by Nora Roberts
With his eyes narrowed against the stinging sleet, he climbed the steep steps one last time. The temperature inside was dramatically higher than the wind-punched air outside. The landlord was generous with the heat. Overly generous. But then, it wasn’t Jed’s problem how the old guy spent his money.
Funny old guy, Jed thought now, with his rich voice, operatic gestures and silver flask. He’d been more interested in Jed’s opinion on twentieth-century playwrights than in his references and rent check.
Still, you couldn’t be a cop for nearly half your life and not understand that the world was made up of a lot of odd characters.
Once inside, Jed dumped the last box onto the oak table in the dining area. He dug through crumpled newspaper in search of that drink. Unlike the crates in storage, these boxes weren’t marked, nor had they been packed with any sort of system. If there had been any practical genes in the Skimmerhorn blood, he figured Elaine had gotten his share as well as her own.
The fresh thought of his sister made him swear again, softly through his teeth. He knew better than to let the thought dig roots, for if it did it would bloom with guilt. Over the past month he’d become all too aware that guilt could give you night sweats and a dull, skittering sense of panic.
Sweaty hands and panic weren’t desirable qualities in a cop. Nor was the tendency to uncontrollable rage. But he wasn’t a cop anymore, Jed reminded himself. His time and his choices, as he’d told his grandmother, were his own.
The apartment was echoingly empty, which only served to satisfy him that he was alone. One of the reasons he’d chosen it was because he’d have only one neighbor to ignore. The other reason was just as simple, and just as basic: It was fabulous.
He supposed he’d lived with the finer things for too long not to be drawn to them. However much he claimed that his surroundings didn’t matter, he would have been quietly miserable in some glossy condo or soulless apartment complex.
He imagined the old building had been converted into shop and apartments sometime in the thirties. It had retained its lofty ceilings and spacious rooms, the working fireplace and slim, tall windows. The floors, a random-width oak, had been highly polished for the new tenant.
The trim was walnut and uncarved, the walls a creamy ivory. The old man had assured Jed they could be painted to suit his tastes, but home decorating was the last thing on Jed’s mind. He would take the rooms precisely as they were.
He unearthed a bottle of Jameson, three-quarters full. He studied it a moment, then set it on the table. He was shoving packing paper aside in search of a glass when he heard noises. His hands froze, his body braced.
Tilting his head, he turned, trying to locate the source of the sound. He’d thought he’d heard bells, a tingling echo. And now laughter, a smoky drift of it, seductive and female.
His eyes turned to the brass, open-work floor vent near the fireplace. The sounds floated up through it, some vague, some clear enough that he could hear individual words if he chose to listen.
There was some sort of antique or curio shop beneath the apartment. It had been closed for the last couple of days, but it was apparently open for business now.
Jed went back to his search for a glass and tuned out the sounds from below.
“I really do appreciate your meeting us here, John.” Dora set a newly acquired globe lamp beside the antique cash register.
“No problem.” He huffed a bit as he carted another crate into the overflowing storeroom. He was a tall man with a skinny frame that refused to fill out, an honest face that might have been homely but for the pale, shy eyes that peered at the world from behind thick lenses.
He sold Oldsmobiles in Landsdowne and had been named Salesman of the Year two years running using a low-key, almost apologetic approach that came naturally to him and charmed the customers.
Now he smiled at Dora and shoved his dark-framed glasses back up his nose. “How did you manage to buy so much in such a short time?”
“Experience.” She had to rise on her toes to kiss John’s cheek, then she bent and scooped up her younger nephew, Michael. “Hey, frog face, did you miss me?”
“Nuh-uh.” But he grinned and wrapped his pudgy arms around her neck.
Lea turned to keep an eagle eye on her two other children. “Richie, hands in your pockets. Missy, no pirouetting in the shop.”
“But, Mom . . .”
“Ah.” Lea sighed, smiled. “I’m home.” She held out her arms for Michael. “Dora, do you need any more help?”
