Buch lesen: «Part-Time Fiance»

CHAPTER ONE

RUSH hour was over, but traffic was still heavy along the major streets, and it was moving slowly because of the dusting of snow which had fallen during the day. Delainey tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and held on to her patience. Normally she was unruffled by bad driving conditions, whether caused by weather or hesitant drivers or accidents stopping the normal flow of cars. In fact, she’d been stuck in so many traffic jams in her life that if she hadn’t learned to keep calm she figured she’d have been dead of a heart attack long since.

But tonight was different. Tonight she was on her way home.

Finally she was able to make her turn off the boulevard and between the massive brick gateposts of the White Oaks complex. The main drive stretched out before her, twisting through a strand of mature oak trees, their branches bare now in the chill of late autumn. From the far end of the drive peeked the facade of a rambling old redbrick mansion, once a private home but now the clubhouse for the whole of White Oaks. Here and there, smaller lanes branched off the main drive, each winding through the hilly estate and ending at a cluster of modern town houses.

The third drive to the left, Delainey reminded herself. The first time she’d come here, she’d gotten thoroughly lost because all the little lanes seemed to look alike. And though there were signposts at each intersection, they were small and discreetly lettered.

Unobtrusive—and very effective at putting across the message that if you didn’t know where you were going, you didn’t belong at White Oaks. Strangers and salesmen beware.

She was surprised to see the moving van still parked in front of her town house. The engine was running, the back doors were open, and a ramp was still in place—but as far as she could see the van was empty. The movers’ work must be done by now. Still, it would be nice to be able to take a look around the town house before the men left, in case she wanted something heavy shifted to a different location.

Not that she had anything terribly heavy, really. To tell the truth, Delainey was surprised the movers had used a full-size moving van when practically everything she owned would have fit on a pickup truck.

She parked behind the van and sat for a moment staring at the complex. Each of the separate buildings on the estate contained four individual town houses. The buildings were surrounded by woods, widely scattered, and set at angles so they were all but invisible to each other. Within each building, every unit faced a different direction. The effect was that each town house felt set apart, as if it were entirely alone on the grand estate.

From where Delainey sat, she could see just the front of her own town house and the side of the one next door. The two others in the building might as well not have existed at all.

The careful planning and construction was a great deal of the reason why White Oaks had been such a success ever since a development company had bought a huge, deserted and obsolete old mansion in the middle of nowhere and turned the estate into a community. It also didn’t hurt, Delainey admitted, that the city had grown unexpectedly fast in that direction, and now the square mile occupied by White Oaks was smack in the middle of the action, while remaining set apart and parklike because of its sheer size. It was exclusive, private, protected, and close to work—exactly the sort of place that up-and-coming people liked to live. People like Delainey.

The mere thought made her stomach give a strange little quiver. She wasn’t used to thinking of herself in those terms—as the sort of person who moved in exclusive circles and who lived in an exclusive community. It was going to take some getting used to.

But as her new boss had pointed out, in her recently acquired position she could hardly still live in a rundown old apartment building on the edge of the industrial district. It didn’t look good, he’d said. It didn’t look successful—and projecting the image of success was important.

It was more than just image that had prompted her to buy the town house, of course. She had worked long and hard to earn the chance to have a home of her own. Still, it was going to take some adjustment before it all seemed real. Before it seemed that she deserved it.

She noted that the lights were blazing in her own unit—the previous occupants had left only minimal window coverings—and, in a more subdued fashion, in the town house next door. The real estate agent had told her the neighbors were a nice couple. An attorney and a software engineer, if she remembered correctly what Patty had told her. Not that Delainey was likely to have time to form friendships, so she hadn’t paid a lot of attention.

Delainey opened the back door of her car to survey the few things she’d brought with her—a couple of boxes of items that were too precious to trust to the movers, a bundle of firewood that she’d bought on impulse on her lunch hour, and her briefcase. What to carry in first?

She saw movement from the corner of her eye and turned swiftly to confront the man who approached. You’ve got to stop jumping like that, she told herself. You’re not living in the inner city anymore. This is White Oaks.

“You must be the new owner,” the man said.

His voice was soft and deep and rich, with a texture which caressed Delainey’s ears in exactly the same way her cashmere scarf caressed her throat. She would have expected that the rest of him would match—an alpaca overcoat perhaps, pin-striped suit, silk tie, polished wing tips. Instead, he was wearing faded jeans that looked as if they’d shrunk to the precise shape of his body, running shoes, and a leather jacket that had definitely seen better days. His head was bare, and the crisp breeze ruffled his black hair, just a little too long over the ears. He did not look like White Oaks’ usual clientele.

