The Christmas Date. Michele Dunaway

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      TYLER DOUBLE-CHECKED the directions his sister had text-messaged him a month ago. The quaint neighborhood he now drove through wasn’t quite what he’d expected.

      Not that it was bad or that he disliked it. He’d just expected something newer and more modern, not the starter bungalows he was passing on street after street with fifty-year-old trees. This neighborhood was located in an older part of town, built long before theme parks had transformed everything in Orlando and moved the hub of the city to the southwest. Tyler crept along, searching for 233 Dogwood Lane.

      There it was. Home sweet home.

      He parked his Hummer under the carport. Admittedly, the SUV was a monstrous gas guzzler, but Tyler wasn’t around enough to drive the beast much. In the two years he’d owned the vehicle, he’d put less than three thousand miles on his odometer.

      Except for the unkempt yard, the house itself was presentable—and just like every other rectangular abode on the street. The two-to three-bedroom homes were early 1950s and painted shades of cream or white. All the houses had Christmas decorations on the lawn, some more abundantly than others.

      Tyler exited his vehicle, stood in the driveway and glanced around the neighborhood, which he’d been pleased to discover wasn’t a traffic-jammed drive from the downtown bureau office. He reminded himself it didn’t matter what his house looked like. He’d live in it, on average, maybe a total of three months a year.

      He dug out the key his sister had mailed to his P.O. box and blinked. Had the blinds across the street flickered? He shook his head. Perhaps it had been a trick of the waning sun or the Christmas lights competing with the twilight. He steadied himself and reminded himself he was back in America, one of the safest countries in the world.

      He took a deep breath. Aside from being tired and jetlagged, he was still jumpy from having been in a place where gunfire was routine. The key turned easily and the side door creaked open. Once inside, Tyler nudged the door shut and flipped on the overhead light. As he set down his camera case, disturbed dust particles rose into the stagnant air. Tyler’s expression soured. He knew his stuff had been delivered weeks ago, but he hadn’t expected the dust to be this bad. A thin layer covered everything, including the moving boxes. Which meant that not only did he have to unpack, he first had to clean.

      That figured, especially since he hated housekeeping and had entrusted his apartment to a cleaning service. Since Tyler hadn’t been in the country for the various homeowner inspections, he’d simply assumed the previous owners had scoured the place. Used to living in apartments, where a renter had to clean to get his deposit back and then the apartment complex cleaned to prepare for the new tenant, Tyler hadn’t even thought his house might not be habitable.

      He stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension he felt. From the appearance of the place, the movers had simply brought all his stuff in, set it down and then left. He’d slept in more deplorable conditions on the job, but this was his house. His home, even though he was never home much, was a haven, one he always wanted clean and presentable.

      He pulled his cell phone out of the camera bag and punched speed dial. Within moments he’d connected to his twin’s voice mail. “Hey, Tara. Thanks for remembering the cleaning service. I couldn’t believe how spotless the house was when I got home. Gosh, everything in its place and not a speck of dust anywhere. Hey, on a serious note, I’m back in town and I do like the house. You did good. Love ya. Call me.”

      He smiled, imagining her reaction to the first part of his message. She’d known him since the womb and would laugh at his sarcasm, aware it was only in jest. Yeah, he was annoyed by the mess in front of him, but it wasn’t her fault. She’d already gone above and beyond the call of sisterly duty.

      The house was too dirty not to clean, but because he’d always had a maid service, wiping up spills with paper towels and spraying foaming shower cleaner were his limits. He didn’t even own a vacuum, since the service had brought its own.

      For a moment, he thought about calling his mother, then reconsidered. While she could clean at light-speed, her help would come with a lecture on staying in the United States, finding a woman to marry and raising children, like two of his older brothers, Leo and Craig. Tonight, after traveling a long distance and then working all day at the office, Tyler wanted peace and quiet.

      The sound of tires crunching on pavement caught his attention. He moved to the front window and watched as a sensible little four-door sedan pulled into the driveway next door. He strode to a side window and parted the old-fashioned Venetian blinds. Once under the carport, the vehicle sputtered to a stop. Clogged fuel injector. Easy enough to fix.

      The car door opened and the driver climbed out. No. It couldn’t be. What were the odds?

      He frowned. But there she was, the woman who, for some reason, he’d been unable to get out of his mind.

      Maybe it had been the severe way she’d secured her blond hair in a bun, or the way she’d haughtily held her neck and shoulders, as if he carried the plague. He’d made a career of never forgetting a face, but clearly she wasn’t very observant. She’d failed to notice the Hummer parked parallel to her driveway, and seemed preoccupied with getting into the house СКАЧАТЬ