“No, I can handle it from here. Thanks again.”
“If you’re sure.” Dubiously, Lea glanced around the shop. It was a mystery to her how her sister could function in the clutter she constantly surrounded herself with. They had grown up in chaos, with every day dawning with a new drama or comedy. For Lea, the only way to remain sane as an adult was structure. “I really could come in tomorrow.”
“No. It’s your day off, and I’m counting on scarfing down my share of those cookies you’ll be baking.” As she herded her family toward the door, Dora slipped a pound bag of M&M’s to her niece. “Share,” she ordered under her breath. “And don’t tell your mom where you got them.” She ruffled Richie’s hair. “Scram, creep.”
He grinned, showing the wide gap of his missing two front teeth. “Burglars might come tonight and rob you blind.” Reaching out, he toyed with the long dangle of citrine and amethyst that swung at her ear. “If I spent the night, I’d shoot them for you.”
“Why, thank you, Richie,” Dora said in serious tones. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. But I’ll just have to shoot my own burglars tonight.” She nudged her family outside, then began to lock up immediately, knowing that Lea would wait until she had turned every lock and engaged the security alarm.
Alone, she turned and took a deep breath. There was the scent of apple and pine from the potpourri set all around the shop. It was good to be home, she thought, and lifted the box that contained the new acquisitions she’d decided to take to her apartment upstairs.
She moved through the storeroom to unlock the door that led to the inside stairway. She had to juggle the box, her purse and her overnight bag, as well as the coat she’d stripped off on entering the shop. Muttering to herself, she managed to hit the light switch in the stairway with her shoulder.
She was halfway down the hall when she saw the light spilling out of the neighboring apartment. The new tenant. Shifting her grip, she walked to the door that was braced open with a box and peered in.
She saw him standing by an old table, a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. The room itself was sparsely furnished with a sofa and an overstuffed chair.
But she was more interested in the man who stood in profile to her and downed a long swallow of whiskey.
He was tall with a tough, athletic build that made her think of a boxer. He wore a navy sweatshirt with sleeves pushed up to the elbows—no visible tattoos—and Levis worn white at the stress points. His hair was a bit unkempt, falling carelessly over his collar in a rich shade of ripening wheat.
In contrast, the watch at his wrist was either an amazingly good knockoff, or a genuine Rolex.
Though her appraisal took only seconds, Dora sensed her neighbor was not celebrating his new home. His face, shadowed by the high slash of cheekbones and the stubble of a beard, seemed grim.
Before she had made a sound, she saw his body tense. His head whipped around. Dora found herself fighting the instinct to step back in defense as he pinned her with eyes that were hard, expressionless and shockingly blue.
“Your door was open,” she said apologetically, and was immediately annoyed that she’d excused herself from standing in her own hallway.
“Yeah.” He set the bottle down, carrying the glass with him as he crossed to her. Jed took his own survey. Most of her body was obscured by the large cardboard box she carried. A pretty oval face, slightly pointed at the chin, with an old-fashioned roses-and-cream complexion, a wide, unpainte
d mouth that was just curving up in a smile, big brown eyes that were filled with friendly curiosity, a swing of sable-colored hair.
“I’m Dora,” she explained when he only continued to stare. “From across the hall? Need any help getting organized?”
“No.” Jed booted the box away with his foot and closed the door in her face.
Her mouth fell open before she deliberately snapped it shut. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood,” she muttered as she turned away to her own door. After an initial fumble for her keys, she unlocked her door and slammed it behind her. “Thanks a lot, Dad,” she said to the empty room. “Looks like you found me a real prize.”
Dora dumped her things on a settee blooming with cabbage roses, brushed her hair back with impatient fingers. The guy might have been a pleasure to look at, she mused, but she preferred a neighbor with a modicum of personality. Marching to her candlestick phone, she decided to call her father and give him an earful.