But that was a foolish reaction. Delainey had learned the lesson long ago—in the first week she’d worked as a teenage teller-trainee at the bank—that the customers who always looked like a million bucks were seldom the same ones who actually kept that much in their accounts.

She nodded. “Yes, I’m Delainey Hodges. And you’re—?”

He didn’t seem to see the hand she’d stretched out. “Any idea when your movers will be finished?”

“I’m sure they’re anxious to get home,” Delainey said levelly. “Why are you concerned, Mr.—?”

“Wagner. Because they’ve managed to block my drive, that’s why.”

He was right, Delainey saw. Each unit had its own garage, nestled into the town house it served but set at an angle from the entrance so it would be a less prominent part of the facade. Though the moving van was parked in front of her unit, the front wheels indeed had encroached on the neighboring drive in order to line up the ramp with Delainey’s sidewalk.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “The movers probably didn’t realize which garage was which and thought they were blocking mine.”

“No doubt. But that doesn’t move the truck.”

Isn’t this going to be fun. This mannerless cretin lived right next door—and if he was as touchy about other things as he was about his driveway….

An attorney and a computer engineer. She wondered which one he was. Well, Delainey told herself, the real estate person might not have been entirely wrong about the neighbors being a nice couple. She’d wait to see what Mr. Grumpy’s wife was like—though she had to admit she was already questioning the woman’s judgment. If her taste in men was any indication…

What were you just thinking about the dangers of jumping to conclusions based on first impressions? she reminded herself.

“Of course,” she pointed out, “instead of merely stewing about it and lying in wait for me to arrive, you could have just asked them to move the truck.”

He looked startled. “That’s what I was coming over to do when I saw you drive in.”

“I’ll take care of it.” She turned back to the car. She’d leave the boxes for now, she decided, but she could carry both the firewood and the case that held her notebook computer. She picked them up, leaned a hip against the door to shut it, and realized that the cretin-next-door hadn’t moved. “Is there anything else you’d like me to do for you?” she asked pointedly. “Or are you planning to just stand out here and freeze until they move the truck?”

“On second thought,” he said, “I’ll go ask them myself. I must admit to being curious. I assumed from the little they took out of the van that they’d be gone within an hour. What have they been doing in there all afternoon—having a party?”

He’d actually watched while the movers unloaded her possessions? “It must be nice to have the kind of time on your hands to sit and watch the neighbors’ furniture,” Delainey muttered.

His eyebrows rose, as if he was wondering why she sounded irritated. “That’s my point. It didn’t take all that long.”

Maybe he hadn’t actually been prying, Delainey told herself. She supposed there could have been other reasons why he’d been sitting by the window watching every box come off the moving van. She just couldn’t happen to think of any at the moment.

“I do hope you kept a running inventory,” she said sweetly. “It’ll come in handy in case the movers have lost any of my possessions.” She started up the sidewalk.

Just as she stepped onto the tiny porch, the front door of the town house opened and two burly men came out, one carrying an armload of neatly folded furniture pads, the other pulling a two-wheeled cart. “Just finished, Ms. Hodges,” the one with the cart said. “It’s all yours.” He hesitated on the top step. “You’re absolutely sure you want that futon downstairs?”

“Those were the instructions I left, yes.”

He shrugged. “You’re the boss. It just seemed odd to me, to have two big bedrooms and not a stick of furniture in either of them, only clothes and boxes—so I thought I’d better check.”

“Your first house?” the cretin-next-door asked casually.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m sure you’re anxious to be going, Mr. Wagner, now that the truck will soon be out of your driveway.” She didn’t wait for an answer before going inside.

She closed the front door behind her and leaned against it, looking across the open plan of the first floor, through the entry and living area, past the stairway set off to one side and the kitchen half tucked underneath, to the glass atrium door at the back leading onto a patio.

She had seen the town house only once before, when she’d looked at it before making an offer to buy. She hadn’t expected it to appear quite so different now.

But of course on that first visit it had been daylight, and the previous occupant’s furniture had still been in place. There had been posters on the walls and knickknacks on the mantel.

Now, even though the movers had left all the lights on, the rooms seemed dim and almost dingy. On the beige walls were patches of darker color where frames had hung, protecting the paint from fading. With only her own few bits of furniture in the living room—the futon, a small rocking chair, the stereo system and a television on a cart—the whole town house seemed to echo. She could hear her heartbeat, though perhaps that wasn’t the silence so much as the sudden realization of the responsibility she had taken on in buying a house.

