Her Man Upstairs (8 page)

He nodded obediently, those tarnished brass eyes gleaming with amusement. She would have swatted him if it wouldn't have given Sasha so much satisfaction. Nothing the redhead liked better than stirring up a hornet's nest.

“Nice meeting you, ma'am.”

“Oh, would you just listen to that. Isn't he sweet?”

“Sasha…”

“Have you thought any more about those colors I showed you?” she asked as Marty urged her toward the front door. “With that big north-facing window—”

“I'm giving it a lot of thought,” Marty lied as she all but pushed her friend out the door. And then listened to the throaty chuckles that drifted in her wake like a cloud of her favorite perfume. “With friends like that,” she muttered, “who needs enemies?”

“Is she, uh, in show business?” Cole asked when she rejoined him in the kitchen.

“You mean just because she's wearing a red leather skirt, a yellow fur jacket and chandelier earrings, not to mention white lace stockings and those five-inch heels? I think it's the Napoleon complex. She doesn't want to risk being overlooked.”

Cole shook his head slowly as he led her out to the truck. “Not much chance of that,” he said. “I didn't catch her last name. Does she have one?”

“She has at least five—one of her own and four ex-husbands to pick from. I never know which one she's using, so I usually don't bother to use one.”

“Madonna. Cher. Sometimes one name's enough.”

“I hadn't thought of it that way, but that's probably it.”

Evidently done with the subject of her friend's various
names, he said, “I figure we can put Mutt through his paces and be back by eight, unless you have stops to make.”

She didn't. And this wasn't the way she'd planned for the morning to go, but she surrendered to the inevitable. Less trouble that way.

She really should have insisted on taking her car, though, because his truck was a little too cozy. The scent of leather, soap and coffee from the mug in the cup-holder teased her senses. That was before he switched on the engine and the strains of classical piano poured from the speaker.

Classical piano? Had he made a mistake and turned on WUNC, the closest PBS station?

Halfway to the kennel, the music was still playing. She recognized it vaguely as Chopin, but couldn't have named it if her life depended on it. While they waited for one of Muddy Landing's three streetlights—the last two were new, and they hadn't quite got the timing down yet—he whistled softly under his breath, following the melody perfectly.

“You want me to take him?” he asked.

“No, thanks. I can do it now that I know what the problem is.”

“Fine,” he said cheerfully. “I'll just stick around in case he gets distracted by that cat again. Like I said, if he gets away—”

“I know,” she cut in. “Call nine-one-one and get someone to sound the tornado warning.”

She knew what to do about the dog. What she didn't know was what to think of a man who drove a truck that had to be at least ten years old and was showing signs of rust. A man who lived on a boat and whistled Chopin.

A man who barged into her private dreams as if he had
every right to be there, leaving her all hot and bothered. If she couldn't manage that damn dog, it would be his fault, not hers, Marty thought rancorously.

In fact, Mutt was on his best behavior. Thanks to the hand signals, he actually allowed her to fasten on his choke collar without stepping on her feet more than a couple of times. Of course he whacked her with his stub of a tail and slobbered on her hand, but, as Cole said, that was only because he liked her.

She hated to think of the damage the creature could do if he didn't.

They'd gone only a few hundred feet down Water Street when the gray Mercedes pulled away from the curb and crept forward.

Cole touched her shoulder and said quietly, “Keep going. I'll catch up with you.”

Before she could ask what he was going to do, he wheeled around and jogged back along the weedy path. Turning to stare after him, Marty was nearly pulled off her feet until she remembered the hand signal that meant Be still, you big lug.

Just as Cole got to within twenty-five feet of the car, the driver hooked a left and took off down Third Street. Cole stared after it for several moments before returning to where Marty and Mutt waited.

He said, “Damnedest thing,” and shook his head.

“Then you don't think I'm crazy? He really is following me?”

“If so, it's about the worst job of covert action I've ever seen. Not that I've seen all that many, but still…”

“What do you think he wants?”

“What do you have?”

While she was trying to come up with some reason why a stranger would be keeping tabs on her, Cole took over Mutt's lead. He allowed the dog to explore the river's edge instead of continuing to the end of the run, which was usually the Hamburger Shanty.

“I'm just guessing, but if he was looking for something in your possession, he'd wait for you to leave and then search your house.” They were facing east. The sun was low enough so that he had to squint, lending him a dangerous look. “You'll have to admit, you make it easy for him.”

Marty nodded slowly. “I'm beginning to feel like I'm trapped in the middle of a suspense plot.”

