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Hoodwinked
Diana Palmer
New York Times bestselling author Diana Palmer delivers another fan-favorite story of intrigue, passion and unexpected love!Maureen Harris is dedicated to her job at McFaber Corporation, which manufactures jets. The green-eyed ingenue has her eye on everything that comes through the company's offices…including a report of a sabotaged plane!When she hears the news, Maureen decides to conduct her own investigation. She is suspicious of the company's newest and most antagonistic mechanic. There's more to him than meets the eye, though. Soon, Maureen is shocked to find herself seduced by the sexy stranger! But Jake has a deeply buried secret that will surprise her even more…


New York Times bestselling author Diana Palmer delivers another fan-favorite story of intrigue, passion and unexpected love!
Maureen Harris is dedicated to her job at McFaber Corporation, which manufactures jets. The green-eyed ingenue has her eye on everything that comes through the company’s offices…including a report of a sabotaged plane!
When she hears the news, Maureen decides to conduct her own investigation. She is suspicious of the company's newest and most antagonistic mechanic. There’s more to him than meets the eye, though. Soon, Maureen is shocked to find herself seduced by the sexy stranger! But Jake has a deeply buried secret that will surprise her even more…
Hoodwinked
Diana Palmer

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Contents
Cover (#u7d1f5853-e01b-5724-8685-8b8a4804c6f0)
Back Cover Text (#uea9a2146-305c-59f0-a38c-b5c0861bc456)
Title Page (#u43ce1cfb-ce16-50fc-96d3-b78b178364e8)
Chapter One (#u24166113-d6ea-50ef-b5bd-d6a11d94c488)
Chapter Two (#ued4ff2b0-cd86-5150-bcf5-4c30e666abb8)
Chapter Three (#u8168a0f7-bbf5-52cd-95e9-e235b27f743a)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#ulink_66dbef7e-68a8-5161-939c-9dd7f85e64c1)
Maureen Harris was already an hour late for work. One thing after another had conspired to ruin her morning. The washing machine in her small duplex in the suburbs had flooded, her last pair of hose had run just as she put them on, then she’d misplaced her car keys. She ran into the offices of MacFaber Corporation bare-legged with her long black hair threatening to come down from its braided bun on top of her head, her full skirt stained with coffee that she’d tried to substitute for breakfast in a drive-through place on the way.
A tall, burly man was just coming around the corner as she turned it, coffee cup still in hand. She collided with him with a loud thud, fell backward, and the coffee cup seemed to upend in slow motion, pouring its contents all over the carpet, splashing him, and splattering her skirt even more.
She sat up in the ruins of it all, quickly retrieving her wire-rimmed, trendy new glasses from the floor and sticking them on her nose so that she could see. She stared up blankly at the taciturn, very somber man in gray coveralls, her green eyes resigned. “I didn’t pay my phone bill on time,” she said, apropos of nothing. “The telephone company has ways of getting even, you know. They flood your washing machine, put runs in all your stockings and cause you to spill coffee and trample strange men.”
He cocked a heavy eyebrow. He wasn’t handsome at all. He looked more like a wrestler than a mechanic, but that was definitely a mechanic’s coverall he was wearing. His dark eyes ran over her like hands, narrowing, curious, and a faint smile touched the mouth that seemed carved out of stone. It was a nice, man’s mouth—wide and sexy and deliberate. He looked Roman, in fact, right down to the imposing nose and brooding brow. Maureen knew all about brooding brows; she had once taken an art class and spent long hours dreaming of imposing Romans. That had been years ago, of course, before she discovered reality and settled down to being a junior secretary in the MacFaber Corporation.
Since he didn’t speak or offer a hand, she scrambled to her feet, staring miserably around at the coffee splatted all over the champagne-colored carpet. She pushed back her hair. “I’m very sorry that I ran into you. I didn’t mean to. I really don’t know what to do.” She sighed. “Maybe I ought to quit before I’m asked to.”
“How old are you?” the man in the mechanic’s outfit asked. He had a gravelly voice—very deep, like rich velvet.
“I’m twenty-four,” she said, faintly surprised by the question. Did he think she was too young for the job? “But usually I’m very competent.”
“How long have you been here?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.
“Just since the month before last,” she confessed. “Well, I’ve been here in this new building since it opened, that is. But I’ve worked for the corporation for six months.” Since just before my parents died, she could have said, but she didn’t. “I was chosen out of the typing pool to take one of the old secretaries’ places. I’m very fast. I mean, my typing is very fast. Oh, dear. Do you suppose I could rush out for some sand and toss it over this stain in the carpet before someone sees?”
“Call the janitorial staff. That’s what they’re paid to do,” he said. “You’d better get busy. MacFaber doesn’t like idle employees. Or so I’m told,” he added in a cold, steady tone.
She sighed. “I don’t think he likes anybody. He never sticks his nose in here, anyway, so it’s a good thing the company can run itself. He never comes here, they say.”
Both bushy eyebrows went up. “Do tell? I thought he worked in this building?”
“So did we,” she agreed. “But then, we all came up from the old engineering building when this new building was completed three months ago and they added so much new staff. The secretaries, I mean. Even Mr. MacFaber’s secretary, Charlene, is new, so none of the secretarial staff has ever laid eyes on him. And Charlene gets her work through the vice president in charge of production, kind of secondhand from the big boss,” she added, leaning close. “We suspect that he’s disguised as the big chair in the boardroom.”
“Fascinating.” He cocked his head to one side. “He sounds like a figment of someone’s imagination, doesn’t he?” he mused, and almost smiled.
She studied him for an instant. He didn’t look like a man who knew how to smile. He was big—huge, in fact. He was tall and streamlined for a big man, very commanding, with a broad face and deep-set dark eyes. His hair was straight and thick and jet black, and his wrists had a feathering of dark hair, too. She felt that he probably was that way all over, and then wondered at her sudden curiosity. She wasn’t all that comfortable with men as a rule. She was rather plain, for all that she had a budding sunny personality and dressed neatly. Men hardly noticed her, even now that she had fifty dollars’ worth of new makeup.
“Are you new here?” she asked shyly. “You’re a mechanic, aren’t you?” she added, pushing her slipping glasses back on her nose. Really, she thought miserably, the frames she’d chosen were outrageous; they sat way down on her cheekbones. If only she didn’t wear glasses. If only she was beautiful and sexy…
“I’m relatively new—” he answered her earlier question “—and I’m wearing a mechanic’s coverall, so that should answer your second question.”