Her cell phone rang, startlingly loud in the quiet room. She glanced automatically at her watch before answering.

The voice on the other end was that of the real estate agent who had closed the deal. “How’s the move going?”

“Hi, Patty. It’s all finished, except for the unpacking.”

“Oh, the fun part.”

“Is that an offer to help?”

Patty chuckled. “Sure. I’ve got a free spot in my calendar a year from next April, if that’s good for you.”

“Thanks anyway.” Delainey moved across the living room to where the black-upholstered futon sat in front of the fireplace. The movers had even plumped the cushions, and it looked almost inviting. “Patty, remember when we looked at this place and we talked about how oddly the furniture was arranged?”

“Yeah, the couch was sitting at a really strange angle.”

“We should have moved it to look underneath.” Delainey shifted the phone from one hand to the other and tipped her head to get a better view of the carpet. Smack in the center of the room was a black patch the size of her outstretched hand. “It looks like someone spilled India ink on the carpet, and they just set the couch on top to hide it.”

“Ink? If that’s actually what it is, it won’t come out. I’ll talk to the people at the loan company.”

“You think they might actually replace the carpet?”

“I’ll suggest that it would be good for customer relations—but don’t get your hopes up too high.”

“I won’t,” Delainey said. “I worked in the mortgage department at the bank for a while—long enough to know there’s a whole different set of rules when it comes to houses that have been forced up for sale by the threat of repossession. Buyer beware is the operative phrase in situations like that.”

“And you did buy the place at a pretty deep discount because everybody admits there’s some work to be done.”

Some work to be done? At the moment, Delainey thought, it seemed a classic understatement. “Well, right now I’d say the loan company did very well for itself. I didn’t realize it would look so…abandoned.”

“Every house does on moving day. Hey, if you end up stuck with the stain, you could just pretend it’s a Rorschach test. It would make a great party game, having everyone interpret it.”

“Thanks,” Delainey said dryly. “You’re a real pal, Patty.”

She eyed the boxes the movers had stacked in the kitchen and decided that unpacking the toaster and her few mismatched dishes could wait awhile. The moving van was gone and there was no sign of the cretin-next-door, so she carried in her two boxes of special treasures from the car.

When she set the first one on the kitchen counter, she was startled to notice that right next to the stove, where a big ceramic fruit bowl had been strategically placed on the day she had looked at the town house, was a perfectly round scorch mark where someone had once set a sizzling skillet or a boiling kettle.

A carpet and a countertop needing replaced. “I wonder what other nice little surprises I’m apt to find,” she muttered as she began to unpack the box.

She didn’t know why the previous owners had been unable to make their house payments, but she was sympathetic to their plight—and she couldn’t exactly blame them for covering up the flaws. They were not only losing their home, but they’d already sacrificed the down payment they’d made when they first took out the loan. And since the loan company which carried the mortgage was looking for a quick sale which would turn just enough cash to pay the outstanding balance, the owners weren’t likely to get anything from the sale at all. Only if someone offered to pay more than it took to settle the mortgage would the owners end up with a cent—so of course they’d make it look as good as they could and hope that the buyer wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

Which was exactly what had happened. It hadn’t occurred to Delainey to move the couch, or pick up the fruit bowl to look underneath. For that matter, she couldn’t remember whether she’d actually turned on all the faucets and light switches. She’d been in a bit of a hurry that day, as she recalled.

But despite the damage, Patty was right that she had gotten a bargain. It wasn’t as if she’d have to put down new carpet or tear out the kitchen countertops right away. She could live with them as they were for a while—and that was lucky, she mused. Good deal though the town house had been, it was a big leap in monthly expense from the rent she’d been paying in her shared apartment, and what the down payment had done to her savings account hadn’t been pretty.

She unwrapped her grandmother’s small blue china bell and set it safely on a shelf. The next bundle of tissue paper contained the silver sugar tongs she’d bought at an antique store on her last trip home. Her mother had thought the gadget a waste of money—what on earth was wrong with using a spoon?—but though Delainey couldn’t have explained it, she had known she’d regret it if she walked out of the store without the tongs.

And now, finally, she might actually have a chance to use them. In the town house she could do an entirely different kind of entertaining than she’d ever tackled before. When she’d been sharing the apartment, having a few friends in for pizza and a rented movie had been a big party. Now, particularly with her new job, she would be hosting dinners and cocktail parties for clients as well. Of course, she’d need a table first, and some chairs….

