Hoodwinked (5 page)

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?”

M
aureen stared at him. “Do I have a lover?” She laughed bitterly. “Oh, that's a good one.”

That puzzled him. “I don't understand the joke,” he said.

“Well, look at me,” she said miserably. “I wear glasses, I'm too tall, I have the personality of a dust ruffle, and even when I try to wear trendy clothes, I still look like somebody's spinster aunt. Can't you just see me in silk and satin and lace, draped across a king-sized bed?”

She was laughing, but he wasn't. He could picture her that way, and the image was disturbing.

He lifted his cigarette to his wide mouth. “Yes, I can,” he said quietly. “And stop running yourself down. There's nothing wrong with you. If you don't believe that, ask the janitorial department.”

She felt her cheeks going hot. “I've, uh, caused them a lot of trouble in the past. I can't imagine that they'd give me a reference.”

He laughed softly. It was a pleasant sound and, she imagined, a pretty rare one. “All the same,” he replied, “they haven't forgotten the little things you've done for them. Pralines from New Orleans, cotton candy from the carnival that came through, a pot of
homemade soup on the day we got snow after the New Year. You can spill coffee on the carpet year-round and they'll drop everything to clean it up. They love you.”

She colored prettily. “I felt guilty,” she murmured.

“Mr. Wyman, the security guard, is another admirer,” he continued, blowing out a thin cloud of smoke while he watched Bagwell finish off one last piece of pear. “You sat with his wife when she had to have an emergency appendectomy.”

She cleared her throat. “He doesn't have any family out here. He and Mrs. Wyman are from Virginia.”

“You may not be Miss America, but you've got a heart, Miss Harris,” he concluded, letting his gaze slide back to her face. “People like you just the way you are.”

She clasped her hands and let them droop between her jeans-clad knees. It didn't occur to her at the moment to ask how he'd found out so much about her. “Well, I don't,” she muttered. “I'm dull and my life is dull and mostly I bore people to death. I want to be like old Joseph MacFaber,” she said, her face brightening so that she missed the look on her companion's face. “He took up hang gliding last year, did you know? He's raced cars in the Grand Prix in France and ballooned on the Eastern Seaboard. He's gone off with archaeological expeditions to Peru and Mexico and Central America. He's gone deep-sea diving with one of the Cousteau expeditions that signed on amateurs for a couple of weeks in the Bahamas, and he's lived on cattle stations in the outback in Australia. He's climbed mountains and gone on camera safaris in Africa and—”

“Good God, will you stop?” he groaned. “You're making me tired.”