Читать книгу Hoodwinked - Diana Palmer - Страница 6

Maureen hated her own cowardice the next morning, but she peeked around the corner before she went out her door. The last thing she wanted was a confrontation with her new neighbor, even if she did probably have to see him at work.

She got into her yellow VW, and crossing her fingers for luck, managed to crank it on the first try. She backed it out into the road and drove off, noticing with relief that the truck wasn’t in the other side of the driveway. He must already have left for work.

Sure enough, when she got to the MacFaber Corporation offices, the red-and-rust pickup was already there. Maureen went quickly into the building and to the office she shared with Mr. Blake, glancing nervously around. But her new neighbor was nowhere in sight, thank God.

Mr. Blake glanced up when she took him the mail, staring at her blankly.

“The mail, sir,” Maureen said, putting it in front of him on the cluttered desk.

“Yes, of course,” he murmured. He seemed to be looking through her, as he did when he was preoccupied.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Blake?” she asked worriedly.

“No, nothing at all,” he assured her, but he didn’t look terribly convincing. She knew that his brother-in-law had been out on sick leave ever since the disappointing trial run of the new Faber-jet design. Maybe he was worried about the older man.

“Is your brother-in-law getting better?” she asked.

He gave her a quick, suspicious look.

“I know you must be worried about him,” she said gently. “I hope he’s all right.”

“He’s much better, thank you, Maureen,” he said stiffly. “I expect he’ll be back at work before very long.” He moved uncomfortably, as if it bothered him to talk about personal subjects. “Get me the Radley file, if you please.”

“Yes, sir.” She smiled. She liked her boss, but he had seemed terribly unlike himself lately. He needed to rest more, she decided, and not worry so much. His brother-in-law, Mr. Jameson, was a much less regimented person, a mechanic with an easygoing temperament but a stubborn resistance to authority and new techniques. She smiled, thinking privately that Mr. Jameson and the new mechanic would probably butt heads pretty quickly. It disturbed her to think about her disagreeable new neighbor.

She took Mr. Blake the file and went back to her routine. She enjoyed her job, but it could get hectic, especially when there were visiting dignitaries or government inspectors around. There was a lot of concern about the disappointing first test flight of the corporation’s Faber jet, and perhaps that was at the root of Mr. Blake’s nervousness. Quality control was where the buck stopped when anything went wrong with new designs, especially when the design department could prove that they weren’t at fault. That put not only Maureen’s boss but the entire quality-control department on the firing line.

The design department had already proved itself blameless; they’d shown a computer-graphics presentation of the craft’s performance on paper. The plane should have flown perfectly. So now everybody was beginning to think that the flaw was much more likely the result of sabotage than a design defect. MacFaber had enemies. Most successful companies and executives did. One particular rival firm, Peters Aviation, had recently made a takeover bid for MacFaber’s corporation. But characteristically, old MacFaber had pulled his irons out of the fire just in time by gathering up proxies. He had three votes over what he needed to win the fight, and Peters had gone away fuming but empty-handed. But if the new design failed, and Peters got his design in ahead of time, the board of directors might vote a lack of faith in MacFaber and approve the takeover. It was a risky situation.

Maureen, like the rest of the staff, had wondered at the poor maiden performance of the renovated Faber jet. It didn’t seem possible that it had been sabotaged, but the evidence was beginning to point that way. How curious that Mr. MacFaber hadn’t been roaring around the place raising Cain over the difficulties. But perhaps the lady in Rio had him mesmerized.

“I’d like to mesmerize someone, just once,” she muttered as she pulled up the Faber-jet file on her computer and began to type the performance report Mr. Blake had given her.

The intercom buzzed, interrupting her thoughts. “Miss Harris.”

“Yes, Mr. Blake?”

“Please go down to Mr. MacFaber’s office and ask Charlene for the latest figures on the cost overrun on the Faber-jet modifications,” he said.

“I’ll go right now.”

She left the computer up and running and went down the hall to the huge office that Mr. MacFaber occupied when he was in residence. Charlene, a pretty blonde, was glaring at her computer monitor and grumbling.

“I hate computers,” she said, glaring at the screen. “I hate computers, I hate companies that use computers, I even hate people who make computers!”

