Читать книгу Watching For Willa - Helen Myers R. - Страница 8

She stretched, as far as the sleeping bag allowed, and took her time before opening her eyes. Waking had always been a sensual experience to her, much like indulging in a long bubble bath, slipping into something sleek and silky or making love. Something to be enjoyed thoroughly or not at all. Her mattress hadn’t been ideal—now thirty, she had to admit she preferred the comforts of a conventional bed to roughing it with the equipment she and A.J. had used back when they’d been hikers and campers—but there was nothing like the sleep that followed a day of all-out physical labor to make a hard floor inconsequential.

Ready for some coffee and round two, she finally flipped back the top of her unzipped sleeping bag and rolled herself up onto her feet. She stretched again as she padded to the bathroom. By the light already spilling in through the windows she estimated it was around six o’clock, her favorite hour to start the day. All she needed now was coffee and a banana, her breakfast almost every morning. After that she would be ready to start painting.

When she came out of the bathroom, still toweling her face dry, she thought about the newspaper and hoped she would find one on her driveway when she got downstairs. Thank goodness the paperboy had been running late yesterday; she’d intercepted him and he’d agreed to add her to his route starting today. She liked to ease into her mornings with the paper. Not via the front pages, though. After A.J. died, she’d stopped giving herself an ulcer over what they printed there.

What appealed to her was browsing through the home and living sections, the fashions and finally the comics. Who cared if her accountant brother-in-law rolled his eyes at that? Willa smiled as she hung up the single bath towel she’d brought from the duplex. Jack could chide and lecture all he wanted about how a business-woman needed to pay attention to the financial news. As far as she was concerned, her “business” was understanding women and their fantasies. Nothing she’d ever read in the so-called serious sections of the paper had ever helped her or anyone she knew have a happier more satisfying relationship with a lover or spouse. In fact, from her vantage point, those killed romance.

An article about how more people were adding fountains into their homes for their ornateness as well as their soothing effect, inspired her to invest in one for the entryway of her store. As anticipated, it soon lured passers-by, who then became intrigued with the sensual massage and bath products she displayed around the fountain.

And that hadn’t been an isolated experiment. The fashion sections of the paper helped her determine upcoming color trends and styles for her lingerie and loungewear inventory. The comics gave her a lift on days when being an entrepreneur seemed to be the most insane choice a woman in her situation could make. Let the financial moguls posture and pontificate on the business section’s pages; she’d never met one who understood how to tell his slightly plump wife that he would love to see her in a sexy item of lingerie or robe.

Willa bent at the waist and brushed her long hair forward from the nape. Thinking of robes reminded her that she needed to call Starla and remind her about the short silk ones they were going to bring out of stock to add to the sale merchandise today. Then again, maybe she shouldn’t. Her young assistant manager would utter a funny, theatrical groan, but underneath would be a subtle accusation about not being trusted. Willa knew she’d already pushed her luck. Yesterday she’d dialed to pass on her new number, then she’d phoned to check how sales were going. And she’d called again later that night to make sure Starla remembered to lock up securely.

No, she wouldn’t do it. Everything was under control. If she felt like a mother away from her baby for the first time, that was her problem, one she’d better keep to herself—unless she wanted to risk losing a valuable employee, as well as someone she’d come to care for as a friend.

Straightening and flinging her hair back over her shoulders, her gaze settled on the windows of her bedroom…and beyond. To his house. Those windows.

Her heart gave a jolt as she saw the dark silhouette behind the net draperies. It was him. For a few blissful moments she’d actually managed to push yesterday’s disturbing incident to the back of her mind, and now the man had the gall to be spying on her like some…Peeping Tom!

She felt the strongest urge to hide behind the bathroom door, and an equally strong impulse to throw her brush at him. It wasn’t a matter of being self-conscious about her body. Good grief, her tank top and briefs were more concealing than what women wore on the beaches these days. But just because she didn’t have her draperies and blinds yet, did that give him a right to invade her privacy like some voyeur?

Well, he’d picked on the wrong woman if he thought he could intimidate her this time, in her own home. Losing A.J. had forced her to toughen up in a great number of ways. She knew how to stand up for herself and not let anyone boss, shame or bully her.

With indignation and fury building, she matched him stare for stare. She could almost feel his gaze shift and linger. Never had she met anyone with such audacity.

“You won’t intimidate me again,” she muttered, fuming.

But her defiance didn’t have much effect on him, either. The only movement came from the birds flying between their houses in search of breakfast for themselves and their hatchlings. Cardinals, chickadees, wrens and bluebirds sailed by, singing their praises of the May sunshine. Farther off she heard a woodpecker work diligently at a dead pine tree; the staccato, hollow tapping that came through the screen echoed the pulse pounding in her throat and at her temples. All that sweet innocence only made the broad-shouldered shadowy figure next door all the more surreal, and menacing.

