The Man Next Door. Ellen James

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СКАЧАТЬ Not that the Bennetts count that in my favor.” She didn’t want to talk anymore. She just wanted this wretched bush out of her life. She toiled away, exposing the roots. They looked stunted, shriveled, as if they hadn’t found enough nourishment in the dry Arizona soil. Kim almost started to feel sorry for the bush, and that worried her. She’d always hated it—why change her mind now?

      She was hoping Michael Turner would simply turn and walk away; surely she’d made it clear she wasn’t one for cheery conversation. But he just stood there, observing her as if he couldn’t believe this was how she handled a shovel. Kim was annoyed, yet she also felt something else—a skittering awareness along her spine. She didn’t think she could ever relax around a person like Michael Turner. She certainly wasn’t relaxing now.

      The heat of the sun pressed down on her, and his gaze pressed on her, too. At last she stopped attacking the bush and stared back at him in exasperation.

      “Let me guess,” she said. “You’re going to remind me that I’m doing it all wrong.”

      His expression was serious. “I just wondered if it was working—the therapy part.”

      “No. It’s not.” She jabbed the shovel into the ground and kicked it, stubbing her toe. She held in an expressive oath. So much for sneakers. Next time she worked in the yard, it had better be boots.

      Michael Turner came over next to her, just as he had before, and took the shovel.

      “Maybe it’s time for a different tactic,” he said.

      His nearness was disconcerting. Not that it lasted long, though. He moved a few steps away and resumed his own shoveling.

      “I was doing just fine—” Kim began.

      “I don’t think so,” he said. “I’d say you were digging at more than this bush. Something’s obviously bothering you. Maybe you should figure out what it is before you really hurt yourself.”

      His confident attitude was irritating, but what could he possibly know about her? “I’m not trying to get out my aggressions, if that’s what you think,” she protested. “It’s not like that at all.”

      “Something’s got you riled up.” He continued deepening the trench around the bush. Kim frowned at him, wondering why she felt the need to justify herself to this man. But then she just let him dig. She sat down on the low adobe wall that surrounded her yard, pulling off her gloves and smoothing the damp hair away from her face. Boots weren’t the only equipment she needed. A gardening hat might be in order, the floppy straw variety. Kim was learning as she went along. After Stan, it was all learning.

      Again the anger stirred inside her, unpredictable and treacherous. Taking another deep breath, she centered her gaze on Michael Turner. He seemed comfortable working, in spite of the heat. He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves, his arms the natural tan of someone who didn’t fear the sun.

      “Shouldn’t you be off writing a scene or whatever?” she asked.

      “It’ll keep.”

      She ran her hand over the rough surface of the wall. “What’s it about? Your latest mystery, I mean.”

      He stopped shoveling for a minute, his dark eyes on Kim. “A woman,” he said.

      She wished his gaze wasn’t so intent. “That’s not saying much. What kind of woman? Who is she?” Michael studied Kim for a long moment. “She has brown hair. Not just brown—there’s some blond mixed in. Gold—brown, I’d say. And blue eyes…very blue. She likes wearing T—shirts and khaki shorts.”

      Kim stiffened. She didn’t have to be a genius to realize Michael Turner had just described her. “Amusing,” she said after a short pause. “But now tell me what your heroine really looks like.”

      “I did tell you.” He went back to shoveling.

      Kim thought about the way he’d looked at her just now—so analytically, yet with a spice of masculine appreciation. There’d been something else in his gaze, too, something she couldn’t define. It sent a disturbing ripple through her.

      “You can’t just do that,” she said.

      “Do what?” He went on working imperturbably.

      “You can’t make your heroine look like. me.”

      He glanced at her. “You make it sound as if you have a patent on gold—brown hair and blue eyes. And freckles.”

      Immediately she felt self—conscious. “There aren’t that many freckles.”

      “What’s wrong with freckles?” he asked in a reasonable tone.

      Somehow they’d gotten offtrack here. “Mr. Turner, you must be a peculiar sort of author. You’re writing about some woman, and you don’t even know what she looks like.”

      “I just described her. That should do.” He sounded oddly grudging, as if he didn’t want his heroine to give him too much trouble. By now he’d dug all the way around the bush. He began rocking it back and forth, chopping at the roots underneath with the tip of the shovel until eventually it came free of the ground. As he pulled it up, Kim saw the dirt clotted to the sickly roots.

      “It needs to be put out of its misery,” she said. “There’s no point in trying to save it.”

      “Lost causes are my specialty,” he remarked sourly.

      The whole situation seemed absurd to Kim. She’d just wanted to get rid of the damn evergreen. Now, because of Michael Turner, she felt guilty, as if she hadn’t given the bush a fair chance.

      “Mr. Turner,” she began, and then stopped herself. She didn’t even know what she had to say to the man.

      “Gardening is supposed to be therapeutic,” he told her. “I don’t think you have the hang of it yet, but if you need any tips…I’ll be around.” He started back toward his own yard, only to stop. “Don’t worry about your window. I’ll take care of it. Andy and I will take care of it,” he revised. Then he did walk away, carrying the bush with him, its tufty green pom—poms wagging pathetically in the air.

      Kim watched until Michael Turner disappeared around the back of his house, taking the same route Andy had earlier. When she could no longer see him, she surveyed the damage around her: the shattered front window, the gaping hole in her lawn. She wished the two Turner males hadn’t moved in next door. Of course Kim had wished for a lot of things lately—like a divorce, instead of a murdered husband. Not that wishing had done her any good.

      She stared at that raw hole left in her once—neat yard. It made her feel regretful, but only for an instant.

      Surely the time for regretting—and wishing—was past.

       CHAPTER TWO

      MICHAEL SAT in his Jeep across from the public library. He took a sip from his Coke, but the ice in the cup had melted a long time ago. It was a hot, oppressive afternoon, nothing unusual for a Tucson СКАЧАТЬ