“Shame on you,” Maureen said. “You’ll upset it and it will get sick.”

“Good. I hope it dies! It just ate a whole morning’s work and it won’t give it back!”

“Here. I’ll save you. Get up.” Maureen grinned at her, sat down, and within five minutes had pulled out the backup copy of the file, copied it, and put Charlene back in the chair.

Charlene stared at her suspiciously. “I don’t trust people who understand how to do things like that. What if you’re an enemy agent or something?”

“I can’t possibly be. I don’t even own a trench coat,” Maureen said reasonably. “Mr. Blake wants the latest cost-overrun figures on the Faber jet. I’d have asked for them on my terminal, but I imagined you having hysterics if you had to try to send it via your modem.”

Charlene’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t even know how to turn on the modem, if you want the truth. I never wanted this job in the first place. Computers, modems, electronic typewriters—if the pay wasn’t so good, I’d leave tomorrow. You try sitting here trying to explain to everybody short of God that Mr. MacFaber hasn’t set foot in the office for the past year. Just try. Then explain to all these people who keep calling him that he can’t be reached by phone because he’s sitting on the banks of the Amazon contemplating the ancient Incas or something!”

“I’m really sorry,” Maureen said. “But I do need the cost-overrun figures.”

Charlene sighed. “Okay.”

She got up and fumbled through her immaculate filing cabinets until she got what she was looking for and handed a file to Maureen. “Don’t lose it and don’t let it out of your sight. Mr. Johnston will kill me if it vanishes.”

“You know very well the vice president in charge of production worships the ground you walk on.”

Charlene smiled smugly. “Yes, I do know. If he doesn’t watch out, I’ll have him in front of a minister. He’s sexy.”

“I think so, too, but we can’t all look like you,” Maureen told her. “Some of us have to look like me.”

“I like your new hairdo and makeup,” Charlene said kindly.

“I’m still going home alone, though.” Maureen shrugged. “Maybe someday I’ll get lucky.” She glanced around the plush, carpeted office. “Have you ever seen your boss?”

“Once, at a dead run, when I first got this promotion three months ago. Mostly I get memos and phone calls and relayed messages. He’s not bad looking, I guess. A bit old for my taste. Graying around the edges, you know, and a little on the heavy side. Too much high living, I suppose.” She frowned. “Although it could have been that bulky coat he was wearing.” She shrugged. “He had on dark glasses and a hat—I wouldn’t know him in a police lineup.”

“You’d think his picture would be around here somewhere, wouldn’t you, since it’s a family corporation,” Maureen remarked.

“There was a picture, but it didn’t come over with the stuff from the old building, God knows why.” Charlene sighed. “Bring that file back when you finish, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

She took the file back to Mr. Blake and sat down at her computer again. Odd, some of the figures looked different. But a quick glance at the sheet she’d been copying from told her that they were correct. With a tiny shrug she got back to work.

The canteen was full when she got there. She’d long since decided that rushing out to a restaurant was wasted time, and fighting the hectic traffic just killed her appetite. Even if the canteen food was artificial tasting, it was handy and cheap.

She bought herself a cold meat sandwich and a diet soft drink and sat down as close to the window as she could get. She felt self-conscious around all these people, most of whom were men, although nothing about her clothes was the least bit provocative. She was wearing a beige suit and pink blouse, with her hair in a neat French twist at her nape. She looked young and elegant and not too unattractive, she thought. The makeup did help, but nothing would change the fact that she wore glasses. She’d tried contact lenses, but she’d grown allergic to them and kept getting eye infections, so she’d given up. Anyway, she was never going to be a raving beauty. As if that mattered. None of the men around here ever looked at her, anyway.

She munched on her sandwich, watching the antics of a squirrel in the big shade tree next to the canteen with a faint smile. It took a minute for her to realize that she wasn’t alone anymore. A shadow fell across her as the big, dark man she’d met yesterday sat down two seats away with his lunch pail, glancing coldly at her as he opened it.

She didn’t look back. She’d already had enough of his arrogance. Her sandwich began to taste like cardboard, but she didn’t let him know it.

“You work for Blake, don’t you?” he asked.

She kept her eyes on her sandwich. “Yes.”

