Feeling like a complete fool, Maggie tried to stammer an apology. “Oh, lord. I’m sorry. I had no idea that—”
“Now, ma’am,” interjected Sergeant Cooper, his tone again serious, “you have no need to apologize. You did the right thing. Believe me. We had no idea who it was in there until two of my men brought him outside.” The grin reappeared. “This is just sorta a bonus, so to speak.”
Closing her eyes in a rush of feeling, Maggie berated herself for letting her imagination get the best of her. She had imagined a drug-crazed biker with tattoos and boots with chains on them, but what she had was an ex-cop who was now the butt of a big practical joke. Resigned to permanent mortification over her new neighbor, she heaved a sigh and glanced at the parking lot. Tony What’s-his-name was standing in front of one of the squad cars, and it was apparent, even from this distance, that his hands were still secured behind him. She looked back at the sergeant, indignation on his behalf surfacing. “Then how come he’s still handcuffed? You aren’t taking him downtown, are you?”
Sergeant Cooper cleared his throat again and looked at her. “Well,” he said, fighting another grin. “The boys are considering their options right now.”
Maggie knew that cops had a reputation for being a bunch of practical jokers, but this was going a little too far. Especially when she was to blame. She opened her mouth to speak her mind, but was interrupted by a commotion next door. She looked over. Unencumbered by handcuffs, her new neighbor was now standing above one cop, who was sprawled on the ground in front of the squad car. The man was rubbing his wrists and grinning.
Suppressing the urge to go inside and never come out, Maggie numbly nodded when Sergeant Cooper took his leave, the effects of too much adrenaline making her light-headed. She rubbed her forehead, feeling as if she’d just gone three rounds with Alice in Wonderland. Deciding it was time for her to melt into the woodwork, she started to go back into the house, but heard a commotion behind her. She turned just in time to see the police officers pile into their cars and peel away, their blue and red lights flashing. Off to the doughnut shop, no doubt, she thought with a certain amount of cynicism.
Picking up the doormat she had draped over the railing to dry after yesterday’s shower, she dropped it on the step, then turned to enter her house. Except ex-detective Tony Whatever-his-name-was was heading her way. Maggie considered ducking into the house and bolting the door, but hesitated. Then she heaved another weary sigh, resigning herself to a nasty confrontation. And in all honesty, she couldn’t blame him one darned bit. Handcuffed and hauled out of his house in the dead of night, he had every reason to be ticked off. Refolding her arms, she watched him approach, wondering how good she was at eating humble pie. As he stepped into the sphere of light coming from her porch light, her heart went dead still, then started to hammer in her chest. Lord, he was attractive.
Wide shouldered and slim hipped, he moved with the athletic, cocky swagger of a man who knew he was every inch a man. But if his body was perfect poster material, his face was enough to stop every female heart from the North Pole to Texas. He had a square chin with a deep cleft, a straight nose and dark, Mediterranean eyes, with lashes so long and thick she could see them from ten feet away and in bad light. His hair was short on the sides and on top, long at the back, and there was a day-old stubble darkening his jaw. His looks were startling, but it was the aura around him that kicked off a storm of awareness in her middle—a woman’s awareness. He simply oozed sensuality, and she knew—knew—that this man had full carnal knowledge of what a bedroom was all about.
Badly unnerved by that thought, Maggie swallowed and wet her lips, reminding herself that she was responsible for having this man hauled out of his home in handcuffs. Suddenly conscious of her sagging bum and the thighs God had allocated to keep her humble, she folded her arms, trying to still the frantic pounding in her chest.
Just then he looked up, and a startled look crossed his face. Maggie realized he hadn’t seen her there, standing in the nook created by the climbing honeysuckle that clung to the wroughtiron trellis. Expecting a blast, she was caught completely off guard by his lopsided grin. “Margaret Burrows, I assume?”
If his body and face were a fantasy come true, his husky voice sent shivers of awareness racing up and down her spine. Somehow she managed to make her mouth move. “Maggie. It’s Maggie Burrows.”
