Читать книгу The Man Next Door - Ellen James - Страница 8

BEFORE SHE COULD LOSE her nerve, Kim walked right up to Michael Turner’s front door. She rang the bell not once, but twice, as if to demonstrate her own courage. Unfortunately she didn’t feel courageous. She just felt foolish.

No answer came—no Michael Turner appeared. Maybe it wasn’t too late for Kim to change her mind, after all. She hovered on the porch, considering the possibility of dashing back to her own house. She’d actually started down the porch steps when she heard the door open behind her.

She turned around slowly. And there he was, leaning against the jamb, his pose relaxed yet still managing to convey a certain watchfulness. She’d met him only this morning, yet she found herself learning his features all over again. Her gaze lingered on the stern line of his brow, the firm set of his mouth, the dark hair curling over his forehead.

“Ms. Bennett,” he said. “Let me guess. You want your bush back.”

Kim flushed. “Of course not. Although I don’t know why on earth you took it or what you’re going to do with it.”

Apparently he didn’t care to enlighten her. He just stood there leaning in his doorway, observing her with subtle amusement. He didn’t smile—nothing so overt as that—but still she had the uncomfortable suspicion he found her humorous.

She heartily regretted the impulse that had brought her over here. She knew she ought to make up some excuse or other and then return as quickly as possible to the safety of her house. But a contrary pride made her stay where she was. At last Michael stood aside from the door.

“Come in,” he said.

Kim hesitated only a second or two. If she was going to make a royal fool of herself, she might as well go all the way. She brushed past him, stepping inside the house.

Evening light spilled over the Mexican tiles of the entryway and burnished the oak floors of the living room beyond. Kim had been in the place a few times before, calling on the previous tenants. The furnishings were the same—sofa and wall hangings in desert hues of sage and sienna—but already Michael and Andy had managed to leave their own imprint: books scattered on the carved chest that served as a coffee table, a single shoe cast off by itself in a corner, a shirt dangling from a chair post. It seemed the two bachelors were settling in.

“Where’s Andy?” she asked.

Michael gave her a look of mock disappointment. “You only came to see my son?”

“Not exactly,” she said, feeling even more ridiculous about coming over here. What had gotten into her? Usually she was so much more self—assured. All those years of playing hostess at Stan’s dinner parties had at least taught her to pretend sophistication. Why was she unraveling now?

Michael spoke. “After supper, a few kids from the neighborhood came by and invited Andy for a game of kick—ball. Maybe he’ll make some new friends.”

Just as she had that morning, Kim sensed Michael’s concern for his son. She heard it in his quiet tone and saw it in the troubled expression that crossed his face.

“Some nice kids live on this block,” she said. “I’m sure Andy will do fine.”

“Parenthood doesn’t make you sure of anything,” he answered.

“I guess I wouldn’t know.” Kim tried for a light tone and failed. “Stan and I—we never had children.” Now her dead husband’s name seemed to weight the air. It brought too many memories with it, such as the humiliating reason she and Stan hadn’t become parents. Futilely Kim tried not to remember all the secret shame. The silence only grew heavier.

Michael Turner didn’t make things any better. He didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t try to cover up the empty spots in the conversation. He stood there, regarding her silently. But that couldn’t be a hint of compassion in his eyes—surely not.

“Do you know about Stan?” she asked, her throat tight. “About the way he died. When my mother—inlaw rented the house to you, she must have said something. She can’t stop talking about him.”

Michael didn’t speak for a moment. Then he nodded, almost with reluctance. “Yes. She told me.”

Maybe it was pity she saw in his expression. She couldn’t tolerate that, and she needed something—anything—to distract her. Operating on a hunch, she crossed the living room, found a button under one of the wall hangings and pressed it. Smoothly and soundlessly, a portion of the paneling opened up to reveal a bar, complete with pitchers, decanters, ice bucket and tongs. She glanced at Michael.

“I have one just like it,” she said. “Both these houses were built at the same time, and I always wondered. Well, the people who lived here before were a very sedate older couple. I couldn’t very well ask them if they were hiding liquor behind the wall.” Kim listened to herself, feeling more absurd than ever. “I’m trying to say that I don’t usually go snooping around the neighbor’s—”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Michael said. “Your mother-in-law said something about a bar, but I never did find it.” He stepped next to her and picked up a bottle of vermouth. “Care for a drink?”

“That’s not why I came,” she said.

“Have one, anyway.” He took ice from the small fridge, mixing vermouth and whiskey. Kim’s gaze lingered on him again. This evening he wore a polo shirt and jeans, and they subtly emphasized his lean yet powerful build. He finished the drinks and offered her one—a Manhattan. Automatically she reached out and took it from him. As she did so, her fingers brushed his. That accidental touch evoked a flicker of warmth inside her, like the quick flare of an ember before it died. Kim had to remind herself that she’d lost the talent for appreciating a good—looking man. That wasn’t going to change just because Michael Turner had moved in next door.

