath it. She felt herself going warm all over. He was a sensual man. The coverall he wore at work disguised his body, but his slacks clung to long, muscular legs and narrow hips, just as the shirt outlined his broad chest, making her aware of him as she hadn’t ever been of a man.

If she was watching him, the reverse was also true. He found her frankly attractive, from her long dark hair to her slightly larger than average feet. She had a grace of carriage that was rare, and a smile that was infectious. It had been a long time since he’d laughed or felt pleasure. But being around her gave him peace. She warmed him. Not only that, but he remembered vividly the glimpse he’d gotten of her not long before in her oversized pajama jacket: long, tanned legs, full breasts, her hair down to her waist. He’d dreamed of her all night, and that surprised him. He hadn’t cared very much for women in the past few years. His work had become his life. Somehow, the challenges replaced tenderness, love. He’d been too busy with pushing himself to the outer edges of life to involve himself very much with people. He wasn’t going to involve himself with this woman, either; but being friendly might get him close enough to find out just how involved she was with the failure of the Faber jet. He was already suspicious of Blake, and she worked for Blake. She could be a link.

He lifted the cigarette to his lips absently. “You were wearing a men’s pajama top that morning,” he said out loud. His dark eyes narrowed, pinning hers. “Do you have a lover?”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.