“Then you must be working on the new Faber-jet design,” she said excitedly, curious at the sudden stillness of his big body when she mentioned that.
“Yes,” he said noncommittally. “You’re familiar with it?”
“Sort of,” she said, sighing. “Nobody can figure out why it’s such a lemon. The computer people ran one of those very expensive design graphics, and according to it, the modifications should produce a big improvement on the old Faber jet design. But it performed very badly on its first test flight. That’s too bad. I guess it will give Peters Aviation the edge on us.” They were the competition and were trying to outmaneuver MacFaber by producing the new design on their own small jet first.
“It might appear that they have the edge, but don’t count on it,” he said coolly. “Hadn’t you better get to work?”
She flushed a little. He sounded full of authority somehow. Probably he was married and had children. He was old enough. How old? she wondered, glancing at him as she picked up her purse and the coffee cup. Middle or late thirties, definitely. He had a few gray hairs and there were lines on his face.
“I’m Maureen,” she said. She shifted her feet and peeked up at him through her glasses, wishing she had Charlene’s gift of gab. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Jake,” he said shortly. “Excuse me. I’m late.”
Jake. He didn’t look like a Jake. She stared after him. He was pretty dishy—big and capable looking. And he’d made her feel different. Almost reckless. Imagine her talking to a man like that and being bold enough to ask his name. She grinned to herself. Maybe she wasn’t totally helpless. It was like a milestone in her life, and she was glad that she’d decided to stay in Wichita. She’d thought that a change of scenery might bring her out of her shell and help her become independent and capable. It still might. But her newfound male co-worker hadn’t seemed too interested. Not that she was surprised. She had so little luck in attracting men. Maybe it was the glasses. If she hadn’t been so nearsighted without them, she might have put them back in her purse and risked talking to hat racks and potted plants.
She dashed into Arnold M. Blake’s office breathlessly and sat down behind her desk. She glanced at the phone. One line was open. Thank God. Mr. Blake was at his desk. Maybe he wouldn’t realize how late she was. She punched the second of the four lines and rang the janitorial department.
“Someone has spilled coffee all over your spotless carpet in the entrance,” she reported with blithe innocence. “Could someone attend to it, please?”
There was a world-weary sigh on the other end. “Miss Harris?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“No problem,” came the dry reply. “Late again, are you?”
She flushed. “My washing machine flooded.”
“Last time,” the man’s voice drawled, “it was a strawberry milk shake.”
“I’m sorry,” she groaned. “It’s my karma, you see. I must have been an ax murderer in a previous life.”
“We’ll get up the stains, don’t you worry. And thanks for that bag of pralines you brought us from New Orleans,” the voice added. “We all enjoyed them.”
She smiled sadly. She’d had to go home for a few days to approve the sale of her parents’ home. It was her last link with the old life. They’d planned to move to Wichita, Kansas, with her, but a tragic car wreck just before the move had taken their lives. She’d almost gone back herself, after that, but she had decided that a new start might help ease the pain. So she’d invested the money she’d received from the sale of her parents’ home in half of a duplex in Wichita and stayed there. Since she’d already gotten her job with the MacFaber Corporation, at least she didn’t have to worry about living expenses. The pralines had been an afterthought, and she was glad now that she’d thought to bring the harried janitorial staff a little sack of treats.
“Thanks.” She hung up and dabbed again at her skirt. It would have to be light blue. Nothing was going to take that stain out.
“So there you are,” Mr. Blake said from the doorway, smiling at her. “I need you to take a letter, Miss Harris.”
“Yes, sir.” She grabbed her pad and pen. “So sorry. I was late, and I’ve spilled coffee…Everything’s gone wrong…”
“No problem,” he said easily. “Come in, please.”
She took several letters in a row, all pertaining to the new Faber-jet design. She never paid much attention to what they contained, which was so much gibberish when he started using technical terms. She had to ask the spelling of one or two of them, but Mr. Blake was very patient and never yelled.
Joseph MacFaber, it was said, could rage like a wounded bear when he was in a bad temper. But then he was filthy rich and used to getting his own way. He spent most of his life trying to commit suicide in a variety of dangerous hobbies, from what Maureen could gather, and left his subordinates in charge of the MacFaber Aircraft Corporation in his absence. He was in Rio now, she’d heard. He’d been away for the better part of a year, getting over the death of his mother—or so they said. Mrs. MacFaber had died in a car wreck in Europe, gossip said, and MacFaber was still grieving. They said he’d been driving the car, so perhaps he was running away from his conscience. It would be a hard thing for a man to live with.
Mr. Blake finished his dictation and Maureen went back to her desk to transcribe her notes on the electronic typewriter. That was a signal for the phone to start ringing nonstop and two other secretaries to come in and ask questions that she had to ask Mr. Blake to answer.
It was almost time for lunch before she got enough of her backlog cleared away to even start on the mail. By then Mr. Blake was leaving, and she was left with a handful of letters that she could do nothing about until he came back.
She usually went to lunch herself at noon, but she felt guilty because she’d been late. So she went along to the canteen and got herself a soft drink and a chocolate bar and sat by the window alone, eating it. It wasn’t nutritious, but it was filling. She was finishing the soft drink when the new mechanic sat down at a table near the middle of the room and opened his lunch pail.
Without meaning to, Maureen found herself watching him. He was so big. She wasn’t used to particularly masculine men, and she usually didn’t stare. But he was a dish. A real dish. She sighed, just as he looked up unexpectedly and caught her in the act. He glared at her as if he found her interest infuriating, and she flushed furiously as she quickly turned her eyes back to the window. This was absurd. Probably she’d been working too hard and her mind was disintegrating. She finished the soft drink, put the bottle up, and smiled faintly as she passed the mechanic. She meant the smile as a kind of apology, but his dark eyes only glittered more angrily.
He dropped his eyes to his coffee cup and ignored her completely. He was still wearing his cap and kept it pulled down over his face. She felt uncomfortable. He made her feel like a man chaser, and she wanted to crawl off into a corner and hide. His anger had actually hurt her.
She put thoughts of the mechanic at the back of her mind and doggedly spent the rest of the day answering the mail. Mr. Blake had a long conversation with some official, and at the end of it he wandered around, preoccupied, for the better part of an hour.
“Is something wrong, sir?” Maureen asked gently.
He glanced at her, running a hand through hair he hardly had on his balding head. “What? Oh, no, thank you, Maureen. Just a knotty problem. There’ll be a government inspector here in the morning, by the way. Do try to be on time, will you?”