She held her drink without sipping it and examined the well—stocked bar—gin, scotch, sherry, tonic water, even a jar of stuffed olives.

“How very thoughtful of my mother-in-law,” she said. “She’s supplied you with everything. What did you do to get her approval?”

Michael was impassive. “Can’t say, but I refused to flatter her. Perhaps that did the trick.”

Kim shook her head. “I never flatter her and it gets me nowhere. Must be something else.” She paused. “Are you a friend of Sophie’s?”

Michael appeared to think this over. “Would it matter?” he asked as he sipped his drink.

“Sophie is particular about her tenants. She won’t rent to just anyone. Either you’d have to be her friend or come with damn good references.” Suddenly restless, Kim wandered to a window and gazed out at the courtyard, where a native garden flourished—asters, poppies, devil’s claw. But she couldn’t delay any longer.

“Mr. Turner,” she said, facing him, “let me get to the point. The reason I’m here is that…well, I need a date. For tomorrow night.” How ludicrous the words sounded once they were out. Michael looked slightly surprised at first, then intrigued. My, he did have an expressive face. She also saw that glimmer of amusement in his eyes again.

“No doubt you’re thinking it’s a very peculiar request,” she said stiffly. “I don’t even know you. I mean, I only met you this morning. Of course it seems peculiar.” She took a sip of her drink. It was inescapable: she really was making a colossal fool of herself.

“Have a seat,” he said in a solemn voice. “I’m all ears.”

She went to the sofa, sat down, then realized that wasn’t going to help at all. She stood up again.

“I need a date for a business function,” she said defensively. “Very well, a family function, too. The Bennetts always mix business and family. It’s a volatile combination, but I suppose that’s beside the point.”

Michael continued to look both interested and quietly amused. He sat down in an armchair across from her, appearing completely at ease. To remain standing would only put Kim at a disadvantage. She perched on the edge of the sofa again.

“Perhaps ‘ate’ is the wrong word,” she said. “What I need is…an escort.” That sounded even worse, and she hurried on, “It’s a tradition, in a way. At these Bennett affairs, you never show up alone. You gather your forces, so to speak. But you’re probably wondering why I don’t ask someone else. Some male friend. Nonetheless. I thought of you. I mean, you don’t seem the sort to be eyebrowed under the couch by a roomful of pompous, insufferable Bennetts. That was the deciding factor.”

Michael inclined his head. “I’ll take that as a compliment, I suppose. So I’m your last—ditch choice?”

She gazed back at him as resolutely as possible. “It’s just that…after eight years of marriage, I find I don’t have a whole lot of male friends.” Oh, Lord. As long as she was confessing humiliating details, why not to ahead and tell Michael Turner what a miserable travesty her marriage had been? Why spare herself? “Anyway,” she continued more forcefully, “the Bennetts thrive on despising each other—and everyone else. Family get—togethers aren’t exactly restful.”

He swirled his drink reflectively. “Sounds like this thing could be entertaining.”

Kim wondered if his answer qualified as a yes or a no. Either way, she’d disgraced herself enough for one evening. She set down her drink and rose from the sofa.

“I’ll understand if you want to pass. It’s very short notice, and it’s true that I hardly know you, and—”

“Tux?” he asked.

She frowned at him.

“Tux,” he repeated. “Do you want me in a tux?”

Kim felt an idiotic sense of relief. “Nothing quite so formal,” she said. “The Bennetts pretend to be casual. Mr. Turner—”

“If I’m going to be your date,” he interjected seriously, “don’t you think you’d better start calling me something else? Something less. formal.”

After a second or two she tried his name. “Michael.” It had an intimate sound to it, and she wished she could go back to calling him Mr. Turner. But unfortunately he was right. If they were going to get through tomorrow evening with any aplomb, Michael it would have to be. “Eight o’clock,” she said briskly. “And if you need a baby—sitter for Andy, I know someone.”

“It’s a good thing Andy didn’t hear you say that. He hates that word—baby—sitter. He’s much too old for baby—sitters. But I have a friend he can stay with.”

“Well. Then it’s settled.” There didn’t seem any more to say. Except one thing perhaps. “Thank you for doing this. I know the whole thing’s rather awkward and silly, but—”

“Kim,” he said. “Quit while you’re ahead.”

She gazed into his brown eyes just a trifle too long. But at least now she had the sense to keep her mouth shut. She left his house without saying another word.

THE FOLLOWING EVENING, Kim stared disgustedly at the contents of her dressing room. When you were a widow of only a few months, how did you dress for adate that wasn’t a date? She wondered if any of the etiquette books covered this particular situation.