“A what?”

“Plot. Books. You know—whodunnit, to whom did they do it, and why? Don't you read fiction?”

“Sure—Cussler, Patterson, guys like that. I see what you mean, though.”

Marty made up her mind on the spot to introduce him to a few female authors. Men were good—some a lot better than good—but there was a certain subtlety in woman's suspense that was addictive.

“Well, anyway, I don't have anything worth stealing, and like you say, even if I did, why would he keep following me instead of searching my house? It's not like I ever lock the door.”

“But you will from now on, right?”

“Definitely.” For the time being, anyway. Until she figured out what this stalking business was all about. Probably a mistake.

“So if it's nothing you have in your possession, what do you know that someone might be interested in?”

“You mean like that famous Senate hearing? What did
he know and when did he know it? Beats me. Maybe he's a headhunter. Waldenbooks wants to hire me to open up a Muddy Landing branch.”

Cole took her arm as they headed back to the kennel, a grinning, tail-waving Mutt leading the way. “Until we know better, though, the next time—”

Marty finished it for him. “Right. Next time he comes after me I'll march right up to him and demand to know what the dickens is going on. How much are they offering? Is it going to be a stand-alone store or just a cubbyhole in the mall? Not that we even have a mall, unless you count Dinky's Ice Cream Parlor with the drivers' license place on one side and Paul's Hair Salon on the other.”

Cole chuckled, and the sound shivered down Marty's spine, reminding her of those torrid dreams. Reminding her that certain areas in her life had been too long neglected. She said, “Maybe I'll do it while I still have Mutt. That ought to scare the truth out of him.”

“I was thinking more like taking Mutt home with you, just in case your stalker decides to drop by. I can run any errands you need so you won't have to go out. If he gets desperate enough, we might be able to force his hand.”

Marty halted. Mutt didn't. When she regained her balance, she said, “Hold on. Wait just a cotton-pickin' minute here. If you think I'm letting this hairy elephant inside my house, you're crazy. Things are in a big enough mess without that.”

“Yeah, and he'd still need walking.” Cole went on as if she hadn't even spoken. “I can take care of that, but that would leave you home alone.” He led the way up the kennel steps and took over the unhitching before turning Mutt into his compartment.

Marty waited to respond until he'd hung up the leash and collar. “Actually, I've been thinking about getting a dog now that I won't have to go off and leave him alone all day. Nothing over fifty pounds, though. Smaller would be even better. A Jack Russell, maybe. Or a beagle—even something from the pound, as long as it's small.”

She called a greeting to the blue-haired kid who was reading a comic book behind the counter. Once they reached the three-car parking lot she automatically scanned the street in both directions. Two trucks, a delivery van and a rusty Camaro passed by. Marty waved to the woman driving the Camaro.

“Sadie Glover. She works at the ice-cream place. She was one of our, um…projects last fall.”

“Projects?”

“Don't ask.” Usually it didn't bother her—talking about their matchmaking. Everybody knew what was going on, and nobody really minded. At least, nobody ever said so—except for Faylene, after their botched attempt to pair her up with Gus Mathias before they'd found out she'd already been seeing Bob Ed.

“Look, I still don't like leaving you home alone at night,” Cole said as he assisted her into his high cab. “Fasten your seat belt.”

She did. “I thought we agreed that whoever it is, he's not after me personally. If that was the case, he could've caught me long before now. It's not like I've been hiding.”

Cole walked around the front and got in. “That's what's so puzzling,” he said thoughtfully as he pulled out of the parking lot onto the street. “He parks near your house, right?”

She nodded. “In the Caseys' driveway.”

“He follows you when you leave, but he hasn't tried to break in and he hasn't approached you. Something doesn't add up.”

“Maybe he thinks he knows me, but he's not sure. You know, like maybe we were classmates or something?”

“Possible, I guess.”

“Or you know what I think? He's waiting for me to lead him to something. Or someone. The question is, who or what?” She had to laugh. “I guess as detectives, neither of us is ready for prime time, huh?”

He chuckled along with her, and Marty thought how comfortable it was, being able to trust a man enough to laugh with him—to have him worry with her and about her.

Although
comfortable
wasn't quite the word she would have used to describe the sensation that shot through her when they pulled into the driveway and he came around to help her down. She wasn't used to being helped, even from a seat that was four feet off the ground.

She had the door open and was feeling around with her heel to find the narrow chrome bar that served as a step down when he caught her in his arms. He didn't set her down right away.