He put his sandwich in a wrapper on the table and opened a thermos to pour some of its contents into a cup. “Does it pay pretty good?”

“I get by.” She was feeling more nervous by the minute. Her hands trembled on her sandwich, and he saw it and frowned.

He glanced her way with coal-black eyes that seemed to see every pore in her skin. “I’ll bet you do,” he replied. “You don’t dress like a penniless secretary.”

That was vaguely insulting. She almost told him that she bought her clothes at a nearly-new store that specialized in low prices and high quality, but he was a stranger. Not only that, he was an arrogant and rude stranger, and she didn’t like his insinuations.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work,” she murmured, averting her face.

“What do you people in quality control do?” he asked coldly, watching her. “If you did your job properly, that new jet wouldn’t have embarrassed the company on its first test flight.”

She colored delicately and wished she could escape. He made her feel guilty and she almost apologized. He was the most intimidating man she’d ever met. “Mr.—Mr. Blake works very hard,” she protested. “Maybe it was a mechanical problem,” she added with bravado. “You’re a mechanic, aren’t you?”

She hadn’t raised her voice, but he glanced around anyway. Assured that no one was close enough to hear them, he turned his attention back to Maureen.

His eyes narrowed. “That’s one reason I was surprised by your very obvious attempt to concoct an engine problem yesterday for my benefit,” he said.

“I told you, I had a corroded battery cable, and I didn’t have to concoct it. You saw the corrosion yourself.” She clasped her hands nervously. “I think you’re very conceited.”

It was like waving a red flag at a bull, she thought, fascinated by the black lightning flashing in his eyes.

“I’ve had that dead-battery routine pulled on me before,” he interrupted curtly.

She started moving away. “I don’t pull routines. And I can change the oil and spark plugs, and even change a fan belt if I have to.”

“A woman of accomplishments,” he said. His eyes narrowed, calculating. “You know something about engines, then?”

“About Volkswagen engines, yes,” she said. “My uncle was chief mechanic at an import shop for years. He taught me.” She lifted her chin. He brought out something deeply buried in her—a temper she didn’t know she had. She felt her face going hot and her hands trembling, but she couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “And just to set the record straight, you appeal to me about as much as this sandwich did.” She waved it at him.

He lifted an eyebrow, and there was something almost sensual in the set of his wide, chiseled mouth. “Odd. I’ve been told that I don’t taste half-bad.”

She didn’t know if he was joking or not. Probably not. He wasn’t smiling, and his face was like stone. It didn’t matter, anyway; she wanted nothing else to do with him. She turned and left the canteen quickly, on legs that threatened to fold up under her. He’d ruined her lunch and the rest of the day. She’d never talked angrily to anyone in her life. He was really bringing out her latent beastly qualities, she thought, and almost laughed at the way she’d bristled. That would have amused her father and mother. The thought made her sad. She quickened her steps back to the office.

Mr. Blake had more correspondence for her to cope with after lunch, and again she was late leaving the office. But this time, thank God, the red-and-rust-colored pickup truck was missing from the parking lot, so she climbed gratefully into her small car and went home.

Bagwell was playing with a lava rock on a chain when she went in through the back door, but he dropped it the minute he spotted her and began to dance and prance and purr.

“Pretty girl!” he cooed. “Pretty girl! Hello!”

“Hi, Bagwell.” She smiled, stopping by the cage to unfasten it and let him out. He climbed onto the overhead perch and ruffled his feathers, tolerating her affectionate hand on his green head for a minute before he tried to make a meal of it.

“Vicious bird,” she muttered, grinning. “Biting the hand that feeds you. How about some apple?”

“Ap-ple,” he agreed. “Ap-ple.”

She put down her purse, kicked off her shoes with a sigh, and shared a tart, crunchy Granny Smith with him. “Bagwell, the days get longer and longer. I think I need a change of scenery.”

“Good ap-ple,” he murmured, preoccupied with the slice of fruit he was holding in his claw.

“You’ve got a one-track mind,” she said. She got up and looked in the cupboard to see what there was to eat. “Well, it’s the grocery store for me tomorrow, old fellow,” she said, grimacing when she saw the meager supply of food. “I guess it’s cereal or sandwiches.”

