The Millionaire Next Door

“Look at this, Daddy!” she exclaimed, pointing to a sleeping loft. The only access was by ladder. “Can I sleep up here, Daddy, please, please? I want that to be my room.”

Amanda smiled at the child’s enthusiasm. Children had a way of filtering out the unpleasant and focusing on the positives. She remembered some of the places she’d lived as a child. Though they might have been dumps, her father would always manage to sell her by pointing out the things children loved—a tree with a tire swing, or a patio with a picnic table, or a nearby creek where they could catch tadpoles. And she could overlook leaky roofs and peeling paint.

Actually, the Skillman cabin was a palace compared to some of the places she’d lived.

HUDSON WAS ON THE VERGE of grabbing his child and running back to Boston. This place was a trash heap! But then he thought about what George would say, and he controlled the urge. He could stand anything for a month.

There was no way to fake this vacation, either. He’d thought about checking into a four-star resort in Florida or California and simply staying out of touch for a month. But he couldn’t lie to George, who’d been his mentor for a dozen years. George was convinced Cottonwood was the medicine Hudson needed, and nothing else would do. He wanted Hudson to be bored.

They walked out onto the rickety dock. “Are there fish in this lake?” Hudson asked.

“Oh, loads,” Amanda replied.

“Can I catch some goldfish?” Bethany asked.

Amanda laughed. It was a musical, tinkling laugh that seemed to shiver down Hudson’s spine. For the first time since he’d met her, Hudson thought he saw through Ms. Super-Efficient Realtor to the real woman beneath. And he liked what he saw.

“No goldfish in Town Lake,” she said. “But the pet store on the square has goldfish. That’s one pet you can keep in a rental house.”

“Who lives in that house?” Bethany asked, pointing to a tidy A-frame home next door to theirs. It was similar in style to theirs, but quite a bit larger—and nicer.

“A fairy princess lives there,” Amanda answered in a confidential whisper.

“Really? Where? Where is she?”

“She’s standing right here on the dock with you.”

“I don’t see her.”

Amanda laughed again. “I’m only teasing, Bethany. Actually, that’s my house.”

Hudson’s interest in the rental cabin ratcheted up a notch. He’d heard the saying location-location-location, and a desirable neighbor could make the location sweet.

“Can I come visit you?” Bethany asked.

“Anytime you like. Although I’m not home very much.”

“Neither is my daddy,” Bethany said.

Another twinge of guilt. How long would it take to regain Bethany’s trust? Ah, who the hell was he kidding? He’d never had it to begin with. Bethany had been only two years old when Elaine had died in a skiing accident—while skiing with her boyfriend. The shock of her death and her infidelity had been too much for Hudson. He’d thrown himself into his work like a demon. Immersed in a complicated surgery, he could forget Elaine and her painful betrayal.

Unfortunately, in forgetting Elaine he’d also neglected the emotional needs of his daughter.

Well, he intended to make up for his shortcomings as a father. Children were resilient and forgiving. He would get back in Bethany’s good graces if it killed him. And if she wanted to live in this ramshackle cabin and sleep in a loft and visit the fairy princess next door, so be it.

“I’ll take the cabin,” he said abruptly.

“Really?” Amanda seemed surprised. “I haven’t even told you how much it is.”

“How much is it?”

“Seven hundred.”

“A week?”

She laughed. “A month.”

Holy cow, that was cheap. He’d never lived in a place that cost so little. “That’s fine.”

They returned to the Tri-County rental office, where Hudson was required to fill out an application, though Amanda assured him it was only a formality. His pen hovered over the space marked “Occupation.” He’d misled Amanda, but he couldn’t make himself lie on paper. He wrote in “doctor” very quickly and hoped no one would read it.

He wrote out a check for one month’s rent plus a security deposit. It had been so long since he’d actually written a check, he had to stop and think about it. He had a business manager who handled all of his bills. When he did have to deal with financial things, he used credit cards.

When he’d hastily packed for this trip, he’d grabbed his old checkbook from a desk drawer, realizing not everyone accepted credit cards, especially out in the sticks. He congratulated himself for thinking ahead.

Amanda took the check and the application, paper-clipped them together, and stuck them in a folder on her fanatically neat desk.