“Is it about the Faber-jet design change?” she asked.
He smiled grimly. “I’m afraid so. We may be in for some stormy weather from the aviation people trying to get this thing approved.”
She nodded. He left for the day shortly afterward. It took Maureen until six-thirty to finish answering the mail. By the time she had put away her typewriter and straightened her desk, most of the other employees had vacated the building. As she passed MacFaber’s office on her way to the time clock, she heard noises and paused.
There was a voice behind the door, a solitary voice—it was muffled, but it sounded deep and hard and demanding. Its owner was apparently talking to someone on the phone. Maureen wondered if it was the venerable J. MacFaber himself in there. Perhaps he’d returned early from Rio. She’d have to ask Charlene tomorrow. She walked on by. It wouldn’t do to be caught spying outside the big boss’s office. She punched her card, left it, and went out of the building.
It was a delicious spring day. A lush, green lawn stretched from the streamlined building with its glass front, and she liked the smell of young buds breaking on the trees. The parking lot was almost deserted. There was a rather beat-up-looking red-and-rust pickup truck sitting nearby. Just that and Maureen’s little yellow Volkswagen. The pickup had seen better days, like her poor, battered beetle. It ran beautifully when it wanted to, but it was tempermental.
With a long sigh she got in behind the wheel. It had been a difficult day. She put the key in the ignition and turned it. Nothing happened.
“Oh, Yellow Plague,” she moaned. “Why today of all days?”
She got out and opened the hood at the back of the car, kneeling down to glare at the small engine. And there was the trouble. A gummy battery terminal, eaten up with acid. She wondered if she could hit it hard enough with the heel of her shoe to unclog it.
She was considering that when she noticed the big dark mechanic standing a little distance away, studying her with what could only be described as a calculating stare.
She glanced toward him, but before she could even speak, he moved closer. “Isn’t this a little obvious?” he asked with faint amusement. “First you spill coffee all over me. Now your car stalls right next to my pickup.”
His pickup? She felt as if fate were out to get her. It really had been a horror of a day. And now here was this big, dishy mechanic under the impression that she was putting on an act to get his attention. It was her own fault, she supposed. To someone who didn’t know her, her behavior might have seemed come-onish. And she had stared at him in the canteen.
“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “I know what to do.”
“Why don’t you just crank it?” he asked, eyeing her curiously. He folded his arms across his broad chest. “For future reference, I don’t like come-ons. I don’t have much trouble attracting women, and I sure as hell don’t want you lying in wait for me every day. Clear enough?”
That was insulting, uncalled-for and surprisingly painful. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away hurriedly. She got to her feet, staring at him numbly. She wasn’t quite her old, feisty self. Losing both her parents at once had been a terrible blow, and she still wasn’t quite recovered. Too, she’d always been sheltered. She simply didn’t expect cruelty from people. It was shocking to find that, and mocking contempt, in a total stranger.
“I suppose you’re justified in what you’re thinking,” she said quietly, “but you’re quite wrong. I’m not trying to come on to you. This morning was really an accident. And I have a bad battery connection that I meant to see about earlier, but I had some distractions. All I have to do is beat on it with a shoe, and I can crank it. So please don’t let me detain you.”
She turned back to the engine, her hands trembling with mingled hurt and confusion, took off her shoe and slammed it against the battery terminal with a sharp, angry blow. She stood up and almost collided with the mechanic.
“There does seem to be a little corrosion there,” he said slowly, obviously surprised.
She didn’t answer him. She didn’t even look at him. She closed the hatch, got in behind the wheel and tried the key. This time it cranked.
She didn’t look back as she drove off, fighting tears all the way. Horrible, arrogant, conceited man, she thought furiously, and wished she could call him what she was thinking he was.
Maureen had an active mental life. In her mind, she could be and do anything. But in real life, she was only a shadow of the person inside her. The inner Maureen could engage in verbal battles and give people the devil. But the outer Maureen, the one who seemed always to blend into the background, was a different proposition. She fumed and muttered, but she was too softhearted to argue with people. She walked away from fights. She always had.
Back at the small duplex in which she lived, she kicked off her shoes and flopped down on her worn sofa. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she’d been as weary. Everyone had bad days, she reminded herself. But hers seemed to go from bad to worse.
That ill-mannered mechanic’s sarcasm had been the last straw. So he was dishy. That gave him no excuse to accuse her of chasing him, for heaven’s sake. Who did he think he was? Nobody who really knew her would ever think her capable of such a thing. She smiled ruefully when she remembered that there wasn’t anybody who really knew her. Only her parents, and she’d lost them. She had nobody anymore. She didn’t make close friends easily because she was basically shy and introverted. She waited for other people to make the first move. But no one ever had. And that was too bad, she thought sadly, because the inner Maureen was as vivacious as Auntie Mame, as outrageous and outgoing as any comedienne, as sexy as a movie star. But she couldn’t get out of Maureen’s mind to tell people that she was. The reckless, devil-may-care person inside her needed only a catalyst to bring her out, but there had never been one. She dreamed of doing exciting things, and she admired people like the absent Mr. MacFaber who weren’t afraid to really live their lives. But Maureen was a slow starter. In fact, she’d never really started anything, except her job.
She put on jeans and a T-shirt, brushed out her long, dark hair and went barefoot into the kitchen to cook herself a hamburger. On the way she almost tripped over Bagwell, who’d let himself out of his cage and was having a ball with her measuring spoons.
“For heaven’s sake, what are you doing down there?” she fussed, bending over. “Did I forget to put the lock on the cage again?”
“Hello,” the big green Amazon parrot purred up at her, spreading his wings in a flirting welcome. “How are you-u-u-u?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” She extended an arm and let him climb on, pausing to pick up his spoons and put him and them back into the big brass-toned cage he occupied most of the day. “I’ll let you out again when I’m through cooking. You’ll singe your wings on the stove if you come too close.”
“Bad girl,” Bagwell muttered, running along his perch with the spoons in his big beak. He was a yellow-naped Amazon, almost seven years old, and extremely precocious. Her parents had brought him back from a Florida vacation one year and had quickly learned that Amazon parrots were very loud. They’d given him to Maureen two years ago for company and protection, and so far he’d done well providing both. The one man she’d invited over for supper had barely escaped with all his fingers. He hadn’t come back.
“You’re ruining my social life,” Maureen told the big green bird with a glare. “Thanks to you, I’ll never get a roommate.”
“I love you,” he said, and made a purring parroty noise behind it.
