Sue Civil-Brown - The Prince Next Door

Now that man had moved in next door, probably bringing the underworld with him.

Her eyes narrowed again, and she moved toward the concrete wall that separated her balcony from his. Maybe she would hear something.

After all, what else did she have to do? It was her vacation. Her job was usually boringly humdrum, removing minor imperfections from bodies and faces so that everyone could look luminously plasticized, punctuated by serious cases like melanoma. Vacations were her time to cut loose.

Unfortunately, the Federal Government had interfered with her two-week, clothing-and-commonsense-optional cruise. They had impounded the ship, claiming that the owners hadn’t paid taxes. She knew better, of course. The Feds were just afraid that someone might have a good time out there on the Caribbean.

But the man who had moved in next door only three weeks ago had caught her attention. He looked entirely too urbane and suave for the local island culture, even in expensive condos like these. As far as she could tell, he had no visible means of support, he came and went at all hours, and he never so much as socialized with anyone else at the complex. A cool nod, a faint smile.

He might as well have introduced himself as Bond, James Bond. The thought made her snicker quietly to herself. The man actually wore ascots with his blue blazers and khaki slacks. Ascots! Too much for Florida.

And now that weaselly looking man had come by twice today. If he didn’t look like the underworld on the hoof, then Serena didn’t know what the underworld looked like.

Which was entirely possible, she admitted, as she realized she’d forgotten to put sun block on her overly sensitive skin. Sighing, she went back inside and got a tube of SPF 50. No basal cell carcinomas for her. No melanoma. No early aging.

Just gobs and gobs of SPF 50, until no matter how she rubbed, she felt sticky over every exposed inch.

As a result, she was a very young-looking thirty-five, albeit a sticky one.

That’s when she realized that with the wind blowing like this, she wouldn’t be able to hear anything from next door unless it turned into a major argument.

Drat.

What she needed was an excuse to be outside her front door. Like most structures in Florida, there was no enclosed hallway, only a covered balcony running along the street side of the building, and exterior elevator shafts. Hence, her condo window ledges held flower boxes full of geraniums.

Excellent excuse to be outside and thus observe the squirrelly crook when he reappeared.

Almost—just almost—she stopped herself. She was being silly and overimaginative. She knew it. But this was her vacation, darn it, and she was going nuts for lack of adventure, all because some IRS agents had chosen this week to seize the cruise ship. What alternative did that leave her? Another trip to Orlando to stand in lines forty-five-minutes long to take rides she’d already taken? Sitting on the beach below where she could sun and bathe at any time of year?

That wasn’t a vacation.

A vacation was a time to cut loose and get into trouble of some kind.

But she did pause. Maybe she should just get a flight to Aruba and go play Texas Hold ’Em. She could get into some serious trouble doing that. Trouble of the financial kind. No matter how often she played—and if she never saw Tunica again, it would be too soon—she was still the sucker at the table.

What harm could it do to tend her geraniums, though? None. Absolutely none.

So she got out her gardening gloves, her shears and a bottle of premixed fertilizer. She’d fertilized the plants last week. At this rate she was going to have geraniums taking over the world. She’d need to call the army to put them back in their place.

The thought made her giggle, easing some of her irritation at the IRS, who were already robbing her blind, so why had they stolen her cruise, as well?

And why was she letting irritation ruin her vacation?

Implements in hand, she stepped outside and surveyed her window boxes. No sound came from the condo next door. Pity. But maybe that would change.

The plants were actually doing quite well. She wondered how long she could legitimately spend out here snipping off three yellowed leaves and six dying flower heads. Fifteen minutes?

She was just reaching out to trim the first leaf when the elevator door twenty feet away slid open, and her nemesis neighbor stepped out, dressed as always for London rather than Florida. She glanced at him, received the usual cool nod and gave him one in return.

He did go a little farther this time, though. His gaze raked over her in a way that left her feeling naked, rather than clad in a tank top and shorts. Typical man.

Feeling her cheeks heat, she looked away…and snipped a perfectly good leaf off her plant. She almost winced, imagining the cry of outrage from the geranium.

Looking out the corner of her eye, she watched her neighbor walk up to his door and pull his keys out of his pocket. She felt a twinge of nasty pleasure as she realized he was looking a little wilted. So he wasn’t impervious to the climate.

Then, for reasons she would never know, she blurted, “There’s someone in your unit. I hope you were expecting him.”

He paused and turned to look at her. “There is?”

“Yes.”

A frown creased his handsome face. “How…odd.”

“You weren’t expecting someone?” She straightened, facing him, thinking that now here was an adventure at last. “Should I call the police?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll look into it first. Thank you for the warning.” Then he unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

So he was a criminal! Anyone else would have wanted the police. No one else would have gone in there alone. Drug dealer? No, too urbane looking. Cat burglar?

Oooh, she liked that idea. Like David Niven in The Pink Panther, or Cary Grant in It Takes a Thief. Smooth. Cultured. Daring. Dangerous. Yummy.

She was standing there, debating just what kind of crook she might have next door when a familiar voice caught her attention from behind.

“Hi, Serena.”

She whirled around, startled, and saw another neighbor, a young woman, barely grown up, named Ariel. “Shh,” she said, holding her gloved finger to her lips.

Oops. Making ptooey sounds, she tried to spit dirt from her sunscreen-sticky lips. It didn’t work. She tried to rub the dirt off with her forearm, only to notice—one moment too late—that her forearm had also been sporting a dappling of semiadhered potting soil. Which had now made its way to her face. An attempt with the other forearm had the same effect, with the result that she was sure her appearance now resembled Sylvester Stallone in First Blood.

Ariel proceeded to tiptoe toward her. “What’s up?” she asked in a stage whisper.

Ariel had the clearest, greenest eyes Serena had ever seen. They held depths of mystery in them that no woman so young, no girl-woman, ought to have. And yet they could still be as clear as dewdrops. She also had two servings of imp in her personality, which is why they got along so great together.

“I’ll tell you later. Right now I want to listen.”

Ariel nodded, as always ready to fall in with the scheme. For the next few minutes, they edged closer to the door, Ariel all the while trying to wipe flecks of soil from Serena’s face. Sidestep. Wipe. Sidestep. Wipe. Marcel Marceau would have wept.

A few minutes later the door of the neighbor’s unit opened up, and the weaselly man stepped out, bumping Ariel’s elbow in midwipe, causing her hand to skid across Serena’s face like an ice skater after an all-night bender.

Turning, he said through the open door, “Just remember. We have your mother!”

Then he stomped away toward the elevator in what Serena could only think was a perfect imitation of high dudgeon.