“Thanks for helping me out,” he said as he stood.

She stood also and handed him the key to the cabin. “Thanks for the business. Please let me know if I can help you with anything else. And welcome to the neighborhood.”

He shook her hand again, holding it for a little longer than was necessary.

THE FIRST THING Hudson did upon arriving at his new, temporary home was to locate the yellow pages and hire a cleaning service to give the place a good going-over. Rustic he could handle; filthy he couldn’t. With a little prodding, he arranged for a housekeeper from Sharon’s Personal Service to come out that afternoon. “If I’m not here, the door will be open.” It wasn’t as if a thief would want to steal anything here.

Next on the list was groceries. He’d never had to prepare his own food before. At Grubbs Food Mart, which appeared to be the only grocery store in town, he filled his basket with frozen foods, snacks and lunch meats for sandwiches. Bethany made her choices clear. She wanted macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly and something called Lunchables that appeared to be cheese and crackers in a box.

George had told him to eat healthily, but since Hudson couldn’t cook, he was severely limited. He bought a few apples, some peaches and, at Bethany’s urging, a bag of celery.

“I like it with peanut butter,” she announced.

In the cleaning products aisle, he picked up some dishwasher detergent. Wait, did the cabin have a dishwasher? Hell, he didn’t think so, now that he thought about it. And laundry, how was he supposed to clean his clothes? How was he supposed to relax if he had to worry about all this stuff?

He was putting his groceries in the trunk when he saw a woman barreling toward him through the small parking lot. Not just any woman, he realized. Amanda Dewhurst.

His momentary pleasure was soon blunted by the fact that she was scowling.

As soon as she reached him, she waved a piece of paper in his face. “Would you mind explaining this?”

He grabbed the paper from her hand, which he now saw was his check. “What’s wrong?”

“You know damn well what’s wrong.”

“You’re not going to tell me it bounced, are you?” That was ludicrous. He had thousands of dollars in his ready assets account.

“I put it through Checktronic,” she fumed. “The account was closed two years ago!”

“What?” With a sinking feeling, Hudson examined the check more closely. Then he realized the names printed on the check were Hudson and Elaine Stack. He’d grabbed the wrong checkbook. This was the account mainly used by Elaine, and his manager had closed it.

He tried to explain the mix-up to Amanda. She listened stoically. “It was an honest mistake,” he concluded. “I’ll make the check good.”

“You can’t make a check good on a closed account.”

She had a point. Hudson felt his collar growing tighter—then realized his collar was open. “I don’t suppose you take credit cards.”

Amanda tapped her foot.

With a sigh, Hudson reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He pulled out all of the cash and counted it into Amanda’s hand. It amounted to four hundred thirty dollars and change. “I’ll get you the rest tomorrow, okay?”

Amanda studied him, considering.

“I’m good for it. Have a heart. I’ve got a car full of frozen food that’s rapidly melting in this heat.”

“All right.” She stuck the cash in her briefcase. “But I really need it by tomorrow. I’m ahead of Mary Jo Dickens by twenty dollars, and tomorrow is the last day of the month. If I have to deduct the commission from this rental, I’ll lose.”

“Lose what?” he asked, bewildered.

“I won’t be top seller for May. And if I have to see that trophy sitting on Mary Jo’s desk for all of next month, I’ll puke.”

He recalled all those plaques in her office. Million Dollar Club. Top selling Realtor for the past four years running. Those framed letters of appreciation.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say, “So? What’s the big deal about having a trophy on your desk?” But then Hudson realized it was a big deal for Amanda. She was as serious and committed about her job as he was about his.

Tomorrow some other doctor would be doing his surgery, and he didn’t like that, either.

He smiled. “I’ll make it good. Don’t worry. You’ll beat the pants off this Mary Jo, whoever she is.”

Amanda managed a watery smile. Then she turned on her shiny black pumps and walked away.

Chapter Two

Amanda’s face burned as she walked back to her office, and it wasn’t just the summer heat. What in God’s name had possessed her to tell Hudson Stack about her rivalry with Mary Jo Dickens?

“Hey, what’s with you?” Margie asked the minute Amanda walked through the door. “You look like a herd of demons is chasing you. Is Mary Jo hassling you again?”