Pausing on the bottom step, he stared at her a moment, something in his eyes making her heart want to climb out of her chest. There was a brief pause, then he smiled, and Maggie’s lungs ceased to function. It was a smile that would have had her dentist writhing in ecstasy. He stretched out his hand toward her. “Tony Parnelli. I’m your new neighbor.”
Oddly reluctant to touch him, Maggie forced herself to descend one step and take his hand, her pulse running completely amok. He was younger than she’d originally thought— probably not much over thirty—and she experienced a sudden hollow feeling in her chest. It took everything she had to tighten her fingers around his. “I’m sorry,” she began, her voice catching a little. “I had no idea that—”
He closed his hand around hers and looked up at her, his gaze suddenly intent. He didn’t shake her hand, he just held it, and Maggie had to fight the sudden urge to sit down and bury her head in her knees. He didn’t say anything for a moment; then he gave her a slow, lopsided smile. “Hey, no apologies, okay? I really appreciate the fact that I’ve got a neighbor who’s watching out for me.”
Realizing that he was still holding her hand, Maggie shivered, loosened her grip and pulled away. Resisting the urge to rub her palm against her slacks, she affected a semblance of a smile. “Well, it had to be pretty unpleasant, getting hauled outside like that.”
He chuckled and draped his arm over the newel post at the bottom of the steps. “Don’t worry about it. I got my revenge.”
Remembering the cop sprawled on his back in front of the cruiser, Maggie allowed a small smile, keenly aware that her palm was still tingling. “So it seemed.” Sticking her hands in the pockets of her slacks, she leaned back and braced her weight against the wrought-iron railing, wishing her legs didn’t feel so shaky. “I hadn’t realized the Millers had found a buyer for the shop.”
His arms still draped over the newel post, Tony Parnelli glanced back at his property. “Signed the papers day before yesterday.” Then he glanced back at her, a twinkle in his eyes. “I guess I could have spared myself a lot of grief if I’d ripped down the For Sale sign right away.”
Trying to forget her biker-gang scenario, Maggie hunched her shoulders and smiled a little. “I am sorry.”
He straightened, sticking his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “Don’t be.” He grinned, holy hell in his eyes. “Maybe someday I can return the favor.”
“I’ll forgo that kind of favor, Mr. Parnelli,” she responded dryly.
Tony Parnelli grinned again, then made a motion with one hand. “I guess I’d better get going. I have to find something to stick over the window.”
Still feeling a little foolish, Maggie opened her door. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood.”
He nodded and started down the sidewalk, then stopped and turned to face her. “By the way, it’s Tony.”
“Welcome to the neighborhood, Tony.”
He grinned, raised his hand in a farewell salute and jogged off across her yard. Maggie watched him, then resolutely turned and entered her sun porch, firmly closing the door behind her. Just what she needed. A virile Italian hunk living right next door.
Chapter 2
Sunlight streamed in through the naked front-room window and splashed across the wrinkled, paint-spattered canvas covering part of the hardwood floor, leaving the bare walls in stark relief. The spring breeze wafting in through the open casements rattled the plastic sheets that were taped up to protect the windows and woodwork from splattering paint. Maggie, hot and sticky from her labors, pulled her T-shirt out of the waistband of her jeans. Cans of paint, extra paintbrush
es, a paint tray and several rollers lay piled in one corner, ready for the redecorating assault. The drapes had been hung out on the clothesline to air, the pictures, books and knickknacks had been moved to the master bedroom and the plants were in the bathroom.
The room had been stripped of everything Maggie had been able to move, and all that remained were a few pieces of furniture.
Checking to make sure the coasters were in place under the sofa so as not to mark the hardwood floor, she put her weight behind it, shoving it to the center of the room. She covered it with an old sheet, then surveyed her morning’s work. This room and the hallway were the last of her major overhaul. Kelly had moved downstairs to the big bedroom in the basement right after Christmas, and Maggie had been yanking the house apart ever since. The kitchen and bathroom had been completely remodeled the year before, and the woodwork and hardwood floors refinished. And now she was determined to get a grip on the remainder of the place.