Feeling her confidence wavering, she tossed her brush onto the counter. Back in the bedroom she grabbed her leggings, and shoes, and shot through the doorway. Awful, awful man, she seethed, stomping down the stairs. She wished her bare feet and modest weight created the thunderous acoustics that her annoyance craved. Did he sleep by that confounded computer? Was this what she had to look forward to from having him as a neighbor?

To think she’d been so pleased to have double windows in the master bedroom. It meant she could better enjoy the view of the ancient wisteria that rose from Zachary Denton’s backyard and nearly engulfed everything in its path as it crept over fences and trees in search of sunlight. Bad enough to have missed this year’s blooms; was she going to have to keep everything tightly shut and lose the view altogether? It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair!

Downstairs she dropped her things by her new telephone and angrily stepped into her leggings and shoes, then jerked open the front door. She’d give him credit for one thing, though—he’d raised her blood pressure so much she didn’t need any caffeine to finish waking up!

Outside, she took a welcome, deep breath of fresh air. Yesterday’s rain had soaked everything through and through, and lingering humidity made the air heavy, the grass and shrubbery dew-drenched. The sun peered through the haze, its warmth stirring a potpourri of scents from the countless varieties of wildflowers and trees that flourished in the piney woods of East Texas. Willa let the promising day and the fresh air soothe her. It lasted only until she realized her paper wasn’t on the driveway as she’d hoped.

“Not this, too?” Sighing, she checked on the other side of the van in case the delivery boy’s aim had been way off.

It wasn’t there, either. But as she scanned her yard, she spotted the plastic-bag-enclosed paper tied to her mailbox. Relieved that a black cloud of bad luck wasn’t settling in over her house after all, she went to retrieve it.

Easier said than done, she decided, realizing how well the boy had secured the thing to her mailbox. She had to tug hard to free it, and the force of the move jerked open the aluminum box’s lid. Inside, was a folded sheet of letter-size paper.

“Oh, happy day,” she drawled, almost amused. She hadn’t even finished moving in yet and already she was the recipient of her first piece of junk mail.

Curious to know who had been this ambitious, she drew out the paper and unfolded it.

It wasn’t an advertisement, and for a moment she frowned down at the cut-out, odd-shaped letters from magazines and newspapers that had been glued unevenly to the sheet. Her mind simply refused to make sense of it.

“Too tempting for words.”

What on earth was this? Who would put something so ridiculous and—

The nerve! Oh, yes, she understood now. Did he think she wouldn’t be able to put two and two together? From what she could tell of the few other residents who lived farther down the road, they were either elderly or working people with no children. Hardly the type to indulge in such a tasteless gesture. But she had no such confidence in her nearest neighbor.

What had been his plan? Did he think she was going to be fooled into believing the Vilary stalker had chosen her as his next victim? It would serve him right if she phoned the police this minute and turned him in. Let him explain away his unbalanced behavior to them!

But that would probably bring every reporter in the state upon them like a swarm of those killer bees said to be invading from South America. Willa drew her lower lip between her teeth. No way did she want to cope with something like that. She was no recluse, but the ads and interviews she occasionally did for her store was enough “media” for her. In comparison the press who’d haunted her every step after A.J.’s employer had tried to blame his crash on pilot error had been like being chased by a pack of starving wild dogs.

Her resentment growing, she eyed Zachary Denton’s house. No, she didn’t want to go over there again; however, she would. She could handle this herself, and enjoy it! Let him have a taste of what it was like to be threatened.

She underhanded her newspaper in the direction of her front door, and this time used the street to reach Zachary Denton’s front walk. It wasn’t a much better choice than the tall weeds, though. Maybe she’d avoided the ticks and chiggers this way, but the number of potholes made the trip a different challenge. Thanks to yesterday’s flooding, every one of them was brimming with muddy water. Apparently the county road department didn’t like him, either.

By the time she reached his porch, her once pristine jogging shoes and leggings were splattered with East Texas red clay. Disgusted, she pounded on the screen door.

“Don’t you dare ignore me!” She glared up at the unblinking eye targeted on her. “Open up or this goes to the press.”

She held up the sheet of paper to the camera. Several long seconds later she heard the inside latch give. Telling herself that she had to ignore the responding lurch from her stomach, Willa stormed inside.

He sat where she’d found him yesterday, at the top of the stairs, looking like an exiled dictator of some ragtag country who was in a particularly bad mood. She eyed him with disdain. Whatever the man spent his money on, it certainly wasn’t clothes and razor blades.