Amanda set her things on one of the plush client chairs and sank into the other one. For once, she didn’t feel like rushing back to her office to generate new leads or update her contact list.

“It’s not Mary Jo, not this time,” Amanda said. “It’s me. I just chased down Hudson Stack in the street and gave him hell for writing me a bad check.”

“Good for you. He could go to jail for that.”

“Except that…I harangued him in front of his little girl. And maybe he did intentionally try to defraud me, but maybe it was an honest mistake. And if it was, I’ve alienated him permanently. And he’s friends with Ed Hardison. You know what’ll happen to my business if Ed tells people I’m a harpy?”

“You’ll never sell another house,” Margie added, deadpan, “and you’ll have to move out of town and go into another line of work. Maybe change your name. Go into the witness protection program.”

“I think you’re making fun of me,” Amanda said suspiciously.

“Oh, honey, you’re just too damn hard on yourself. No one can be sweet 24/7. So, you lost your temper. You got a little flustered. Who wouldn’t, dealing with that guy?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but he’s quite the studmuffin.” Margie fanned herself with the Cottonwood Conversation, the town’s weekly newspaper.

Amanda had noticed, all right. Even as she’d been yelling at him, her eyes had been focused on things they shouldn’t have been—like the worn places on his jeans, and that little tuft of chest hair peeking out over the top button of his shirt.

“I didn’t just yell at him for the check,” Amanda confessed. “I also told him about how Mary Jo was going to beat me this month in sales. As if that justified my turning his bad check into a federal case.”

Margie had the nerve to laugh. “Boy, you really are bent out of shape. Does it matter so much if she beats you one month?”

“Yes! I mean, no, except that it’s not just this month. She’s been nipping at my heels all year. If I’m not careful, she’ll take my title away.”

“And would that be so bad? I mean, jeez, Amanda, you’ve been top seller four out of the past five years. The whole idea of these awards is to inspire agents to work harder and make more money for themselves and the company. Obviously, Mary Jo’s inspired, and the competition has helped both of you. And you’re already doing better than you did last year. The company’s doing great. It’s a win-win situation, and that little trophy on your desk, and the plaques on your wall—they’re just dumb pieces of wood and brass.”

Amanda stifled a gasp. “Margie, they’re not dumb.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to minimize your accomplishments. I’m just saying, get some perspective.”

Amanda sighed again. “I can’t help it. I just get crazy at the idea of Mary Jo beating me. If it was Hank or Emily, it wouldn’t bother me so much. But Mary Jo? She just got her license last year!”

“And how do you think Emily felt when you came along? She was the queen of the Top Seller trophies and plaques before you, and the ink on your license was still wet the first time you beat her.”

Amanda had to think back. Had she been like Mary Jo? God, she hoped not. Amanda was ambitious, but she was ethical. She’d never snooped in other agents’ appointment books, stolen a list of contacts or slept with potential clients. Mary Jo had.

“Does Emily hate me?” Amanda asked.

“No, of course not! Her sales overall have gone up since you’ve been onboard. She has a healthy rivalry with you and with Mary Jo. You, on the other hand…”

“Just stepped over the line. I know.” Amanda stood. “Okay, I’m turning over a new leaf. Healthy rivalry. Team player. No more sniping about Mary Jo, the witch, behind her back.”

“Ix-nay, here comes the itch-way now.” Margie gathered up a handful of pink message slips. “These came in for you while you were gone.”

The door opened and Mary Jo swept in, all five feet, ten inches of her. She had a model’s slender hips and legs, but not the flat chest. In fact, her double-Ds challenged whatever blouse she wore, though she always managed to look stylish. Her midnight hair hung straight as water, almost to her waist, shimmering even in the artificial light of the office.

She came from a rich family in Tyler. She had a college degree in marketing, but it was her finishing-school sheen that Amanda secretly envied. Mary Jo had a natural confidence, an ability to talk about anything with anybody. And though she was always decently dressed, her sexuality billowed out from her in clouds, like cheap perfume did on other women.

In a crowded room, like a chamber of commerce meeting, people just naturally gravitated toward Mary Jo, whereas Amanda usually had to initiate contact with people.