Uncertain where she wanted to store the tongs, she left them lying beside the box while she unwrapped the crystal clock she’d been given for a high school graduation gift. It looked small but important in the center of the mantel, and putting it in place made her feel as if she was starting to claim the town house for her own.

She looked thoughtfully into the bare, black cavity of the fireplace. She’d never had one before. Not a real one. The fireplace in the house she’d lived in as a child had been only for show—its warm glow was provided by an orange lightbulb. And none of the apartments she’d lived in had ever been the sort to include such amenities.

The work of settling in could wait, she decided. It was her first night in her own home, and she was going to sit by her own fireside and relax. Maybe even go to sleep with the crackling of a fire to soothe her.

Upstairs, in the front bedroom where the movers had hung her clothes, she changed from her khaki-colored business suit into ivory satin pajamas and brushed out her hair until it gleamed golden brown in the bathroom mirror. She dug sheets, pillows, and blankets out of a box in the back bedroom and made up the futon, pulling it around till it sat directly in front of the fireplace. Then she found the bundle of firewood where she’d set it down right inside the front door and carried it into the living room.

The bundle was tightly wrapped in plastic, and the carrying strap had been stapled into the wood itself. She broke a fingernail, went to the kitchen to open a box to look for a knife, and cracked the tip off the knife blade before she finally managed to pry the staples loose.

“Tools,” she muttered. “I’m going to have to buy some tools.”

She knelt down to stack the wood in the fireplace, crisscrossing the splintery chunks as she’d seen others do. It was difficult to keep the wood from shifting and rolling, and even when she’d put it all in, it didn’t seem like much of a fire. It was only a small pile. She took a deep breath and struck a match.

The wood caught fire instantly, and moments later a cloud of smoke billowed out of the fireplace and engulfed her. Coughing and choking, Delainey staggered to the atrium door at the back of the living room, fumbled for what seemed endless minutes before she figured out the lock, and finally flung the door open.

Cold air and snowflakes flooded in and swirled around her. Smoke surged from the fireplace, and Delainey grabbed the plastic that had been wrapped around the firewood and tried desperately to fan the fumes toward the door.

A shadow loomed in the doorway. “What in the hell are you doing? Trying to burn the whole place down?”

It was the cretin-next-door, still in the faded jeans but without the leather jacket. Instead he was wearing a sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed to the elbows. And his voice no longer sounded like cashmere but more like canvas—rough and abrasive.

Just what I need.

At the moment, however, Delainey was desperate enough to accept help from any source. “The fire just flared up all of a sudden,” she said. “I got all the plastic off the wood, I’m sure of it, so I don’t know why it’s smoking like that.”

He glanced at the fireplace, shot a look at her, and set her briskly out of his way as he headed for the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he said, “Of course it didn’t occur to you before you lit the fire that a poker would be a useful thing to have on hand.”

Delainey bit her lip. There was no sense in answering something that so obviously hadn’t been intended as a question.

Drawers rattled, paper rustled, and she heard a muttered curse. Then he came back with her silver sugar tongs in his hand and dropped to his knees by the fireplace.

Delainey put out a hand to stop him. “You can’t use those! That’s silver—”

“Watch me.” The tongs gleamed red in the firelight as he reached over the flames, up into the chimney, and pulled. There was a metallic thud, and he sat back on his heels.

The air was still thick and gray, but instead of rolling into the room now, the smoke was going up the chimney.

“A fireplace works better when you open the damper before you strike the match,” he said.

“I guess I should have known that.” Delaney watched as he patted out a spark which had settled on the front of the sweatshirt. “I hope you didn’t get burned.”

“Singed the hair on my arms a little.” He stood up. “Those bundles of so-called firewood are pretty useless—and that’s a good thing. If the wood hadn’t been dry as cardboard, you’d have had smoke so thick you’d have had to knock a hole in the roof to vent it.”

He was right about the firewood, Delainey realized. The blaze was already dying down; the half-dozen sticks were little more than embers. It hadn’t even been a hot enough blaze to melt the few snowflakes that still clung to his hair.

“Thanks,” she said. “ I’m sorry for yelling at you about the tongs. And I’ll replace the sweatshirt.”

“No need. It’s been exposed to worse things than sparks.” He handed the tongs to her. “Don’t close the damper till the fire’s completely out.”

She nodded, but she was thinking, As if I’m actually going to touch that fireplace ever again!

“Is there anything else you’d like me to do for you?” he said pleasantly.

Delainey bit her lip as she recognized her own words quoted back at her. “No, I think that takes care of it.” What had he said his name was? Wagner, that was it. “Thanks again, Mr. Wagner.”

