by Nancy Warren
“You should have asked who it was before opening the door,” he snarled.
“I looked out the bedroom window,” she said on a yawn. “I could see you.” Almost as though his sharp advice to be cautious had the opposite effect, she straightened and opened the door fully.
He’d checked her out, the way a single man in his prime always checks women out. He’d sensed a very nice body was packaged in the trendy clothes she wore. But he’d had no idea.
She wasn’t a tall woman, but she was exquisite. She wore teeny-tiny girl boxer shorts with the Union Jack stamped all over them and a little white T-shirt with Rule Britannia printed across the chest. Her legs were shapely, her breasts small and perfect. Even the tiny strip of skin between the end of her shirt and the beginning of the shorts fascinated him. So white, so smooth.
His gaze returned to her eyes and he found them fully awake now and regarding him with a certain amused speculation. Damn it, she’d knocked him on his ass and she knew it.
“Don’t tell me—your bra has the queen on one cup and Prince William on the other.”
She glanced down at her outfit as though she’d forgotten what she was wearing. “A going-away present from a friend.”
The sun was against his back, already warm. To his right he heard a bee sounding like it was snoring in the Texas lilac bush he’d planted last year.
“Did you come over to check that my pajamas are patriotic?” she asked.
He realized he was staring and felt stupid, which annoyed him even more. “I came to deliver some mail that came to me by mistake.”
He held out the envelope.
“Thank you.” She put out her hand but he didn’t relinquish the envelope.
“What’s going on, Chloe?”
Her eyebrows rose in an incredibly snooty fashion, as though she might call her palace guards to come and have him shot. “I beg your pardon?”
“Somebody stuffs a thousand bucks in cash in my mail slot in the middle of the night, it makes me curious.”
“A thousand dollars?” she exclaimed, sounding delighted. “He must have added a tip. How sweet.”
For an instant he was distracted by the thought of what her services were and what she’d done to deserve such a big tip.
A jovial male voice called out, “Mornin’ Matt, ma’am.” Chloe waved in greeting and he turned to see Chuck Dawson and most of his car pool waving as his van drove slowly by. He moved his body to block Chloe from view, though he wondered why he bothered, since she didn’t seem at all worried about waving her flag to whoever went by.
“Maybe we could discuss this inside,” he said.
“Discuss what? You’re bringing me my mail. Thank you.” She held out her hand again, flat palmed.
“Where did the money come from?”
“None of your business.”
He shifted and as he did, he saw a white convertible turn into the road, one he recognized all too well.
“Shit,” he muttered, then stepped forward so fast his neighbor squeaked when he bumped her with his body, pushing her inside the house and shutting the door fast behind them.
“How dare you? Leave this house instantly,” she demanded, small and fiery.
He ducked away from the window and made a dash for the kitchen.
“Are you a lunatic?” that crisp English voice trilled.
“Quiet. She’ll hear you.” He was in the kitchen, jamming his butt onto a kitchen chair that put him out of window range of his own house next door.
“Who will hear me? Matthew, what on earth—”
“Brittany.”
She followed him into the kitchen and looked down at him. “And who is Brittany?”
“My girlfriend.”
She looked at him like he was a few cattle short of a herd, but she didn’t say a word, for which he was ridiculously grateful. Explaining Brittany was complicated, and getting more so every day. She was perfect for him in every way. Sweet, cute, sexy, nice, and the kind of woman who would make a wonderful mom. So why was he, a grown man who should be getting on with his life, hiding in the kitchen of a neighbor who was probably a criminal?
Chloe left him sitting at the oak kitchen table he’d refinished himself, his fingers tapping the edge of the money-stuffed envelope.
Without a word she started coffee. Then she walked out of the kitchen and back toward the front of the house.
“What are you doing?” he whisper-yelled.
“Don’t you want to know what she’s doing?”
“I already know.” He could picture Brittany now. “She’s walking up to the front door. And she’s got a plate of muffins in her hand.”
Chloe turned back to him. “Coffee cake. She’s very pretty.”
“I know.” There was no more commentary from the front room, but Chloe didn’t come back either. He was such an asshole. “She’s writing a note now, isn’t she?”
“You’re very good.”
Chloe returned to the kitchen and a minute later he heard a car drive away.
Her eyes widened and her eyebrows rose in a question. “Cream and sugar?”
He blinked at her. “Unless your X chromosome is still asleep, you’re dying to know what that was about.”
“Of course I am. But everyone’s entitled to their privacy, Matthew.” She sent a significant glance toward the package in his hand.
He picked up the envelope and tapped it against the tabletop. “The cases aren’t the same at all. When you filled out the tenant form you said you had your own business.”
“And I do.”
“I figured it was a hair salon or a dress store or something.”
“How sexist of you.”
She poured coffee into white mugs as elegant as swans, which she must have purchased since he didn’t recognize them. He realized he’d never answered her question about how he liked his coffee when she poured milk into a pitcher that matched the mugs and placed it and a pot of sugar on the table in front of him with a couple of spoons that gleamed with newness.
