The Man Next Door. Ellen James

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      He thought over what she’d said, searching for anything that might be of use. Diane Bennett, for all her attempts at perkiness, was as peculiarly devoid of charisma as her mother. It was a strange lack, as if some essential gene had been left out of the family makeup.

      “So you think she’s in love with Jack,” Michael said gravely.

      “Anyone can see it—except Diane. And possibly Jack. For a physics professor, he can be remarkably dense. But do you really want to know about Diane Bennett’s love life?”

      He couldn’t honestly say that he did, but he knew any detail might be important. One thing was certain—he never would’ve pegged Jack Hutchinson for a physics professor.

      “You make it sound like Sophie’s botched things for Diane before.”

      “And you make it sound as if you’re very interested in the Bennetts.” Kim spoke coolly, but he sensed an anger in her. Somehow he’d touched a nerve.

      “If you despise them so much, why did you come here tonight?” he asked.

      She paced a few steps back and forth, as if she couldn’t bear to stand still. “When Sophie convenes the family, you know you’d damn well better be there—to look out for your own interests, if nothing else. That’s one thing I learned from Stan at least.”

      Stan. The dead husband. Kim had given Michael the perfect opening, but he took it reluctantly.

      “I’m sorry about what happened,” he said.

      “That’s right—you know all about it, don’t you? Courtesy of Sophie.”

      Again he chose his words carefully. “I know your husband died in a car accident. No real evidence of foul play, but the autopsy showed a high level of blood alcohol, and he wasn’t known to be a heavy drinker.”

      Kim had averted her face as he spoke. “My, Sophie was thorough in her briefing,” she said in a caustic tone.

      Sophie had indeed been forthcoming on the subject, but the police report had provided all the pertinent details. Michael disliked what he had to ask next. He disliked a lot of things about his job lately. “Do you think it was murder, Kim?”

      Standing there before him in the darkness, she was very silent. But then finally she spoke, her voice tight.

      “Mr. Turner, you’re a damn sight too curious. About Stan, about the rest of the Bennetts…about everything. And I can’t help wondering why.”

      He wanted her to wonder. It was the closest he could come to being straight with her. He felt an unreasonable urge to protect her—from what, he couldn’t have said.

      “Yes,” she said at last, her voice so low he barely caught the word. “Yes,” she repeated a few seconds later. “I do think someone killed him. That was one of Stan’s few virtues—he hardly ever drank too much. So why that night?”

      She sounded innocent—convincingly so. But a person could perfect the art of sounding innocent.

      “Any idea who the culprit might be?” he asked, though still reluctant to pursue the subject.

      She stared at him in the darkness. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but no, I don’t have a clue who might have killed my husband. Satisfied?”

      The last thing he felt was satisfaction. But he’d already noted the tension in her every time she spoke about her dead husband—and then the way she grew silent. Michael wondered about Stan Bennett. Had the guy appreciated his beautiful wife?

      “It was a mistake,” Kim said now. “I never should have asked you to come here with me. What was I thinking?”

      “I should be here.” Once more he clasped her hand, drawing her near. He felt her stiffen. They gazed at each other, but even the light spilling from the room beyond didn’t chase the shadows from this secluded alcove. He couldn’t read Kim’s expression, knowing only the warmth of her fingers curled in his.

      “You’re doing it again,” she said almost in a whisper. “You’re looking at me. that way.”

      “It’s dark. How can you tell?” His own voice was low.

      “I just can. And you have to stop.”

      Michael forgot that he was supposed to be on the job tonight. He forgot about the Bennetts. He forgot everything but Kim’s loveliness. He brought her even nearer to him. Their bodies didn’t quite touch, yet still they gazed at each other in a darkness that both obscured and enticed. And then, at last, he bent his head to hers.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      MICHAEL’S CHEEK brushed Kim’s. Her skin was as soft as he’d imagined it would be, her scent alluringly feminine. But she stood motionless, self—contained in her silence. He wanted her response and he courted it, bringing his lips to the corner of her mouth. Did he feel her tremble or was it only his imagination?

      She allowed no more, stepping away from him. He experienced an immediate sense of loss. He knew he didn’t have any right to touch her, but that didn’t stop the wanting.

      “I can’t,” she said after a moment, the darkness still cloaking her. He didn’t ask her what she meant, just waited for her to say the rest of it.

      “I can’t do this,” she went on, a turbulence underneath her words. “It’s all a mistake. Bringing you here and pretending everything is normal. In this house, of all places—” She broke off abruptly. Slipping past him, she went back inside.

      He stood on the veranda another second or two. Maybe he thought if he stayed out here, she’d return to him. That was wishful thinking of course, the kind of thing he should have left behind a long time ago.

      Finally he walked back into that lofty, oddly bare living room. There was minimal furniture scattered about, and he supposed it was the kind of place where architectural details were supposed to take precedence: exposed ceiling beams, high arched windows, carved moldings. The overall effect was that of a drafty church with too few worshipers. The Bennetts remained in their separate little clusters, but again faces turned toward him in interest; Diane Bennett looked particularly alert. No doubt they were speculating about what he and Kim had been doing on the veranda. He couldn’t say he cared.

      Kim had taken up a position alone some distance from the others. She didn’t do anything to minimize her solitary status, didn’t pretend to be looking at the paintings on the walls, didn’t indulge in any other ruse to appear occupied. She just stood there, back straight and chin up, holding her small black bag as if it were a weapon. She couldn’t have made it clearer that she wished to go on being solitary. A reluctant admiration stirred in Michael. She might as well have been wearing a sign that read No Bennetts Allowed. But did the warning extend to him? He walked over to her. The stern expression on her face told him she still regretted inviting him.

      “Lively party,” he remarked. “When does the conga line start?”

      His stab at humor obviously didn’t impress СКАЧАТЬ