keeping her from enjoying herself at home. He might not be a bad man, even if he was an industrial spy or whatever.
She gave up her spying on Saturday for long enough to enjoy some gardening. She was out just past daylight, turning over more soil, with fertilizer and seed packages scattered all around and gardening implements littering the soft green grass.
It was a heavenly day, with azure skies and a faint cool breeze. Just the right kind of day to plant glorious flowers. She pushed back her long hair, wishing she’d had the good sense to tie it up before she began. It would be impossible to do anything with it now, unless she wanted to smear dirt in it from her hands. She was getting dusty all over, from her faded sneakers and jeans up to her blue Save The Whales T-shirt.
She was halfway finished with her day’s work when she sat down on the small sidewalk that ran around the back of the duplex and sipped a soft drink. She didn’t hear her big, dark neighbor until he was standing over her.
“You’ll ruin your hands that way,” he remarked.
She jumped, startled by his silent approach, and almost spilled her soft drink.
“Sorry,” he murmured, dropping down onto the sidewalk beside her. He smelled of expensive cologne, and he looked pretty expensive in moccasin-leather boots, charcoal-gray denim slacks and a designer knit shirt that was a few shades lighter than his trousers. His hair was neatly combed; he was freshly shaven. He looked much different from the man she’d seen only in coveralls at work, and now her suspicions were really aroused. No mere mechanic dressed like that.
“My ears don’t work when I’m tired,” she murmured, glancing at him. “I thought you were gone on weekends.”
He shrugged, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket. He lit it with steady fingers and repocketed his gold-plated lighter. “I thought I needed a day off.” He looked down at her curiously, taking in the smudges of dirt and the condition of her hands. “You’ll tear your nails. Why don’t you wear gloves?”
“I’m an elemental person, I suppose,” she mused, studying her hands. “I like the feel of the earth. Gloves are a nuisance.”
“How long have you lived here?” he asked conversationally while he smoked.
“Six months, almost,” she said. “Just after my parents were killed,” she added, wondering why she’d told him that.
He felt an irritating compassion for her. “I know what it is to lose a parent,” he said. “Both of mine are dead, too, though I didn’t lose them at the same time. Any brothers or sisters?” he asked then.
She shook her head. “No. I’m pretty much alone.” She glanced at him, wondering whether or not to risk asking it.
“I’m alone, too,” he said, anticipating the question. He raised the cigarette to his firm mouth. “I’ve learned to like it.”
“I can’t imagine liking loneliness,” she said absently, watching the sky.
“Don’t you?” he questioned, smiling faintly at her surprised look. “I’ve never seen you leave your apartment, except on Sundays. You’re always by yourself at work.”
“That doesn’t mean I like it— Oh, my gosh!”
She jumped up and ran into the apartment without saying why. Bagwell was on the table, helping himself to apples and pears with total disregard for neatness, taking a bite out of one and then another.
He looked up at her with pear bits dangling from his beak and a torn piece of pear in his claw. “Good!” he assured her.
“You horrible bird,” she groaned. “My beautiful fruit!”
There was a faint sound from behind her that turned into a literal roar of laughter, deep and pleasant.
“This is Bagwell,” she told her new neighbor.
“Hello, Bagwell,” he said, moving closer to the table.
“Don’t offer him a finger,” she cautioned. “He considers it an invitation to lunch.”
“I’ll remember that.” He smiled at the antics of the big green bird, who was enjoying the extra attention and showing it by spreading his tail feathers.
“He loves men,” Maureen mentioned. “I think he’s a she.”
“Well, he’s pretty,” he murmured dryly.
“Pree-tty!” Bagwell agreed. “Hello. Hello!”
Jake laughed. “Smart, too.”
“He thinks so,” she said. She looked at the big man shyly. “Would you like something to drink? There are soft drinks, or I can make coffee.”
“Good coffee?” he taunted. “I don’t care for instant.”
He struck her as a demanding guest, but she was lonely.
“Good coffee,” she assured him. She got down the canister and made a fresh pot in her automatic drip coffee maker. “Do you have a name besides Jake?” she asked carelessly, pretending that she didn’t already know.
“Jake Edwards,” he said. He pulled out a chair and sat down. “You don’t smoke, do you?”
“No, but I don’t mind it.” She started the coffee maker and found him a big blue ashtray. “Here. My dad gave it to me for Christmas, so he’d have someplace to put his ashes.” She sighed, remembering that. It had been just after Christmas that she’d lost him and her mother.
He watched the expressions move across her face with curious, quiet eyes. “Thanks.” He leaned back in the chair, drawing her attention involuntarily to the breadth of his chest and the muscular strength of his arms. Where the knit shirt was open at the throat, a mass of black hair was visible, hinting at a veritable forest of it beneath it. She felt herself going warm all over. He was a sensual man. The coverall he wore at work disguised his body, but his slacks clung to long, muscular legs and narrow hips, just as the shirt outlined his broad chest, making her aware of him as she hadn’t ever been of a man.
If she was watching him, the reverse was also true. He found her frankly attractive, from her long dark hair to her slightly larger than average feet. She had a grace of carriage that was rare, and a smile that was infectious. It had been a long time since he’d laughed or felt pleasure. But being around her gave him peace. She warmed him. Not only that, but he remembered vividly the glimpse he’d gotten of her not long before in her oversized pajama jacket: long, tanned legs, full breasts, her hair down to her waist. He’d dreamed of her all night, and that surprised him. He hadn’t cared very much for women in the past few years. His work had become his life. Somehow, the challenges replaced tenderness, love. He’d been too busy with pushing himself to the outer edges of life to involve himself very much with people. He wasn’t going to involve himself with this woman, either; but being friendly might get him close enough to find out just how involved she was with the failure of the Faber jet. He was already suspicious of Blake, and she worked for Blake. She could be a link.
He lifted the cigarette to his lips absently. “You were wearing a men’s pajama top that morning,” he said out loud. His dark eyes narrowed, pinning hers. “Do you have a lover?”