“I just showed someone the Clooney mansion,” Mary Jo said exuberantly. “They spent almost an hour there. I think they might make an offer!” She addressed the comment to both women, but she looked at Amanda.

If Mary Jo sold the Clooney mansion, she would shoot ahead of Amanda and would probably be uncatchable.

Damn.

“Good for you,” Amanda forced herself to say, pasting on a smile. “It would be a plum for the whole company if one of us could sell that puppy.”

“Keep your fingers crossed. Do any good business today, Amanda?”

“Nothing to speak of.”

“Well, cheer up. The day’s not over.” With that she breezed past Amanda toward her own office, grabbing her phone messages on the way.

Amanda bit her tongue. She wanted to say something nasty. That gloating, patronizing bimbo! But the new leaf, and all.

“I’ll be in my office,” Amanda grated out. She picked up her things and shut herself off from the rest of the world. Maybe she’d have something interesting in her e-mail inbox.

The next time she came up for air, it was eight o’clock and starting to get dark. Her stomach was a gaping cavern of emptiness. She hadn’t eaten since she’d wolfed down a bagel for breakfast.

She reached behind her to the refrigerator to grab a Slimfast. But the sudden movement made her head spin, and she realized she needed to eat a real meal before she passed out. She grabbed a couple of real estate magazines—she wanted to draft some new ads, and she needed inspiration. She stuffed them in her briefcase for later, then headed out.

Amanda always felt a rush of pleasure when she drove up to her house on the lake. She’d bought it last year—her very first home. It wasn’t grand, as lake houses went, just a modest two-bedroom A-frame. But it was clean—most of the time—and snug. She hadn’t needed to do any work on it, and she’d hardly changed a thing except to hang a few pictures.

The important thing was that it was hers, and no one could take it away from her—unless she failed to make her house payments. That possibility was never far from her thoughts. Though she’d had no trouble qualifying for the loan based on her previous three years’ income, the real estate business was iffy. One turn of the economic roulette wheel and her income could disappear.

That was why she stockpiled so much. Though her banker urged her to invest in a diverse portfolio, she was content to keep her cash in a money-market fund, where it was readily available for any emergency. She had enough to see her through a whole year, should something happen to her income.

But that didn’t stop her from worrying.

She was just a worrier. That was her nature, and there was nothing she could do about it.

And speaking of worrying, what was that taped to her front door?

Instead of entering her house through the garage door, Amanda walked around to the front and up the stairs to her porch. A fat envelope with her name on it was taped to the door. She pulled it off and opened it. It was full of cash—and a note.

She read the note and smiled. Hudson Stack had made good on his check. All that worry for nothing—this time. Maybe she would keep her little desk trophy another month after all.

Her pleasure over this small victory was blunted when she saw what a mess the kitchen was. Her brother, Mick, had obviously been home, had dinner, then left again. The empty pizza box and cardboard had been left on the counter; her microwave was covered in melted cheese; and the greasy plate and leftover crusts had been dumped near, though not in, the sink. An empty pop bottle sat on the counter, mere inches from the pantry door where the trash was stored.

Amanda gritted her teeth and cleaned up the mess. Sometimes she wondered what would happen if she just stopped cleaning up after Mick. Would he even notice? But nagging didn’t do any good, nor did threats. He was a twenty-two-year-old boy-man who simply hadn’t grown up yet. As soon as she got him through college and he got a job, he would move out on his own and fall in love with some woman, who would reform him.

As she threw a frozen pasta dinner into the microwave, her thoughts returned to Hudson Stack, and she started worrying about something else. What if that cash was all he had? His daughter had said he was out of work. What if he’d needed this cash to live on?

Okay, if this was all he had, he wouldn’t have rented a lake house. Unless he’d promised his daughter…

No. She was being ridiculous. Hudson was a grown man, and she had no business worrying about his financial status. If he’d rented a house he couldn’t afford, that was his problem. She had her cash up front, and that was all that mattered.

Right?

A PRESSURE AGAINST Hudson’s stomach woke him up. He cracked one eye open to a pitch-black room. Bethany was sitting on his rib cage.

“Daddy! Are you awake?”