“Sam,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s just a quirk of mine, but I think a lady who entertains in her pajamas should be on a first name basis with her guests.”

Delainey gritted her teeth and brushed feebly at a sooty streak on her satin sleeve.

He smiled and turned toward the French door. “Want me to close this, or are you planning to just stand in here and freeze?”

Damn the man; he had the memory of a tape recorder. “I think I’ll let the place air out a little more first.” She looked down at the silver tongs in her hand, now smudged with smoke, and added tentatively, “Honestly, I’m not incompetent in general. Just inexperienced with fireplaces.”

“Well, that’s good,” Sam said. “Because I was really starting to worry about what might happen when you tried to take a shower.”

He was whistling as he crossed the patio toward his own back door.

I’m buying a poker tomorrow, Delainey thought. But not for the fireplace. Just so I’ll have it handy to use as a murder weapon.

The doorbell rang as Delainey was coming down the stairs the next morning, still tightening an earring. She peeked out to see a woman on the doorstep, every gray hair in place and a basket in her hand.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” the woman said when Delainey opened the door. “My name’s Emma Ashford and I live right around the corner.” She held out the basket. “Muffins for your first breakfast in your new home. Actually, I tried to leave some for you last night, but your moving men seemed to think I was taking pity on them and by the time I’d explained, they’d cleaned up every crumb.”

Delainey inhaled the rich fragrance of vanilla and cinnamon which rose from the folds of the napkin which lined the basket. “So you baked these this morning? I’ll have to thank the moving men for being greedy, because I get muffins straight from the oven…. Won’t you come in?”

Emma hesitated. “I don’t mean to be a pest. I know you working girls keep a ferocious schedule.”

“Actually, I have all the time in the world this morning, because I’m stuck here while I wait for a delivery.” Delainey led the way to the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Only if you’re making some for yourself.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” Delainey took two plates from the cabinet. One was white plastic with fake gold trim; the other was blue pottery. “Not very elegant, I’m afraid. China that actually matched was never a priority when I shared an apartment.”

“Of course not. Roommates can be so careless.” Emma settled herself at the breakfast bar and began to unpack the basket. “This most be your first real home.”

Delainey nodded and ran a finger across the rough surface of the counter where the previous owner’s hot skillet had damaged it. “It’ll be a while before I get it all into shape.”

“It always takes twice as long as you expect, and three times as much money.”

“Oh, that’s a comfort,” Delainey said dryly. She plugged the coffeepot in and reached into the cabinet for a pair of mismatched mugs. “Did you know the previous owners?”

“Not well. I’ve only been here a short while myself.” Emma split a muffin and set it on the blue pottery plate, pushing it across the breakfast bar to Delainey.

Delainey wanted to ask why she was living there at all. White Oaks was hardly a retirement community; from what Patty had told her, the average age of the residents was about thirty. But she couldn’t think of a way to phrase the question without sounding rude, so she turned her attention back to the coffeepot, which didn’t seem to be doing anything.

“That’s odd,” she muttered. “It was all right when I used it a couple of days ago.” She moved it to the other side of the sink and plugged it into a different outlet, and it immediately began to swish and sigh. “Oh, that’s great—a dead outlet, too, right in the middle of the kitchen. Maybe I can get an electrician to come while I’m waiting around anyway.”

“The same day you call? Unlikely.”

“I suppose you’re right. Will you excuse me for just a minute? I need to call the bank so my boss knows I won’t be in till late.”

“If it’s just a package you’re waiting for, the clubhouse manager will be happy to sign for it and keep it till you get home.”

“Actually, it’s a bed.” Delainey glanced across the living area at the futon where—she hoped—she had spent her last night ever. “A whole bedroom set, in fact. It was supposed to be delivered first thing this morning, but the department store called just before you got here to say the truck would be delayed.”

“What a nuisance. There’s no telling when they’ll actually show up.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Delainey said glumly. “I really can’t afford to take the time off, because I just started this job six weeks ago.”

“You said you work for a bank?”

“National City. I’m in the business-loan division.”

“Then we certainly can’t have you being late,” Emma said briskly. “You go on to work—after you’ve finished your muffin, of course—and I’ll keep an eye out for the deliverymen.”

“That would be lovely, but I can’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t ask. I offered. That’s what neighbors do.”

“Not the kind of neighbors I’ve ever had before,” Delainey said. She surveyed Emma Ashford more closely. Con artist? Nosy old woman? Neither, she concluded. Emma was just a nice lady who was probably a bit lonely in this community of younger people, and who had a little too much time on her hands.