Laughing breathlessly, she said, “Didn't they used to call those things running boards back in the Dark Ages? And weren't they a lot bigger?”

And then her laughter faded, and so did his. Her breath snagged somewhere in the middle of her chest as his face went out of focus. At the last instant, she closed her eyes.

A voice that echoed none of the panic she was feeling whispered that she didn't even know this man. Yet she knew him in the most elemental sense, as if she'd known him all her life only not in this guise.

Then it was too late to think, as senses too long deprived burst into life. She felt the soft, moist brush of his lips on hers. No pressure, no demands, just…touching.

As the kiss slowly deepened, it was as if she'd been asleep for a hundred years and had woken up in a brand-new world to the tantalizing taste of mint laced with coffee. To the scent of bath soap and leather and sun-warmed male skin. To the iron-hard arms that held her breathlessly close—all elements combined to stoke a powerful hunger that demanded fulfillment.

He did a thorough job of it, she thought fleetingly as his tongue explored her mouth. His lips lifted to brush kisses on her eyelids, her temples, and then returned to the starting place.

Her carpenter. Her kissing carpenter, her upstairs man. Her bodyguard and dog walker and problem solver.

“Well,” she breathed. Once he finally lifted his face and she found enough air to speak, she couldn't think of another thing to say. “Well…”

“Got that out of the way.”

She noticed that he sounded just a tad shaken, too.

“You want to fire me? Go ahead, I'll understand.”

She shook her head. Fire him? No way. Things might be infinitely more complicated after this, but if he walked away now she'd probably chase after him, begging him to come back.

“Got what out of the way?” she asked breathlessly.

“You telling me you haven't thought about what it would be like? Kissing?”

She'd never been any good at lying, so she said nothing.

W
ith her synapses firing off like Fourth of July fireworks as they entered the house, Marty couldn't organize a single coherent thought. No other man had affected her the way this one did.

At least not since she was fifteen and was exposed to a sullen sixteen-year-old dropout who knew dirty words that hadn't even been invented, who could swear in two languages, had a world-class sneer and carried a pack of Camels in the rolled-up sleeve of his T-shirt. James Dean redux.

“You do the—the—you know—the bookcases,” she said, tugging off her stocking cap and massaging her scalp as if it might encourage circulation to her brain. “I need to—to—um…”

Cole nodded as if she'd made herself perfectly clear. If he was suffering any of the same aftereffects, he hid it well. “I'm headed to the hardware store. I shouldn't be gone
more than half an hour or so, but I want you to lock up behind me, all right? Don't open the door to anyone until I get back unless you've known them for at least five years.”

“Does that include you?” Okay, so she had a few of her wits together now. “Aren't we being a wee bit paranoid?”

A watery streak of sunlight slanted in through a west-facing window, turning his eyes to pure jade. It occurred to her that his hair didn't look quite so shaggy today. Either he'd had a trim or she was getting used to his brand of casual.

“Paranoid? Let's hope so. If we're making too big a deal of it, there's no harm done, but just in case…”

“In case the Muddy Landing Mafia is after a fortune in used first-edition paperbacks, you mean? I promise, at the first sign of imminent attack, I'll call the FBI.”

With a quick twitch of his lips, he said solemnly, “Repeat after me, ‘I will lock the door. I will not let any strangers inside until Cole gets back.'”

Marty, who had never been given to theatrics, threw out her hands and rolled her eyes. “All right, all right! What is
happening
to my nice, dull, orderly life?” She held up one finger. “I wake up one morning and some creep is stalking me.” Held up another one. “My house is falling down around my ears.” Third finger. “I'm ordered to lock my door in case the bogeyman tries to get in.” All five fingers on both hands.

“Hey,” he said softly, capturing her hands and folding them into his own. “It's not as bad as it looks. We big-city guys just tend to be a little more cautious, so humor me, will you?”

She nodded. Didn't even try to speak because she'd probably throw herself in his arms and beg him not to
leave her. He was still holding her hands as if he'd forgotten to release them, so she did it for him. Pulled away while she still could. If she'd needed a reminder that too much stress could be hazardous to a woman's health there was no need to look any further for the cause. One kiss from a man who reminded her of all the good things a man could be, but rarely was, and she was trying to twist her uneventful life into a plot for a romantic suspense.

His quick kiss missed whatever he'd been aiming for and slid off the side of her nose.

A moment later Marty watched him lope across the front yard, open the truck door and swing himself up into the high cab.

“You Tarzan, me Jane,” she whispered. “Ya-hoo!” It was more rebel yell than jungle cry. She couldn't even get that much right.