“Flirt,” she accused. She smiled, cooking her hamburger. She was using an iron pan, not her usual coated cookware. There had been an article in some bird magazine that warned bird owners about using nonstick cookware; it had said that the fumes could kill a bird. So now she cooked in enamel or iron pans. It was much messier, but safe for Bagwell.
“How about a carrot, Bagwell?” she asked the parrot.
“Carrot! Carrot!” he echoed.
She got him one out of the crisper and heated it just to room temperature in the microwave before she put it in his food dish. He took half of it in his claw and stood eating it contentedly.
“You’re company, at least.” She sighed, turning the hamburger one last time before taking it up. “I’m glad you’re good for seventy years or so, Bagwell. If I can’t have a husband, at least I’ve got you.”
Bagwell glanced at her with green disinterest and went back to chewing his carrot.
There was a commotion out front followed by a yelling voice giving instructions. It was usually a quiet neighborhood, but that was an ominous sound. Maureen left Bagwell and went into the living room to peep out from behind the curtain. Two men were at the other half of her duplex, the one that had remained unoccupied for the past six weeks since the music lover had moved out. People tended to come and go there, because the man who owned the other half of the duplex traveled and rented it out. The last occupant had been a hard-rock fan, and Maureen hadn’t been sorry to see him leave. But now she was wondering who would take his place.
She got her answer almost at once, and it seemed like fate, sure enough. A bad end to an even worse day. A big, dark man in a red-and-rust-colored pickup truck had backed into the second driveway, with what was obviously a small load of furniture.
She closed the curtain before he saw her, thanking providence that her small yellow VW was out of sight so that he wouldn’t realize who his nearest neighbor was. There were other houses and apartments in the neighborhood, but none close, and there were a lot of trees separating the small duplex from the other dwellings. Maureen had liked that when she moved in, but now she was beginning to feel uncomfortable. She didn’t like that big man anymore, even if he was dishy, and she was frankly irritated that she wasn’t going to be able to avoid him at home. Well, maybe he’d stay inside. That way she could do her precious gardening in the plot outback without having to be observed at it.
“AAAHHH!” Bagwell screamed. “AAAHHH!”
She rushed into the kitchen, putting her finger against her lips as she tried to quiet the screaming bird. It was almost dark, and Bagwell had to do his thing at sundown. Some Amazons purred themselves to sleep, she’d heard. Bagwell wasn’t one of them. He did a whole routine, from screaming to hanging upside down from the ceiling of his cage, and he wouldn’t stop until he was covered.
Terrified that her unwanted new neighbor was going to burst in the door any minute to find out who was being beaten, Maureen rushed to get a cloth and threw it over the cage. When Bagwell stopped yelling his parroty head off, she’d clean out the remains of his carrots and put in fresh water and papers.
She leaned against the wall with a sigh of relief. That was when she saw the shadow against the window. She felt her knees going weak. It had to be him. The shadow was huge, and if he was at the kitchen window, that meant he could see her yellow VW, which was parked just behind the duplex.
She waited there, frozen, to see what he did. But the shadow went away almost instantly, and nobody knocked.
Maureen remained immobile for another minute. Then she went and peeked out the curtain at the back door, but there was nobody in sight. Thank God, he wasn’t going to give her any trouble.
But if he was a peace-loving man, Bagwell might give him some. The last occupant, while loud, had at least not complained about Bagwell. Maureen had a feeling that this new lodger wasn’t fond of noise, musical or otherwise. It could present some problems.
She made herself a sandwich and some coffee and finally uncovered Bagwell. He was nodding off, his eyes closed, his feathers ruffled, one leg pulled up under him.
“Loudmouth,” she muttered.
He was purring to himself, making little singing noises that had amused her last boyfriend until Bagwell had tried to make dessert out of his fingers.
She sipped her coffee, wondering what she was going to do now that her new enemy had become her neighbor. What a horrible turn of events. It was such a wild coincidence, to have him living next door, out of all the apartments and houses vacant in the city. For just a minute, she thought about going next door and accusing him of chasing her. But she knew she’d never have the nerve. Still, how had he known about this vacant house, and did he know that she lived here? It was so curious.
She cleaned Bagwell’s cage and covered him back up before she went to watch television. There wasn’t much on, and she was tired. She made an early night of it, stretching lazily as she put on the long, men’s pajama jacket that was all she wore to bed. It had been on sale at a department store and looked loose and comfortable. She didn’t like frilly, lacy things that scratched, and she never could find a pair of women’s pajamas that felt right. But this item did. She loved it, even though it brought back some bittersweet memories of a time when her parents had still been alive. Her mother had teased her about what man it belonged to, and they’d all laughed. Her parents had known that she was far too fastidious for love affairs. She was an unawakened twenty-four, a plain girl who didn’t appeal to most men. She’d learned to accept that, and now she lived for her work. She had a good job and made good money, thanks to the MacFaber Corporation. She must be adept at her job, because her last boss had recommended her to Mr. Blake. She felt fortunate to be so highly thought of, when there were typists with more than her six months’ experience who’d lost out on the junior secretary’s job she held.
She turned out her light and lay back on the double bed, listening to the night sounds: traffic, and the occasional dog, and jets flying overhead. Closer, there was a different sound, like someone moving heavy objects around. She flushed as she realized that it must be her new neighbor. She’d never been in the other house, but probably his bedroom was right through that wall. She moved restlessly and decided that the very next day she was going to move her bed against another wall!

Chapter Two (#ulink_c48fb1ad-0514-53a8-84d1-a08a7ffdd465)
Maureen hated her own cowardice the next morning, but she peeked around the corner before she went out her door. The last thing she wanted was a confrontation with her new neighbor, even if she did probably have to see him at work.
She got into her yellow VW, and crossing her fingers for luck, managed to crank it on the first try. She backed it out into the road and drove off, noticing with relief that the truck wasn’t in the other side of the driveway. He must already have left for work.
Sure enough, when she got to the MacFaber Corporation offices, the red-and-rust pickup was already there. Maureen went quickly into the building and to the office she shared with Mr. Blake, glancing nervously around. But her new neighbor was nowhere in sight, thank God.
Mr. Blake glanced up when she took him the mail, staring at her blankly.
“The mail, sir,” Maureen said, putting it in front of him on the cluttered desk.
“Yes, of course,” he murmured. He seemed to be looking through her, as he did when he was preoccupied.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Blake?” she asked worriedly.
“No, nothing at all,” he assured her, but he didn’t look terribly convincing. She knew that his brother-in-law had been out on sick leave ever since the disappointing trial run of the new Faber-jet design. Maybe he was worried about the older man.