One upstairs bedroom had been turned into a guest room, for when one of the other kids was home, and the third bedroom had been turned into an office for her, complete with a computer station, bookshelves and two new oak-veneer file cabinets. Maggie had wallpapered the dining room over the Christmas holidays, and now all that was left to do was apply a fresh coat of paint in the hallway and living room.
She had started the redecorating frenzy two years ago, shortly after her father had died. It had been her way of working through the shock and awful sense of loss. Maybe, in some ways, she was still working through it; his death had left a terrible hole in her life.
“Mom!”
Jarred by her daughter’s yell, Maggie tucked a loose strand of hair under the scarf covering her head, then shouted over her shoulder, “In here.”
Kelly came hopping into the living room on one bare foot, trying to pull off her remaining sneaker at the same time. With her hair scraped back in a tight knot, still wet from swimming, the teenager caught her balance at the archway, tugging at her shoe. She had on cycling shorts and her swim-team jacket, and excitement radiated from her face. Wondering what this was all about, Maggie folded her arms, leaned back against the sofa and waited. Kelly was the one who looked most like her—with honeyed, light brown hair, wide hazel eyes and a full mouth that wasn’t completely dead center in her face. But there was an effervescence in her daughter that Maggie didn’t think she’d ever had. Or maybe she simply didn’t remember ever feeling that full of life.
Kelly finally managed to yank off her shoe, and she tossed it down the hallway. Her eyes alight with a frenzy of enthusiasm, she flung her swim bag onto one of the easy chairs, throwing her arms up in jubilation. “You’ll never guess what I just saw next door. Never. The ultimate Mustang—a 1969 Boss 429. It rolled out of one of the bays just as I was coming down the street. I couldn’t believe it—I nearly drove my bike into a tree. In mint condition, Mom. A classic! Black with tinted windows—I nearly died. Do you know what a car like that is worth? Do you know what it’ll do? Wowl I can’t believe it! Right next door.”
Her arms still folded, Maggie studied her daughter, a twist of humor pulling at one corner of her mouth. “This is not a horse, I take it.”
Kelly looked at her mother, obviously appalled by her lack of knowledge. “It’s a car, Mom. A classic. A classic! It was one of the hottest cars ever built, and they’re so rare, I never, ever expected to even see one for real.”
As her daughter continued to reel off statistics about the miracle car living next door, Maggie sent up a silent rebuke to her father. This was all his fault. He had taken Kelly to a car show when she was six years old, and ever since, her daughter had been obsessed with cars. Most teenage girls had posters of teen idols in macho poses pinned up on their bedroom walls, but not Kelly Lynn. She had posters of cars. Other girls had pinups of rock stars. Kelly Lynn had production stats and speed records. Other girls wanted to be doctors or lawyers. Her daughter wanted to design the ultimate prototype. Releasing a resigned sigh, Maggie let her wind down, then tacked on a polite smile. “That’s nice, Kelly. Now, how about cutting the grass?”
Kelly cast her a totally exasperated look and snatched up her swim bag. “Jeez, Mother. A car like that right next door. Aren’t you even the least bit impressed?”
Not wanting to be reminded about anything “right next door,” she crossed her ankles. “I’m very impressed,” she lied. “But that doesn’t change the fact that the grass needs to be cut.”
Her daughter grumbled something under her breath and slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder, her expression rife with disgust.
Deciding to salve her daughter’s indignation, Maggie flicked a piece of lint off the back of the sofa, adding slyly, “That way, if you’re working outside, you might get a chance to talk to the owner.”
Pumped up by that idea, Kelly didn’t even realize she’d just been had. Her face lit up again, and she headed toward the kitchen. “Wow. That’s a great idea! A Boss 429—wait till I tell Scott.”
Maggie watched her go, her smile lingering. She should feel like a louse for that stunt. But she didn’t. Kelly would be high for days if she got to talk cars with someone.
An image of Tony Parnelli coming up the walk took shape in her mind, and Maggie abruptly straightened. She was not going to think about next door. Period. Or her stupid mental lapse over Tony Parnelli. She was a grown woman, for heaven’s sake. And she had better things to do. Like getting the living room and hallway painted.