He slurped some milk into his coffee. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have made assumptions.” He glanced up. “So, what kind of business are you in?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
He tapped his spoon against the lip of the mug, then, irritated by the sound he was making, put down the spoon and sipped the coffee. It was good. Strong and rich and he took another hit. Across the table Chloe watched him with her purple-blue aristocrat’s eyes over the rim of her own mug.
The envelope of money lay between them, along with a silence thicker than brick.
Finally, he blurted, “Look, I’m an ex-cop. You can’t stay here if you’re a hooker.”
Her eyes widened, whether because he’d accused her of being a hooker or because he was an ex-cop, he wasn’t sure.
“So, you’re not only sexist, you’re vulgar, offensive, and unimaginative as well.” She put the cup down on the table and it clicked like the period at the end of a sentence.
“Look, I’m just—”
“Isn’t a thousand dollars rather a lot to pay a prostitute?”
He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction he’d taken the conversation. Maybe he should have thought of other reasons a person might have cash dropped off in the middle of the night. “Depends on the service.”
“I see. If I were paying one thousand dollars for sex, I’d want it gift-wrapped in a Tiffany’s box.”
“Well…” He cleared his throat. “It’s uh, usually the men who pay.”
“And what would you pay a thousand dollars for?” she asked him.
He glanced up and for some damn reason, heat shot through him. Maybe it was the look in her eyes, or the thought of that alluring little body naked and wrapped around him, but lust sucker-punched him. “I never pay for sex,” he managed to snap.
“I see.”
Then he pushed the envelope toward her. “Quit yankin’ my chain, Chloe. What kind of business are you in where
clients pay cash and you keep the weirdest damned hours of any businessperson I ever knew.”
“I didn’t realize you were monitoring my movements.”
How did she do this? That cool, snooty, my country has princesses and yours doesn’t voice infuriated and aroused him at the same time. It wasn’t Brittany he should be hiding from, it was his neighbor.
“What kind of business, is all I’m asking.”
She tilted her head so that she was looking sideways and up at him. “I run a private detective agency,” she said.
He didn’t laugh, but it was a close run thing. “Do you now?”
“Certainly. Women make excellent detectives. They know how to be subtle,” she said with a tiny smile that showed off even white teeth and managed to insinuate that he was about as subtle as a charging bull.
He thought about asking for her business card, but then her obvious lie would be out in the open, and he didn’t want to end the most interesting conversation he’d had in weeks. “Do you have any specialties?”
“Specialties?”
“Areas of private investigation that you specialize in.”
“Oh, I see. No. I run a full-service agency.”
He was about to ask another question when she forestalled him.
“Shall we go and get the cake off your front porch to have with our coffee? I think your girlfriend has left.”
Shit. Brittany. He was going to have to do something about her, and he had no idea what. “Her name’s Brittany. We had a fight.”
“Her fault? So she’s bringing you a peace offering.”
He shook his head. “My fault. I was an asshole.”
“Oh, dear. Poor Brittany. Is she one of those doormat women who are sorry even when a fight is not their fault?”
“No. Brittany believes in talking things out. She brought the whatever-it-was to be civilized. But I already know it’s my fault and I need to apologize.”
“I see.”
“We’re probably going to get married, Brittany and me,” he heard himself say, but the words came out stiff and arthritic, which was pretty much how his whole body felt when he contemplated his future. However, marriage was what everyone expected: his family, his friends, Brittany.
“Which is why you’re hiding from her at first light instead of apologizing and getting on with things.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Oh, please don’t think I’m critical. It’s the sort of thing I do myself when I’m engaged.”
He was momentarily diverted from his own troubles. “You’d have hidden in my house if your boyfriend drove by?”
She looked at him, but he thought she was really looking back over her own behavior. “No,” she said. “I think, in your shoes, I’d have kissed you long and hard in your own doorway in full view of my fiancé.”
Clearly, he wasn’t the only one on the block with commitment problems. And the picture she’d put in his head definitely wasn’t helping. “Why?”
“Years of expensive therapy haven’t helped me understand my own behavior.” She put her head to one side as though that would help her sift through her thoughts. “I think I want a man to want me enough to fight for me.”
“And do they?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No. They are always terribly brave and noble, or pretend they don’t notice whatever dreadful thing I’ve done, until eventually we have a flaming great row and it’s over.”
He got up and walked toward her. “You’ve been in England too long. Here in Texas, we do things differently.” He imagine how he’d feel if Chloe were his and he found her making out with some other guy. Brave and noble were not the first words that sprang to mind.
“Good.” She seemed pleased by the notion of fights springing up over her. What a head case.
“No man wants his woman making out with another guy.”
She shrugged. “I like drama.”
Suddenly he found himself grinning. “Must be a drawback in the PI business.”
She had a way of looking at a man that was both mischievous and tempting. “That remains to be seen.”
He took his empty coffee mug to the sink. She sure kept the place neat. The sink shone and the counters were spotless.
“Matthew?”
“Mmm?”
“What about you?”
“I think drama’s for the movies.”