“Is your brother-in-law getting better?” she asked.
He gave her a quick, suspicious look.
“I know you must be worried about him,” she said gently. “I hope he’s all right.”
“He’s much better, thank you, Maureen,” he said stiffly. “I expect he’ll be back at work before very long.” He moved uncomfortably, as if it bothered him to talk about personal subjects. “Get me the Radley file, if you please.”
“Yes, sir.” She smiled. She liked her boss, but he had seemed terribly unlike himself lately. He needed to rest more, she decided, and not worry so much. His brother-in-law, Mr. Jameson, was a much less regimented person, a mechanic with an easygoing temperament but a stubborn resistance to authority and new techniques. She smiled, thinking privately that Mr. Jameson and the new mechanic would probably butt heads pretty quickly. It disturbed her to think about her disagreeable new neighbor.
She took Mr. Blake the file and went back to her routine. She enjoyed her job, but it could get hectic, especially when there were visiting dignitaries or government inspectors around. There was a lot of concern about the disappointing first test flight of the corporation’s Faber jet, and perhaps that was at the root of Mr. Blake’s nervousness. Quality control was where the buck stopped when anything went wrong with new designs, especially when the design department could prove that they weren’t at fault. That put not only Maureen’s boss but the entire quality-control department on the firing line.
The design department had already proved itself blameless; they’d shown a computer-graphics presentation of the craft’s performance on paper. The plane should have flown perfectly. So now everybody was beginning to think that the flaw was much more likely the result of sabotage than a design defect. MacFaber had enemies. Most successful companies and executives did. One particular rival firm, Peters Aviation, had recently made a takeover bid for MacFaber’s corporation. But characteristically, old MacFaber had pulled his irons out of the fire just in time by gathering up proxies. He had three votes over what he needed to win the fight, and Peters had gone away fuming but empty-handed. But if the new design failed, and Peters got his design in ahead of time, the board of directors might vote a lack of faith in MacFaber and approve the takeover. It was a risky situation.
Maureen, like the rest of the staff, had wondered at the poor maiden performance of the renovated Faber jet. It didn’t seem possible that it had been sabotaged, but the evidence was beginning to point that way. How curious that Mr. MacFaber hadn’t been roaring around the place raising Cain over the difficulties. But perhaps the lady in Rio had him mesmerized.
“I’d like to mesmerize someone, just once,” she muttered as she pulled up the Faber-jet file on her computer and began to type the performance report Mr. Blake had given her.
The intercom buzzed, interrupting her thoughts. “Miss Harris.”
“Yes, Mr. Blake?”
“Please go down to Mr. MacFaber’s office and ask Charlene for the latest figures on the cost overrun on the Faber-jet modifications,” he said.
“I’ll go right now.”
She left the computer up and running and went down the hall to the huge office that Mr. MacFaber occupied when he was in residence. Charlene, a pretty blonde, was glaring at her computer monitor and grumbling.
“I hate computers,” she said, glaring at the screen. “I hate computers, I hate companies that use computers, I even hate people who make computers!”
“Shame on you,” Maureen said. “You’ll upset it and it will get sick.”
“Good. I hope it dies! It just ate a whole morning’s work and it won’t give it back!”
“Here. I’ll save you. Get up.” Maureen grinned at her, sat down, and within five minutes had pulled out the backup copy of the file, copied it, and put Charlene back in the chair.
Charlene stared at her suspiciously. “I don’t trust people who understand how to do things like that. What if you’re an enemy agent or something?”
“I can’t possibly be. I don’t even own a trench coat,” Maureen said reasonably. “Mr. Blake wants the latest cost-overrun figures on the Faber jet. I’d have asked for them on my terminal, but I imagined you having hysterics if you had to try to send it via your modem.”
Charlene’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t even know how to turn on the modem, if you want the truth. I never wanted this job in the first place. Computers, modems, electronic typewriters—if the pay wasn’t so good, I’d leave tomorrow. You try sitting here trying to explain to everybody short of God that Mr. MacFaber hasn’t set foot in the office for the past year. Just try. Then explain to all these people who keep calling him that he can’t be reached by phone because he’s sitting on the banks of the Amazon contemplating the ancient Incas or something!”
“I’m really sorry,” Maureen said. “But I do need the cost-overrun figures.”
Charlene sighed. “Okay.”
She got up and fumbled through her immaculate filing cabinets until she got what she was looking for and handed a file to Maureen. “Don’t lose it and don’t let it out of your sight. Mr. Johnston will kill me if it vanishes.”
“You know very well the vice president in charge of production worships the ground you walk on.”
Charlene smiled smugly. “Yes, I do know. If he doesn’t watch out, I’ll have him in front of a minister. He’s sexy.”
“I think so, too, but we can’t all look like you,” Maureen told her. “Some of us have to look like me.”
“I like your new hairdo and makeup,” Charlene said kindly.
“I’m still going home alone, though.” Maureen shrugged. “Maybe someday I’ll get lucky.” She glanced around the plush, carpeted office. “Have you ever seen your boss?”
“Once, at a dead run, when I first got this promotion three months ago. Mostly I get memos and phone calls and relayed messages. He’s not bad looking, I guess. A bit old for my taste. Graying around the edges, you know, and a little on the heavy side. Too much high living, I suppose.” She frowned. “Although it could have been that bulky coat he was wearing.” She shrugged. “He had on dark glasses and a hat—I wouldn’t know him in a police lineup.”
“You’d think his picture would be around here somewhere, wouldn’t you, since it’s a family corporation,” Maureen remarked.
“There was a picture, but it didn’t come over with the stuff from the old building, God knows why.” Charlene sighed. “Bring that file back when you finish, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.”
She took the file back to Mr. Blake and sat down at her computer again. Odd, some of the figures looked different. But a quick glance at the sheet she’d been copying from told her that they were correct. With a tiny shrug she got back to work.
The canteen was full when she got there. She’d long since decided that rushing out to a restaurant was wasted time, and fighting the hectic traffic just killed her appetite. Even if the canteen food was artificial tasting, it was handy and cheap.
She bought herself a cold meat sandwich and a diet soft drink and sat down as close to the window as she could get. She felt self-conscious around all these people, most of whom were men, although nothing about her clothes was the least bit provocative. She was wearing a beige suit and pink blouse, with her hair in a neat French twist at her nape. She looked young and elegant and not too unattractive, she thought. The makeup did help, but nothing would change the fact that she wore glasses. She’d tried contact lenses, but she’d grown allergic to them and kept getting eye infections, so she’d given up. Anyway, she was never going to be a raving beauty. As if that mattered. None of the men around here ever looked at her, anyway.