The long extension on the paint roller was greasy with wet paint, and Maggie squinted up at the ceiling, carefully working her way across it. Her arms felt like lead and the small of her back felt as if it was broken, but she gritted her teeth and kept at it. She never should have tackled the damned ceiling on her own. Loaded with paint and accumulated loose plaster, the thick sheepskin roller weighed a ton, and with every pass, bits of the stippled surface rained down on her. She was covered in it, especially her face. Thank God she’d protected her hair with a scarf, or she’d be picking paint and plaster out of it for next the three weeks. But her face was such a mess that it was getting to the point that when she looked up, her eyelids stuck. But damn it, she had only a four-foot-square corner left to do; then she’d be finished. Finished. She’d probably be blind and broken, but she would be finished. And she was never going to do this again. Ever.
Running the roller through the paint tray for another load of paint, she gritted her teeth and lifted the apparatus to the ceiling, her arms, shoulders and neck screaming in protest. The extension was supposed to make things easier, so she wouldn’t have to work from a ladder. But at this point, she was sure it made it worse. It felt as if she was lifting a barn over her head. Just four more square feet…
Maggie had narrowed the amount down to two when Kelly came bursting in the back door, shouting for her.
Her daughter, dressed in shorts and a ratty old T-shirt, her face awash with excitement, came bounding into the living room, nearly incoherent in her haste. “Guess what, Mom? Guess what? I was putting my bike in the garage when the new owner from next door came jogging down the back alley, and he saw Grandpa’s car in the garage.”
Not giving a damn about anything but getting through this mess, Maggie opened her eyes wide to unstick her eyelashes, then continued to carefully work the roller back and forth. Right then, she wanted to toss the roller, the pricey extension handle and every can of paint she had out the front-room window. Her shoulders felt as if there were hot knives embedded in them, and she was certain she’d never be able to straighten her neck again.
She locked her teeth together and kept working. She didn’t want to hear one more word about that damned car. It was an old Golden Hawk Studebaker her father had purchased in the late fifties, claiming it was going to be a hot collector’s item one day. But for nearly forty years, it had been nothing but a coddled garage queen. Her father had fussed over it constantly and taken it out on the road rarely, and it had driven her mother nuts. And now it w
as driving her nuts, because her father had given it to Kelly.
“He couldn’t believe it, Mom. Especially the low mileage and the shape it’s in. He wanted to know if we could park it outside for a minute. He wants to take a picture.”
Aggravated no end by the mess around her and by how her eyelids kept sticking, and further aggravated by the little lurch her heart gave at the mention of Tony Parnelli’s name, Maggie tightened her grip on the handle. “Mr. Parnelli,” she muttered through clenched teeth, “can take that damned car and park it somewhere dark and painful, for all I care.”
“Well, now,” said an amused male voice directly behind her. “If you sell me that damned car, I’ll park it anywhere you want.”
Horror radiating through her, Maggie froze. Unable to handle the strain, her muscles let go in a rush, and she staggered backward, the roller skidding down the full length of the wall. Her feet tangled in the canvas covering the floor, and she threw out her arm to try to catch her balance. A strong hand gripped her upper arm, stopping her from plunging into the stack of paint cans.
Feeling like an utter fool, she managed to get loose from the canvas twisted around one ankle, fervently wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole. Inanely grateful for the off-white paint covering her red face, she took a deep breath and forced herself to brazen it out.
Wiping her paint-speckled hands on her jeans, she lifted her chin and turned to face one Tony Parnelli. A wicked grin on his face, he folded his arms and rested his weight against the archway. He had on a very expensive pair of sneakers, faded cutoffs and a bright red tank top that displayed an upper-body muscle development that put Le God to shame.
Aware that one of her eyelids was stuck open, she gave him a rueful smile. “If revenge is sweet, you should go into sugar overload any minute now.”
He continued to watch her for a moment, his dark eyes flashing with laughter, then he glanced at the paint cans and back at her. The grin broadened, revealing his perfect white teeth. His gaze fixed on her, he spoke, his voice underscored with barely contained amusement. “Mrs. Benjamin Moore, I presume.”
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