In the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator and took inventory. Half a carton of one-percent, four eggs, one of them slightly cracked, bagged salad that was several days past sell-by, Sasha's diet cream, three limp carrots and a few strips of bacon.

Instead of working on various ways of positioning her bookshelves, she started another grocery list, this time with a man in mind. She might be able to live on salad, peanut butter and ice cream, but if Cole was going to be moving in…

Good gravy, Cole was moving in? Into her
house?

Out of the question. She'd sooner take her chances with a stalker, who probably wasn't one, anyway. Probably a telemarketer who forgot to pay his phone bill and was forced to make his calls in person. Or a spammer whose computer crashed.

One thing she could almost guarantee—if she let Cole Stevens move in with her, she was going to want him in her bed, and that was about as dumb as facing down a deadline by ripping her house apart.

She wrote down
pork chops, potatoes,
and then began doodling while her mind drifted off down fantasy lane. She wasn't the only one who had enjoyed that kiss. Some things a man couldn't hide, enthusiastic arousal being one of them.

Maybe she'd better plow through her boxes and dig out all the erotica titles. After reading the first few she hadn't bothered to read any more. Her tastes ran to more plot and less sex.

G-spots? That mythical so-called “little death” that was supposed to potentially render a woman unconscious for a few seconds?

Forget it. She liked fiction as well as the next person, but she preferred hers to be reality-based. If any man ever got close to her G-spot—that is, if she even had one—to heck with losing consciousness, she wanted to be awake to enjoy it while it lasted.

Meanwhile, she'd better quit fantasizing and get busy.

 

Some forty-five minutes later she opened the door to Cole and a rush of cold, damp air.

“No callers?” he asked, dropping a six-pack and two plastic sacks on the hall bench.

“Nope. And you know what? The more I think about it, the more certain I am that it's just someone who's new to the area, who's just trying to learn his way around town.”

“Using you for a guide? Why not just pick up a map?”

“A map of what? Metropolitan Muddy Landing?”

“Yeah, I guess you're right. It's not exactly the Greater Norfolk area.”

“Or even the Greater Elizabeth City area.” To keep from staring at his mouth, his shoulders, his chest or anything south of the border—
Lord help me, I'm out of control!
—Marty frowned at his hair and said, “You got a haircut.” It sounded more like an accusation than an observation.

“Homemade. Why, did I miss a spot?” When she didn't reply, he went on to say, “Look, I've got what it takes to install chains on both your doors and stops on all the first-floor windows so they can't be raised from the outside. It's far from perfect, but this guy doesn't strike me as an expert.”

“Slow up—wait a minute! You're talking like we've got a real crime wave here. I'm sorry now I ever mentioned that damn gray Mercedes.”

There must be some law of physics that dictated that the more she overreacted, the more he underreacted. Here she was, flapping her arms like a scarecrow in a windstorm, while he stood there, calm as a marble statue.

“Like I said,” he put in quietly once she shut up and stopped flapping, “it's probably nothing, but as long as I bought all this stuff, you might as well put it to use. Once you open for business again, a few precautions make sense.”

Calm down. Deep breath.
“You mean in case some dumb creep tries to break in and loot my cash drawer? He'd be lucky to find lunch money.”

“Insurance won't pay off unless you can prove you've taken certain precautions.”

She crossed her arms while she tried to find some flaw in his line of reasoning. The truth was that she should have thought of it herself. She might be casual about her home
because she knew her neighbors—her neighborhood—but a business was something else.

“How much did all that stuff cost?” she growled.

He reminded her that it was a legitimate business deduction and handed her the sales slips. “You don't like to lose an argument, do you.” Again that twitchy little smile.

That was the trouble with enigmatic men—you could never be certain what went on behind their manly composure.

“Who does?” she countered, waiting for him to fire his next shot. It occurred to her that arguing with Cole Stevens was nowhere near as depressing as arguing with a husband. She and Alan had rarely argued, they'd simply drifted apart…that is, until his illness had brought them together again.

With Beau, it had been different. Beau always started out by wheedling, turning nasty only when he couldn't get his way. Besides his charming self, Beau had brought to the marriage a vintage Jag, a few really nice antiques and several beautiful and no doubt valuable gilt-framed paintings. All but the Jag were gone within the first year, sold to pay off his gambling debts. He'd claimed it wasn't his fault he was always in debt—he was an addict, and addicts couldn't be held responsible, and if she loved him, she wouldn't keep refusing to change the deed on the house. He'd held to that argument right up until she'd had the good sense to kick him out of her house and her life.