She munched on her sandwich, watching the antics of a squirrel in the big shade tree next to the canteen with a faint smile. It took a minute for her to realize that she wasn’t alone anymore. A shadow fell across her as the big, dark man she’d met yesterday sat down two seats away with his lunch pail, glancing coldly at her as he opened it.
She didn’t look back. She’d already had enough of his arrogance. Her sandwich began to taste like cardboard, but she didn’t let him know it.
“You work for Blake, don’t you?” he asked.
She kept her eyes on her sandwich. “Yes.”
He put his sandwich in a wrapper on the table and opened a thermos to pour some of its contents into a cup. “Does it pay pretty good?”
“I get by.” She was feeling more nervous by the minute. Her hands trembled on her sandwich, and he saw it and frowned.
He glanced her way with coal-black eyes that seemed to see every pore in her skin. “I’ll bet you do,” he replied. “You don’t dress like a penniless secretary.”
That was vaguely insulting. She almost told him that she bought her clothes at a nearly-new store that specialized in low prices and high quality, but he was a stranger. Not only that, he was an arrogant and rude stranger, and she didn’t like his insinuations.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work,” she murmured, averting her face.
“What do you people in quality control do?” he asked coldly, watching her. “If you did your job properly, that new jet wouldn’t have embarrassed the company on its first test flight.”
She colored delicately and wished she could escape. He made her feel guilty and she almost apologized. He was the most intimidating man she’d ever met. “Mr.—Mr. Blake works very hard,” she protested. “Maybe it was a mechanical problem,” she added with bravado. “You’re a mechanic, aren’t you?”
She hadn’t raised her voice, but he glanced around anyway. Assured that no one was close enough to hear them, he turned his attention back to Maureen.
His eyes narrowed. “That’s one reason I was surprised by your very obvious attempt to concoct an engine problem yesterday for my benefit,” he said.
“I told you, I had a corroded battery cable, and I didn’t have to concoct it. You saw the corrosion yourself.” She clasped her hands nervously. “I think you’re very conceited.”
It was like waving a red flag at a bull, she thought, fascinated by the black lightning flashing in his eyes.
“I’ve had that dead-battery routine pulled on me before,” he interrupted curtly.
She started moving away. “I don’t pull routines. And I can change the oil and spark plugs, and even change a fan belt if I have to.”
“A woman of accomplishments,” he said. His eyes narrowed, calculating. “You know something about engines, then?”
“About Volkswagen engines, yes,” she said. “My uncle was chief mechanic at an import shop for years. He taught me.” She lifted her chin. He brought out something deeply buried in her—a temper she didn’t know she had. She felt her face going hot and her hands trembling, but she couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “And just to set the record straight, you appeal to me about as much as this sandwich did.” She waved it at him.
He lifted an eyebrow, and there was something almost sensual in the set of his wide, chiseled mouth. “Odd. I’ve been told that I don’t taste half-bad.”
She didn’t know if he was joking or not. Probably not. He wasn’t smiling, and his face was like stone. It didn’t matter, anyway; she wanted nothing else to do with him. She turned and left the canteen quickly, on legs that threatened to fold up under her. He’d ruined her lunch and the rest of the day. She’d never talked angrily to anyone in her life. He was really bringing out her latent beastly qualities, she thought, and almost laughed at the way she’d bristled. That would have amused her father and mother. The thought made her sad. She quickened her steps back to the office.
Mr. Blake had more correspondence for her to cope with after lunch, and again she was late leaving the office. But this time, thank God, the red-and-rust-colored pickup truck was missing from the parking lot, so she climbed gratefully into her small car and went home.
Bagwell was playing with a lava rock on a chain when she went in through the back door, but he dropped it the minute he spotted her and began to dance and prance and purr.
“Pretty girl!” he cooed. “Pretty girl! Hello!”
“Hi, Bagwell.” She smiled, stopping by the cage to unfasten it and let him out. He climbed onto the overhead perch and ruffled his feathers, tolerating her affectionate hand on his green head for a minute before he tried to make a meal of it.
“Vicious bird,” she muttered, grinning. “Biting the hand that feeds you. How about some apple?”
“Ap-ple,” he agreed. “Ap-ple.”
She put down her purse, kicked off her shoes with a sigh, and shared a tart, crunchy Granny Smith with him. “Bagwell, the days get longer and longer. I think I need a change of scenery.”
“Good ap-ple,” he murmured, preoccupied with the slice of fruit he was holding in his claw.
“You’ve got a one-track mind,” she said. She got up and looked in the cupboard to see what there was to eat. “Well, it’s the grocery store for me tomorrow, old fellow,” she said, grimacing when she saw the meager supply of food. “I guess it’s cereal or sandwiches.”
She changed into jeans and a sweatshirt while he was still working on his apple. Then she brewed a pot of coffee, got out bologna and mustard and made herself a sandwich, and turned on the television, searching in vain for anything except local or national news. In desperation, she slid a science-fiction movie into the VCR her parents had given her two Christmases ago and sat back to watch it.
Unfortunately Bagwell liked the sound of high-tech fantasy weapons and could mimic them very well. But he didn’t stop when they did. He continued through the dialogue, shrieking and firing and booming.
“I hate parrots,” Maureen told him as she switched off the movie in self-defense.
He flew down from his perch and walked over to the sofa, pulling himself up by his beak to stand on the arm of the rickety, worn piece of secondhand furniture.
“I’m pretty,” he said.
She scratched his head lovingly. “Yes, you are, precious,” she agreed with a smile. She leaned back and he climbed onto her jeans-clad leg. Seconds later, he was fluffed up with one foot drawn under him, half-asleep.
“Hey, now, no dozing,” she teased. She got him on her forearm and carried him to his cage. He dozed on while she cleaned it and put in fresh water. Then she put him up for the night, covering him with a thin sheet.
He was a lot of company, but he had to have at least twelve hours of sleep or he got grumpy. So she spent most of her evenings watching television alone.
She curled up with a new book on Tudor history—a work about Henry VIII—and sipped black coffee. The man next door wasn’t far from her thoughts. He irritated her more than anyone she knew, and his frankly insulting attitude in the canteen had made her angry. She’d never realized how uncomfortable it could be to have an enemy. He was her first. But she didn’t know why he disliked her, and that made things worse.