She changed into jeans and a sweatshirt while he was still working on his apple. Then she brewed a pot of coffee, got out bologna and mustard and made herself a sandwich, and turned on the television, searching in vain for anything except local or national news. In desperation, she slid a science-fiction movie into the VCR her parents had given her two Christmases ago and sat back to watch it.

Unfortunately Bagwell liked the sound of high-tech fantasy weapons and could mimic them very well. But he didn’t stop when they did. He continued through the dialogue, shrieking and firing and booming.

“I hate parrots,” Maureen told him as she switched off the movie in self-defense.

He flew down from his perch and walked over to the sofa, pulling himself up by his beak to stand on the arm of the rickety, worn piece of secondhand furniture.

“I’m pretty,” he said.

She scratched his head lovingly. “Yes, you are, precious,” she agreed with a smile. She leaned back and he climbed onto her jeans-clad leg. Seconds later, he was fluffed up with one foot drawn under him, half-asleep.

“Hey, now, no dozing,” she teased. She got him on her forearm and carried him to his cage. He dozed on while she cleaned it and put in fresh water. Then she put him up for the night, covering him with a thin sheet.

He was a lot of company, but he had to have at least twelve hours of sleep or he got grumpy. So she spent most of her evenings watching television alone.

She curled up with a new book on Tudor history—a work about Henry VIII—and sipped black coffee. The man next door wasn’t far from her thoughts. He irritated her more than anyone she knew, and his frankly insulting attitude in the canteen had made her angry. She’d never realized how uncomfortable it could be to have an enemy. He was her first. But she didn’t know why he disliked her, and that made things worse.

She’d never mixed well. During her childhood, she’d been pretty much a loner and a misfit. Her father had been a college professor, a brilliant man who taught physics, and her equally brilliant mother had taught English at the high-school level. They’d enlarged on her school curriculum with things for her to study at home, and her well-rounded education had set her apart from her friends, who didn’t understand why Maureen had her nose stuck in a book all the time. She loved to read, and she liked learning new things. But her love life suffered, along with her social life. Boys had avoided her in school, just as grown men avoided her now. Her pet interests were Plantagenet and Tudor England, and ornithology; and her idea of the perfect date was a trip to a museum. Sex was something other people had, and she didn’t know a birth-control pill from an aspirin. So, she told herself, perhaps it was just as well that she wasn’t a raving beauty and fascinating to men; she didn’t really have the right personality to be a swinger.

A light tapping on the wall next door caught her attention. It seemed to be coming from her bedroom. She put down her book and walked into the room, but then the tapping abruptly stopped. She went nearer to the wall and studied it closely, looking for holes. Surely the new neighbor wasn’t a Peeping Tom! He wasn’t the kind of man for that sort of thing. Or was he? But she didn’t see any holes. With a sigh that was part irritation, part frustration, she went back into the living room and back to her book. Lately, life seemed to be chock-full of obstacles.

She carried Bagwell in his cage into the bedroom with her, as she usually did, so that he wouldn’t start screaming when she turned off the lights.

“I love you!” he called loudly and made a noisy round of his cage before she talked softly to him, soothing him, and covered him again. She turned out the light, still talking softly, and he muttered for a minute, then curled one leg under, fluffed up and went to sleep. She settled down with a sigh, but she was restless, tossing and turning for a long time before she found sleep. The day had upset her, and she was glad that she had a weekend to regroup.

The next day was Saturday. Once, weekends had been the most important part of Maureen’s life, because she could garden and stay outdoors. But not anymore. Now she was too aware of eyes next door. She knew he was watching her. She didn’t even know how, but she could feel his gaze when she went to the trash can or the clothesline. She started digging a row in her small flower bed in which to put daisies, but even in jeans and a tan tank top, she felt as if she were working in the nude. She put her implements up and went inside to do housework instead.

He left about noon. She heard the pickup backing out, and with a cry of pure joy, she rushed into the backyard and started digging with a vengeance. By the time she heard the truck return, she’d done two rows, added fertilizer and planted seed. So there, she thought victoriously as she put up her gardening tools. If I have to dig and plant at night, I’m having my flower garden!

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?”