But when Cole argued he simply stated the facts and then waited for her to see reason. The crazy thing was that arguing with Cole was stimulating—almost like a sport.

She put the beer in the fridge, then followed him from door to door, window to window while he installed the new
hardware, handing him tools and trying to ignore the quiet, efficient way he moved. The way the muscles in his forearms flexed as he twisted the screwdriver.

“Remember, none of this is any good if you don't use it,” he warned.

“You don't have to state the obvious. I promise to latch the chains and flip the little brass whatchamacallit on all the windows before I go to bed every night.”

Something else to add to her growing list of things to do. So far the list included making sure she turned off everything that needed turning off; making sure the commode wasn't running—it had a tendency to hang up; and slathering on the miracle cream she'd wasted money on because it promised her a dewy, well-moisturized, line-free complexion. How exciting could life get for a woman whose sole interest at the moment was rehabilitating a moribund career?

Marty got out the broom and dustpan while Cole put his tools on the step to go upstairs.

Hands on his hips, he said, “They're not foolproof, but at least you'll have enough of a heads-up to call nine-one-one and get the hell out of the house.”

They headed back to the kitchen, which no longer reeked of polyurethane and blackened cinnamon. “Outdoors? But that's where our mythical stalker will be waiting,” Marty protested. She would much rather wrap herself in those strong, tanned arms and ignore the whole crazy mess. “You know what? The trouble is, I read too much. Instead of suspense, from now on maybe I'll stick to—” She'd been about to say romances, but then, those weren't the safest reading, either. Not when there was a genuine cover-worthy hero standing only a few feet away. “Biographies,” she finished weakly. “I'm pretty sure I just overreacted.”

He didn't say a word. Didn't have to—his eyes said it for him.

The first time she'd seen him she'd thought he looked wild, windblown and untamed, like the swashbuckling hero on the cover of a historical romance. Now that she'd come to know him better, he looked…

That was the trouble. He
still
looked like a swashbuckler, only now she saw more than just broad shoulders, narrow hips, greenish eyes that saw far too much, and all that shaggy, sun-streaked hair. Now his appeal was all tied up in a hundred small details, like the soapy, salty scent of his tanned skin and his deep raspy drawl. Like the way he held doors for her and helped her in and out of his monster truck. The way his lips twitched and his eyes crinkled when he was amused, but reluctant to admit it. The way he kissed…

Oh, my mercy, the way he kissed. What on earth was going on inside her small-town, dull-as-mud, semi-educated brain? He should have known better than to start anything he wasn't willing to finish.

Because she
was
willing. Far too willing. The trouble was, the job came with a built-in deadline, and her carpenter came with the job, and any distractions could royally screw up her schedule.

Right. And don't you forget it.

She reminded herself that elevated stress levels were only to be expected under the circumstances. Genuine clinical depression was another thing altogether. She didn't have time to be depressed. She certainly couldn't afford a shrink, and talking it over with her best friends wasn't even a faint possibility. She knew in advance what that pair would recommend.

Bracing her shoulders, she said, “Okay—for insurance purposes, but I still think all this might be overkill.”

“Maybe. But like I said, if you hear someone messing around outside, it'll give you time to call nine-one-one.”

“Betty Mary Crotts—she's the night dispatcher—she's another of my regulars. If she happens to be awake, she'll probably have her nose in a Regency romance.”

“All the more reason to keep you safe. Your regulars need you.”

“There's just no winning an argument with you, is there.” It sounded almost like a compliment. From the twinkle in his eyes, he knew it, too. Damn him for reading her like a third-grade primer. “Then shall we both get to work? We've already wasted half the day.”

“Wasted?”

She couldn't meet his eyes. Instead, she snatched up her floor-plan-in-progress and stalked off toward the living room.

 

They ate lunch separately. Shortly after Cole went back to work, Marty called up the stairway to say she was going to run to the post office and would be back in an hour or so. She didn't wait to hear his arguments. If a certain Mercedes wanted to follow her while she picked up her mail, plus a few things she needed from the drugstore, all the better. She would damn well force a confrontation and end this silly charade once and for all.

She slowed down as she passed the Caseys' brick ranch. They'd driven his car to Florida. Hers was locked in the garage.

No sign of a Mercedes as she drove to the post office to collect her daily allotment of catalogs and bills. She traded
greetings with Miss Canfield, whose tremors were getting worse. “Are you having a garden this year?” she asked.