Before she’d dialed the second number, she spotted the sheet of paper with its big heart-shaped happy face drawn at the bottom. Quentin Conroy always added some little drawing—a barometer of his mood—on his notes and letters. Dora hung up the phone and began to read.
Izzy, my darling daughter.
Dora winced. Her father was the only living soul who called her by that derivative of her name.
The deed is done. Well done, if I say so myself. Your new tenant is a strapping young man who should be able to help you with any menial work. His name, as you see on the copies of the lease awaiting your signature, is Jed Skimmerhorn. A full-bodied name that brings lusty sea captains or hearty pioneers to my mind. I found him fascinatingly taciturn, and sensed a whirlpool bubbling under those still waters. I couldn’t think of anything nicer to give my adored daughter than an intriguing neighbor.
Welcome home, my firstborn babe.
Your devoted father.
Dora didn’t want to be amused, but she couldn’t help smiling. The move was so obvious. Put her within elbow-rubbing space of an attractive man, and maybe, just maybe, she would fall in love, get married and give her greedy father more grandchildren to spoil.
“Sorry, Dad,” she murmured. “You’re in for another disappointment.”
Setting the note aside, she skimmed a finger down the lease until she came to Jed’s signature. It was a bold scrawl, and she dashed her own name on the line next to it on both copies. Lifting one, she strode to her door and across the hall and knocked.
When the door opened, Dora thrust the lease out, crushing the corner against Jed’s chest. “You’ll need this for your records.”
He took it. His gaze lowered, scanned, then lifted again. Her eyes weren’t friendly now, but cool. Which suited him. “Why’d the old man leave this with you?”
Her chin tilted up. “The old man,” she said in mild tones, “is my father. I own the building, which makes me, Mr. Skimmerhorn, your landlord.” She turned on her heel and was across the hall in two strides. With her hand on the knob, she paused, turned. Her hair swung out, curved, settled. “The rent’s due on the twenty-first of each month. You can slip the check under my door and save yourself a stamp, as well as any contact with other humans.”
She slipped inside and closed the door with a satisfied snick of the lock.
CHAPTER
THREE
When Jed jogged to the base of the steps leading up to his apartment, he’d sweated out most of the physical consequences of a half bottle of whiskey. One of the reasons he’d chosen this location was the gym around the corner. He’d spent a very satisfying ninety minutes that morning lifting weights, punching the hell out of the heavy bag and burning away most of his morning-after headache in the steam room.
Now, feeling almost human, he craved a pot of black coffee and one of the microwave breakfasts he’d loaded into his freezer. He pulled his key out of the pocket of his sweats and let himself into the hallway. He heard the music immediately. Not Christmas carols, thankfully, but the rich-throated wail of gospel according to Aretha Franklin.
At least his landlord’s taste in music wouldn’t irritate him, he mused, and would have turned directly into his own rooms except he’d noted her open door.
An even trade, Jed figured, and, dipping his hands into his pockets, wandered over. He knew he’d been deliberately rude the night before. And because it had been deliberate, he saw no reason to apologize. Still, he thought it wise to make some sort of cautious peace with the woman who owned his building.
He nudged the door open a bit wider, and stared.
Like his, her apartment was spacious, high ceilinged and full of light from a trio of front windows. That was where the similarity ended.
Even after growing up in a house adorned with possessions, he was amazed. He’d never seen so much stuff crammed into one single space before. Glass shelves covered one wall and were loaded with old bottles, tins, figurines, painted boxes and various knickknacks that were beyond his power to recognize. There were a number of tables, and each of them was topped by more glassware and china. A brightly floral couch was loaded with colored pillows that picked up the faded tones of a large area rug. A Multan, he recognized. There’d been a similar rug in his family’s front parlor for as long as he could remember.
To complement the season, there was a tree by the window, every branch laden with colored balls and lights. A wooden sleigh overflowed with pinecones. A ceramic snowman with a top hat grinned back at him.
It should have been crowded, Jed thought. It certainly should have been messy. But somehow it was neither. Instead he had the impression of having opened some magic treasure chest.