She’d never mixed well. During her childhood, she’d been pretty much a loner and a misfit. Her father had been a college professor, a brilliant man who taught physics, and her equally brilliant mother had taught English at the high-school level. They’d enlarged on her school curriculum with things for her to study at home, and her well-rounded education had set her apart from her friends, who didn’t understand why Maureen had her nose stuck in a book all the time. She loved to read, and she liked learning new things. But her love life suffered, along with her social life. Boys had avoided her in school, just as grown men avoided her now. Her pet interests were Plantagenet and Tudor England, and ornithology; and her idea of the perfect date was a trip to a museum. Sex was something other people had, and she didn’t know a birth-control pill from an aspirin. So, she told herself, perhaps it was just as well that she wasn’t a raving beauty and fascinating to men; she didn’t really have the right personality to be a swinger.
A light tapping on the wall next door caught her attention. It seemed to be coming from her bedroom. She put down her book and walked into the room, but then the tapping abruptly stopped. She went nearer to the wall and studied it closely, looking for holes. Surely the new neighbor wasn’t a Peeping Tom! He wasn’t the kind of man for that sort of thing. Or was he? But she didn’t see any holes. With a sigh that was part irritation, part frustration, she went back into the living room and back to her book. Lately, life seemed to be chock-full of obstacles.
She carried Bagwell in his cage into the bedroom with her, as she usually did, so that he wouldn’t start screaming when she turned off the lights.
“I love you!” he called loudly and made a noisy round of his cage before she talked softly to him, soothing him, and covered him again. She turned out the light, still talking softly, and he muttered for a minute, then curled one leg under, fluffed up and went to sleep. She settled down with a sigh, but she was restless, tossing and turning for a long time before she found sleep. The day had upset her, and she was glad that she had a weekend to regroup.
The next day was Saturday. Once, weekends had been the most important part of Maureen’s life, because she could garden and stay outdoors. But not anymore. Now she was too aware of eyes next door. She knew he was watching her. She didn’t even know how, but she could feel his gaze when she went to the trash can or the clothesline. She started digging a row in her small flower bed in which to put daisies, but even in jeans and a tan tank top, she felt as if she were working in the nude. She put her implements up and went inside to do housework instead.
He left about noon. She heard the pickup backing out, and with a cry of pure joy, she rushed into the backyard and started digging with a vengeance. By the time she heard the truck return, she’d done two rows, added fertilizer and planted seed. So there, she thought victoriously as she put up her gardening tools. If I have to dig and plant at night, I’m having my flower garden!
It was ridiculous, of course, to let a neighbor interfere with her activities to that extent. She started thinking about stone walls and huge privacy fences. But they cost money, and she didn’t have any to spare. It took everything she made to pay the bills; there was nothing left over for extravagance.
The rest of the day was as lonely as it usually was. She watched a movie and went to bed early. Sunday morning she got up, made breakfast and went to church. Ordinarily she would have lain out in the sun that afternoon, but not with her new neighbor in residence. His pickup truck stayed in the driveway all day. But she hadn’t heard any sounds coming from his apartment, and about dark, she heard a car pull up next door. Peeking out through the curtains, she watched a Mercedes convertible let out the big, dark man just before it backed out into the road and took off.
He wasn’t dressed like a mechanic. He was wearing what looked like a very expensive light tan suit and a shirt under it that almost had to be silk. She darted back from the window as he glanced in her direction. Well, well, she thought. Wasn’t that one for the books? He was accusing her of dressing in an uptown way, so what would he call his own leisure clothes?
Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Could he possibly be the saboteur? Her heart jumped. He was new at the company. He wasn’t known. He seemed to be a mechanic, but he dressed like a man with expensive tastes. Didn’t saboteurs make a lot of money? He could have been hired by someone to make the plane fail. Not Mr. Peters, she decided firmly. By a curious coincidence, Mr. Peters of Peters Aviation was a member in good standing of the church she attended, and she knew he wasn’t the kind of man to do something dirty like trying to undermine a competitor’s product. But there were other people who might try to topple a new design—like two renegade members of MacFaber’s own board of directors who’d wanted to sell out to Peters and were angry that Mr. MacFaber had blocked the plan.
She felt a surge of excitement as she considered her next move. She had the perfect opportunity to observe her next-door neighbor. Having him in proximity meant she could watch him. She could find out who his associates were, where he went, what he did. She could be—Maureen Harris, secret agent. She giggled. If only she had a trench coat.
She drifted off into a very satisfying fantasy. She’d just uncovered the saboteur and saved MacFaber’s company. They were pinning a medal on her. It hurt!
She gasped, looking down to the big beak that was sinking into her sneaker.
“Bagwell!” she muttered. She offered him a shirt-clad arm and he climbed aboard with happy little mumbles. So much for fantasy, she sighed.
She carried Bagwell back to the kitchen, frowning thoughtfully. Of course, she’d have to be careful about her observation. It wouldn’t do to let her sneaky neighbor see her watching him. Now she began to wonder if his moving in next door was really a coincidence, after all. Perhaps he’d known beforehand that she was Mr. Blake’s secretary and thought that he might find out things about the jet from her. But that wasn’t realistic, she decided with a sigh. What did she know about jet designs? She’d seen the blueprints only once, and her job involved less exciting things than the actual design of airplanes.
She pursed her lips thoughtfully. Her new neighbor might actually be a struggling mechanic, but he had some ritzy friends—if that car was anything to go by. She went to feed Bagwell, visions of trench coats and spy cameras running rampant in her bored mind. That was the trouble with living such a dull life, she told herself. It would get her into trouble one day.
The next week went by quickly, with only glimpses of her neighbor. Very cautiously, she kept an eye on him. She found subtle ways to question people, and she found out that his name was Jake Edwards and that he was from Arkansas. He had excellent credentials, but he kept very much to himself and nobody knew anything about him.
She felt guilty because of her snooping, even though she felt a sense of accomplishment that she’d found out so much. But her conscience and the mechanic’s evident dislike of her made her keep out of his way as much as possible. After all, he’d already accused her once of chasing him. God forbid that she should display any interest.
She’d started eating lunch in her office to make sure she didn’t run into him in the canteen. And the next weekend was a repeat of the one before. She darted out to do her gardening when he wasn’t home, otherwise never venturing outside. She had a post-office box, so she didn’t have to go out to a mailbox, and she only subscribed to the weekly paper, which came in the mail.