There’d been a time when she had actually accumulated etiquette manuals with naive enthusiasm. She’d been newly wed, overawed that she’d married into the wealthy Bennett clan. She’d wanted so much to make Stan proud of her—to make the whole family proud. That was before she’d really come to know Sophie or the rest of the Bennetts. Her etiquette books had been gathering dust for quite some time now.

But it was seven-forty-five, and Kim still hadn’t decided what she was going to wear for this evening’s ordeal. She stood in the dressing room—all mirrors and strategic lighting designed to soften any reflection—and sorted through the gowns hanging against one wall. There were so many of them, in silk, tulle, velvet, brocade. All that entertaining in the past had required an extensive wardrobe. But these days Kim had given up entertaining—or being entertained. If she was showing up at the family enclave tonight, it was strictly as a stockholder in Bennett Industries. She’d do what was required, nothing more—on the arm of Michael Turner of course.

Kim rejected one dress after another. Too elegant, too fussy, too frivolous. Part of her heartily regretted that she’d ever gone over to Michael’s house. The other part was grateful that he’d accepted her invitation. She scorned herself for being a coward, but she wasn’t up to facing the Bennetts on her own. Not tonight, anyway.

Seven-fifty-two. She had all the clothes in the world and couldn’t decide what to wear. At last Kim pulled a black dress from its hanger. She slipped into it and observed herself in the overabundance of mirrors. A low scooped neckline and slinky fit in satin and lace—widow’s weeds with a vengeance. But it was too late to try anything else. Feeling out of sorts, Kim slid on a pearl bracelet, brushed her hair one more time and picked up her black pumps. She carried them with her as she started down the thickly carpeted stairs. But shouldn’t she be wearing perfume?

She retraced her steps and examined the selection on top of her dressing table. Here was every fragrance a woman could desire, yet once again she couldn’t choose. She knew that whichever bottle she opened, it would remind her of Stan. Suddenly the very thought of perfume seemed too cloying, too oppressive. The scent of fresh soap and water would have to do. Besides, it wasn’t as if she was trying to attract Michael Turner. This wasn’t really a date.

She’d reminded herself of that a dozen times already. She reminded herself again as she went downstairs and moved through rooms that seemed silent and empty. It wasn’t a date. She’d merely asked her nextdoor neighbor for a favor. He’d obliged. And that was that.

The doorbell rang. Suddenly flustered for reasons she couldn’t explain, Kim peered at herself in the hallway mirror. She was no more reassured than she’d been upstairs, facing those myriad reflections of herself. This mirror told the same story: her expression was severe and unsmiling. It didn’t go with the damn dress.

Too late now. The words echoed through her mind as she went to open the door. Michael stood on her porch just as she’d expected, but she wasn’t prepared for how good he looked. He wore casual gray trousers and a linen jacket that was well tailored but ever so slightly rumpled. His dark hair curled over his forehead, slightly damp as if he’d just taken a shower. He gazed thoughtfully at Kim.

“I should have gone for the tux,” he said.

She felt unaccountably warm with his gaze on her, but at last she managed a shrug. “Trust me, you look fine. I’m the only one who’ll be this dressed up tonight. This fancy. Don’t ask me why I’m doing it.”

He continued to observe her and she saw the subtle appreciation in his eyes. “Maybe you want the Bennetts to sit up and take notice.”

“They’ll take notice, all right,” she said. “And when they do—watch out.”

“Don’t let them get to you,” he murmured. “Because you look. fine.”

Now Kim felt the color heating her cheeks. It had been a very long while since a man had gazed at her in just this way. She didn’t know how to react. Whatever she’d learned from her once—precious etiquette books seemed to have flown right out of her head. All she could do was stare back at Michael, that unfamiliar warmth suffusing her skin.

Belatedly she remembered that she was still holding her pumps. She bent to slip one of them on and then realized that might seem consciously provocative. Quickly she stuffed her feet into both shoes.

“They pinch,” she said. “I hate wearing them for very long.”

“It’s one of the things I’ve always wondered.” He smiled slightly. “Why do women wear uncomfortable shoes?”

“Because we have no sense at all. Well…I’m ready,” she added unnecessarily. “Shall we go?”

He escorted her down the walk. Even though he’d only come from next door, he’d driven over and parked behind her car—a considerate gesture. Perhaps this didn’t officially count as a date, but Michael was observing the courtesies. Although his midnight—blue Jeep was a rugged vehicle, it looked freshly washed and waxed. He opened the door for her, waiting until she’d settled into the passenger seat before going to his own side. A few moments later he’d backed out of the drive and they were on their way down the street.

Kim searched for conversation and found none. It was Michael who spoke, glancing at her with that quiet amusement of his.

“I hope you have directions for me. Where are we headed?”

She felt foolish, apparently not an uncommon reaction when she was around Michael Turner. “To the Bennett family stronghold. my mother-in-law’s very exclusive spread. Where else?”