Diana Palmer - Hoodwinked

“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.