In the midst of it all was his landlord. She wore a scarlet suit with a short straight skirt and a snugly fitted jacket. While her back was to him, he pursed his lips and wondered what sort of mood he’d been in the evening before not to have noticed that nifty little body.
Under Aretha’s rich tones, he heard Dora muttering to herself. Jed leaned against the doorjamb as she propped the painting she’d been holding on the sofa and turned. To her credit, she managed to muffle most of the squeal when she spotted him.
“Your door was open,” he told her.
“Yeah.” Then, because it wasn’t in her nature to be monosyllabic like her tenant, she shrugged. “I’ve been recirculating some inventory this morning—from up here to downstairs.” She brushed at her bangs. “Is there a problem, Mr. Skimmerhorn? Leaky plumbing? Mice?”
“Not so I’ve noticed.”
“Fine.” She crossed the room and moved out of his view until he shifted inside the door. She stood beside a pedestal dining room table pouring what smelled gloriously like strong coffee from a china pot into a delicate matching cup. Dora set the pot back down and lifted a brow. Her unsmiling lips were as boldly red as her suit. “Is there something you need?”
“Some of that wouldn’t hurt.” He nodded toward the pot.
So now he wanted to be neighborly, Dora thought. Saying nothing, she went to a curved glass cabinet and took out another cup and saucer. “Cream? Sugar?”
“No.”
When he didn’t come any farther into the room, she took the coffee to him. He smelled like soap, she realized. Appealingly so. But her father had been right about the eyes. They were hard and inscrutable.
“Thanks.” He downed the contents of the fragile cup in two swallows and handed it back. His mother had had the same china, he recalled. And had broken several pieces heaving them at servants. “The old—your father,” he corrected, “said it was okay for me to set up my equipment next door. But since he’s not in charge I figured I should check with you.”
“Equipment?” Dora set his empty cup back on the table and picked up her own. “What sort?”
“A bench press, some weights.”
“Oh.” Instinctively, she took her gaze over his arms, his chest. “I don’t think that’s a problem—unless you do a lot of thudding when the shop’s open.”
“I’ll watch
the thudding.” He looked back at the painting, studied it for a moment. Again, bold, he thought, like her color scheme, like the punch-in-the-gut scent she wore. “You know, that’s upside down.”
Her smile came quickly, brilliantly. She had indeed set it on the sofa the way it had been displayed at auction. “I think so, too. I’m going to hang it the other way.”
To demonstrate, she went over and flipped it. Jed narrowed his eyes. “That’s right side up,” he agreed. “It’s still ugly, but it’s right side up.”
“The appreciation of art is as individual as art itself.”
“If you say so. Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome. Oh, Skimmerhorn?”
He stopped, glanced back over his shoulder. The faint glint of impatience in his eyes intrigued her more than any friendly smile would have.
“If you’re thinking of redecorating or sprucing up your new place, come on down to the shop. Dora’s Parlor has something for everybody.”
“I don’t need anything. Thanks for the coffee.”
Dora was still smiling when she heard his door close. “Wrong, Skimmerhorn,” she murmured. “Everybody needs something.”
Cooling his heels in a dusty office and listening to the Beach Boys harmonize on “Little St. Nick” wasn’t how Anthony DiCarlo had pictured spending this morning. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now.
More to the point, Finley wanted answers, and wanted them yesterday. DiCarlo tugged on his silk tie. He didn’t have answers yet, but he would. The phone call from Los Angeles the day before had been crystal clear. Find the merchandise, within twenty-four hours, or pay the consequences.
DiCarlo had no intention of discovering what those consequences were.
He looked up at the big white-faced clock overhead and watched the minute hand click from 9:04 to 9:05. He had less than fifteen hours left. His palms were sweaty.
Through the wide glass panel stenciled with an overweight Santa and his industrious elves, he could see more than a dozen shipping clerks busily stamping and hauling.