The only unpleasantless was when she tiptoed outside to the trash can very early Sunday morning, with her long hair tumbled to her waist, wearing the men’s pajama top that came to her knees. It was a shock to find her neighbor at his trash can, staring blatantly at her. She’d been too embarrassed even to speak. She’d darted back into her apartment and closed the door. After she got back from church, she hadn’t ventured out in the yard even once. She and Bagwell had spent the day in front of the television, watching old war movies together.
She seemed to spend her life avoiding her new neighbor, she thought ruefully. But it never occurred to her that he’d notice, or that it would matter to him. So she got the shock of her life the following Monday when he came into her office at lunchtime to find her eating a bowl of canteen chili with some crackers she’d brought from home along with a thermos of coffee. She paused with the spoon halfway to her mouth and stared at him.
He stared back. He looked even bigger at close range. He had the kind of physique that must have required some careful eating. He was enormous, but most of him seemed to be muscle. He had a broad face, almost leonine in look, with large dark eyes under a jutting brow. His eyebrows were bushy, but they suited him, like his imposing nose and square chin. He was even good-looking in a rough sort of way. He had hands like hams, and Maureen thought that she wouldn’t have liked to run afoul of him if she’d been another man instead of a woman.
“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.
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?”

Chapter Three (#ulink_302435f7-03b8-5b80-9a92-8196a3a8e3c6)
Maureen 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.”
“Well, you do see, don’t you?” she asked, with a wistful, faraway look in the green eyes behind her glasses. “That’s the kind of life I wish I could live. The most adventurous thing I do in a day is to feed Bagwell a grape and risk having my finger decapitated.” She sighed. “I’m twenty-four years old, and I’ve never done anything risky. My whole life is like a bowl of gelatin. It just lies there and congeals.”
He burst out laughing. “What a description.”
“It suits the situation,” she murmured. “I thought coming out here to Kansas and starting over again might change things, but it didn’t. I’m still the same person I was in New Orleans. I just changed the scenery. I’m the same dull stick I used to be.”
“Why do you want to climb mountains and go on safari?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Because it’s there?” she suggested. “I don’t know. I just want to get out of my rut. I’ll die one day, and I’ve never lived.” She grimaced. “The most romantic thing I’ve ever done with a man was help change a tire.” She threw up her hands. “No man who’s seen me will risk taking me out!”
He chuckled deeply. “I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t mind taking you out.”
She stared at him. “No. I don’t need pity.”
“I agree,” he said easily. “I’m not offering any. You’ve got enough self-pity for two people as it is.”
She glared. “It isn’t self-pity, it’s reality.”
He shrugged. “Whatever. How about a movie? I like science fiction and adventure and police drama. How about you?”
She began to smile. “I like those things, too.”
“Got a newspaper?”
“No,” she groaned. “Only the weekly. I can’t afford a daily paper.”
He let out a whistle. “I haven’t been here long enough to get one started. Well, we can drive around and look at the billboards.”
She felt like a new penny, bright and shining. “A matinee?”
“Why not? They’re wasted on kids. I hate going to pictures at night and trying to see around couples making love in the seats. The heavy breathing makes it hard to hear.”
“You cynic,” she accused, daring to tease him.
He smiled at her as he got to his feet. “What about your green friend there?”
“Bagwell, it’s early bedtime for you tonight,” she told him.
“Apple,” Bagwell said and let out a war whoop when she nudged him into his cage. He began to scream.
“Now, now.” She calmed him while she cleaned his cage and gave him fresh water, seeds and a vitamin additive.
“He’s a pretty bird,” Jake remarked.
“I think so. He’s a lot of company, anyway,” she replied as she covered his cage. “I don’t know how I could manage without him. He’s sort of my best friend.”
That touched him deeply. He knew that she was rather a loner at the plant, but he hadn’t realized that this was true of her private life, as well. He scowled, watching her rush around the apartment before she excused herself to change into a white sundress and tie her hair back with a ribbon.
He’d suspected her from the beginning of being involved in the problems with the Faber jet, and he still wasn’t convinced that she was totally innocent. But she didn’t fit the picture of a saboteur. Then he reminded himself that they rarely did. He couldn’t afford to let himself get too involved with her at this stage of the game. First, he had to find out a little more about her. And what better way than to involve himself in her private life?
“I’m ready,” she said, breathless as she stopped just in front of him, almost pretty in her white spike heels, white sundress with its modest rounded neckline, and white ribbon in her hair. Despite the glasses, she wasn’t bad to look at, and she had great legs. She grinned at her good fortune. Imagine, having him actually ask her out. She could find out a lot about him this way. Playing the role of superspy was making her vibrate like a spring. She was having the time of her life. It was the first dangerous thing she’d ever done, and if he really was a saboteur, it was certainly that. She had one instant of apprehension, but he smiled and she relaxed. It was just a date, she told herself firmly. She wasn’t going to try to handcuff him and drive him down to police headquarters. That thought comforted her a little. She could always tell Mr. Blake what she found out.
“Let’s go.”
He put her in the pickup truck, noticing that she didn’t complain about the torn seats and the cracked dash. She smiled at him as if he’d put her in the front seat of a Rolls-Royce, and he felt a twinge of conscience. He knew for a fact that none of the women in his world would have smiled if he’d asked them to go on a date in this ancient, clattering iron rattrap. But Maureen looked as if she were actually enjoying it, and her smile wasn’t a suffering one at all.
“You don’t mind the pickup?” he fished.
She laughed. “Oh, not at all! My dad used to have one. Of course, it was in a lot worse shape than this one. We went on fishing trips in it and threw our tackle in the boot with the ice chest.” Her eyes were dreamy. “I remember so many lazy summer days on the bayous with him and my mother. We didn’t have much money when I was a child, but it never seemed to matter because we had so much fun together. Both my parents were educators,” she explained belatedly. “That should give you an idea of their combined incomes.”
“Yes.” He put his almost finished cigarette to his lips. “Ironic, isn’t it, that we pay garbagemen in the city more than we pay the people who educate our children and shape the future. Football players are paid millions to kick a pigskin ball around a stadium, but teachers are still being paid like glorified babysitters.”
“You don’t sound like a football fan,” she said.
“I like ice hockey,” he mused. “And soccer.”
“You’re built like a football player,” she murmured shyly.
He flashed her a smile. “Believe it or not, the school I attended didn’t have a football team. My father refused to let me participate in what he saw as an educational wasteland.”
“You didn’t participate in sports at all?” she persisted.
“I did join the wrestling team,” he said with a grin. “I was school champion two years running and graduated undefeated.”

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