Intent on giving him a taste of his own medicine and making him as agitated as he’d made her, she quickly started up the stairs. She knew better than to dwell on the wisdom of the move—or rather, the lack thereof. This had to do with principle.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Although his dark, almost wild gaze had the sharpness of a spear lancing through her, she shot back, “I’ll do the talking this time.”

“Not if I decide to call the police and have you arrested for harassment and trespassing.”

“Good idea. Call them! I can’t wait to hear you explain away this.”

“Let me see that!”

With impressive control and speed, he leaned forward and, before she could stop him, he snatched the paper out of her grasp. Afraid he meant to shred it, Willa considered trying to get it back, but she didn’t want to risk destroying it herself. Checking her impulse, she attempted to ignore her sudden disadvantage by studying her strange neighbor from this closer vantage point.

At least he looked somewhat less unkempt this morning, although he still hadn’t shaved, and his eyes were as bloodshot as ever. Finding that they were gray surprised her. She’d expected the same opaque brown of his hair and beard, a shade that in certain light people was often mistaken for black. Then again, the gray was opaque and nearly black, too. And so was his mood, she noted as he shot her a brief, sharp glare.

What a big, fierce man. He looked perfectly capable of launching himself out of that wheelchair and strangling the life out of her; in fact, his hands weren’t anything close to what she’d pictured for a writer. No long, elegant piano fingers here. Zachary Denton’s hands were closer to paws: huge, thick-fingered and callused like a laborer’s. She knew the latter was from wheeling his chair, but it reminded her of what A.J. used to say about Denton’s work. He writes like a man’s man.

What a crazy thing to remember. She’d never quite understood what A.J. had meant, either. In fact she’d argued to him how silly the comment was, insisting that no woman had ever declared a member of her sex, “a woman’s woman.”

However, as she watched the broken, but still-powerful man before her sweep a hand through his thick wavy mane, her increasingly rebellious imagination kicked into gear and suddenly she understood the macho thing. She could visualize how Zachary Denton’s hands would look caressing a woman’s body…how they would feel.

No, not just any female body. Hers.

She gripped the railing more tightly and looked away as an irrepressible quiver centered deep inside her.

“I warned you,” he said, his tone never more grim.

She glanced back in time to see him suck in a deep breath, his broad chest swelling, until it seemed almost too much for the seams of the cleaner, but ancient, black T-shirt. No surprise when even his pale but well-developed biceps were at least twice the size of hers. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me. If you’d listened, this would never have happened.”

Willa was glad for the subtle insult; it served to get her mind back on business all the faster. “Nice try but no Oscar, Mr. Denton. I know this is your doing.”

“Are you nuts?”

“No. But you are if you think you’re going to get away with it.”

“Lady,” he ground out, his glare all but impaling her, “in case you haven’t noticed, this is a wheelchair.”

“Which proves nothing.”

For an instant he looked genuinely dumbfounded, but the rage quickly returned, stronger and more explosive than before. “Excuse me all to hell, but this thing doesn’t come with a certificate qualifying me to be in it. You’ll just have to take my word that when you crash-land a single-engine plane, flipping it twice, there’s a good reason to believe the doctors when they tell you you’re in this thing for the rest of your stinking life!”

No one had ever yelled at her before, at least not quite like this. Between her shock and the sickly feeling that came as he described his living nightmare, she reached for the last shreds of her patience. “With all due respect, Mr. Denton—”

“Let’s get something straight, Mrs. Whitney, you have no more respect for me than I have for you.”

Unfortunately, that was proving true, but the remark still stung. “Fine. Then let’s get down to the bottom line, shall we? I’m here and plan to stay, and I’d better not find anything like this in my mailbox again.” She snatched back the paper.

Sun-dried rawhide couldn’t have stretched any tighter than the muscles on his square-jawed face. “Did you see any mud trail from my house to yours? Any on the porch ramp?”

“No,” she admitted reluctantly. What’s more, it had stopped raining early in the evening.

“And there isn’t any mud on my tires now, is there? So what makes you all-fired certain I did that?”

He had to ask that? After yesterday? “There’s no one else,” she replied, struggling to keep from letting him spook her again.

“Really.” Once again his gaze swept over her, lingering on her breasts. “I think you’re forgetting one crucial point.”

She couldn’t understand how someone in his condition could turn a simple comment into such an insult. Barely able to stay put, Willa replied, “What?”

“Some nut case is out there stalking local women.”

Willa wouldn’t buy it. “I think you’d like me to believe this is connected with that. But I find it more than slightly suspicious that after living in Vilary for nearly six years, operating a successful shop in a busy mall and having my photograph in the local paper any number of times, it’s only when I move in next to you that this happens.”

“Maybe the stalker does know about you and your sexy lingerie business,” Zachary Denton countered with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe he’s just been saving you for something special.”