“I am now.” He’d tossed and turned until the wee hours of the morning. It was too quiet here. He missed the white noise of traffic, horns, sirens. He liked the idea that there were people all around him. This house was too isolated. The only nearby neighbor was Amanda Dewhurst, and he’d managed to alienate her.

The quiet had nearly driven him crazy.

“I’m bored,” Bethany announced.

Hudson checked the illuminated dial on his watch. It was a little after five o’clock. “Go back to bed. It’s too early.” It would be six, Boston time. He would already be on his way to the hospital, mentally preparing for his first surgery.

“I can’t sleep,” Bethany said.

Bethany had never awakened him before. Back home, if she cried in the night or had a bad dream, she went to the live-in housekeeper. She’d been told not to disturb his sleep, because he needed plenty of rest if he was going to stick a scalpel into someone’s heart the next day.

Now he had no such excuses. His daughter was his responsibility, totally. It scared him a little.

“Do you want to climb into bed with me?” he asked, a little apprehensively. He wasn’t sure that was proper, but maybe it would help her feel more secure if an adult was nearby.

“No. I want you to get up. I’m hungry.”

Hudson groaned. “Get a Pop-Tart. They’re in the cabinet.”

“I can’t reach.”

Hudson reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. His daughter stared at him earnestly. He would have to get up—he didn’t know what else to do. Maybe he shouldn’t have made Bethany take that long nap yesterday.

He set her on her feet, then climbed out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans.

As he was fixing Bethany a Pop-Tart, he looked out the window and noticed lights on at the house next door. Amanda must be an early riser. He thought about asking her over for coffee. It would be nice to have another adult to talk to. He was going batty here, and he’d been here less than a day.

Then he realized how stupid an idea that was. First, he didn’t have any coffee. And even if he did, the cabin didn’t have a coffee maker. Second, an attractive woman in his cabin would only make his blood pressure go up. And the objective was to make it go down. He’d brought a cuff with him and he intended to check it often. The moment he got the numbers down to normal, he was heading back to Boston.

Third, Amanda probably wasn’t speaking to him. Although he hoped the cash left on her door would lessen her anger with him.

He thought back to the way she’d gone off on him yesterday. Her eyes had sparked fire, and little wisps of blond hair had pulled free of her tight twist, framing her face in a shimmering halo. He’d liked seeing her that way, free of her ultraprofessional real-estate-lady persona. He just wished her anger hadn’t been aimed at him.

He thought about her loss of composure and wondered what it meant. Yelling at him about the check he could understand. But that business about Mary Jo Whoever stealing her trophy—that was over the top.

The light upstairs went out, and another came on downstairs. Maybe he could take her out for coffee. Did Cottonwood have a Starbucks? He doubted it, but he’d seen something called the Miracle Café that served breakfast all day.

“Are you gonna give me that Pop-Tart or what?” Bethany asked.

Hudson realized he’d been staring at the house, lost in thought. The Pop-Tart had popped up and was cooling off. He plucked it from the toaster, set it on a paper towel, and handed it to Bethany.

“Grandma Ruth says we always have to eat at the table.”

“At home, maybe. But we’re on vacation.”

“What’s vacation?”

“You know, a trip. Where we have fun.”

“I’m not having fun.”

“You didn’t like sleeping in the loft?”

“Yeah. But I’m awake now.”

“Let’s go watch the sunrise.”

“Why?”

“Because…because it’s pretty. Because that’s what people do when they stay in a lake house, I guess.”

“What about fishing?”

When Hudson had checked out the house yesterday, he’d seen some fishing equipment in the garage. “Sure, why not? We’ll eat breakfast, get dressed, and by then the sun will be up and we can go fishing.”

Thirty minutes later, showered, dressed in old jeans and reasonably well fed with two Pop-Tarts, Hudson was in the garage sorting through a pile of dusty old fishing equipment. He selected what looked like the only two poles that actually had working reels attached. He sort of figured out how the reel worked. He found a tackle box that had an assortment of esoteric things inside, including hooks. He tied a hook onto the end of each line, using surgical knots.

“Piece of cake,” he murmured.

All the while, Bethany watched intently, asking him what he was doing each step of the way. He tried to act as if he knew the drill, but he’d never been fishing in his life except for the time he went deep-sea fishing on a yacht. This was a little different.