God, even her laugh was sexy. It was light and flirtatious, like a flower scent you’d smell once and never forget. “I meant for your job. You said you were an ex-cop.”
“I’m in real estate now.”
“In what capacity?”
He shrugged. “This and that. I buy places. Fix them up, then sell them or rent them. I bought this place when the neighbors moved to Houston. I refinished the hardwood floors, painted, did some work on the kitchen and bathrooms. I try to pick stable tenants who will fit in with the neighborhood.” His sarcasm wasn’t particularly subtle.
He didn’t turn around, but it didn’t matter. She asked anyway. “Why aren’t you a cop anymore?”
He turned. “Long story. I’ve got stuff to do and you’ve got a business to run. I’ll see you around.”
“Yes, all right. See you around,” she said, but she kept looking at him with a speculative expression that made him want to run.
Chapter 4
Chloe watched the long, tall Texan walk out her door as though he owned it. He did, of course, but she strongly suspected that lazy confidence went with him through every doorway. There was something decidedly appealing about a man who looked this good at such an ungodly hour of the morning.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she warned herself even as she moved to the window so she could watch him amble, slow as a sexy drawl, back to his own house. She did not have time for a love affair, particularly not a love affair with a man who was also her neighbor and her landlord. Two black marks that, naturally, only made him more appealing to her. Even though she knew it was the lure of the forbidden, she couldn’t stop herself from licking her lips.
Was it her imagination or was there the tiniest hitch in his step? Not quite a limp, but not a perfectly smooth gait either. Giorgio, her most recent former fiancé, had suffered a nasty skiing accident in the Italian Alps and after his knee surgery he’d walked that way when the weather was wet or he’d been overdoing his workouts. She doubted her Texan had suffered a skiing accident. Something to do with his work, no doubt. He’d certainly become huffy when she asked why he’d left the police force. She’d bet the two were related.
Interesting. Not her business, but that never stopped her.
He bent and picked up the coffee cake on his front porch, read the note, and turned to scan the empty street as though he were looking for the woman he’d hidden from earlier.
Chloe went back into the kitchen and added fresh coffee to her mug. It was clear from her brief glimpse of that sweet-looking girl with all that blond hair and the rather anxious look on her face that she was all wrong for Matthew. That girl was a nurturer through and through. She’d be a nurse, or a nursery-school teacher.
She ran upstairs to shower and get ready for the day, much earlier than she’d planned. While the water rained down on her, a story began to form. She’d bet that Matthew had met Brittany when he was injured. Of course. He’d be hurting, wounded, and the nurturer in Brittany would respond. If he’d left the force because of that knee, he’d have been drawn to a giving woman like Brittany with her coffee cakes and let’s talk about it mentality. But now that he was back on his feet, he’d reverted to an independent man. And, since he was no doubt grateful to Brittany for being there when he needed her, he’d have no idea how to get out of a romance that was clearly hopeless.
Poor, dear man.
However, it was a good day. She had a thousand dollars in hand.
Once she had her makeup done and her underwear on, she went to her office.
She flipped on her laptop computer for the day’s schedule, which was empty
but for a manicure at two p.m. that she’d booked because a businesswoman should always look well groomed.
Besides, no one knew better than Chloe, who’d spent a good portion of her life in salons of various kinds, that the salon was a hotbed of relationship goss. Men might tell the bartender their troubles, but women spilled their guts to their stylist, manicurist, or massage therapist. The world of beauty and personal pampering was a thriving market for her services.
She’d always thought of marketing as what Mummy’s housekeeper Martha did when she drove to town to do the food shopping, but now that Chloe was in business for herself, she was rapidly making the connection between marketing efforts and paying clients. If she wanted more of the latter, she was going to have to do more of the former. Since she did her marketing in person at places where she liked to spend time anyway, the activity hadn’t become a chore.
Chloe slipped on a black linen sundress, Miu Miu sandals—her green suede ones with the gold-tipped stiletto heels—a big straw bag that she’d decided was more approachable and chic than a briefcase, a bottle of water to drink, and an aerosol of Evian to keep her skin hydrated in the Texas heat.
Then she slipped on the Chanel sunglasses that always made her feel like Audrey Hepburn and headed off in her rental car, only having to be reminded once by the toot of a car horn that here in America, people drove on the opposite side of the road.
Her first destination for the day was the mall, that most American of institutions and one she loved to bits. Inside, it was cool with air conditioning and a double decker of delicious shops awaited. Sadly, she didn’t have the time or the money for shopping, but she allowed herself a few minutes of window browsing while she gave herself a pep talk. Today she would acquire three new clients, she decided, and make sure she handed out at least a dozen business cards and placed stacks of her brochures where those in unhappy relationships would be most likely to see them.
Her advert was in newspapers in San Antonio, Dallas, and Houston as well as the Austin paper. Her website was live. She had, as her brilliant marketing genius friend Anthony had decreed, three levels of marketing: print, Internet, and direct person-to-person selling. And she hoped like mad that it would pay off—and quickly. Before she ran out of money or got bored. Of the two fates, she dreaded the second most.