was perfect, although sharing her master bath would definitely lose its appeal once the girls got older. Eventually they’d have to find a bigger place, something with three bedrooms and at least two bathrooms.
Maybe fate was telling her she needed to use her money for more important things.
Shoving all thoughts of that auction from her mind, she concentrated on the familiar routine of bathing the girls, drying them, reading a bedtime story, then settling them down in their cribs. As usual, Erin was the first to fall asleep, her little breath coming in deep and even almost immediately. Heather was the restless one, unable to settle unless Vanessa was softly singing, her hand a reassuring pressure on her back.
She was halfway through the second song of her nightly Rascal Flatts repertoire when Heather finally stilled and her breathing changed.
With a soft sigh, Vanessa gently drew her hand away, tiptoed across the room and pulled the door to.
She was nearly to the kitchen when the phone rang.
She surged forward and grabbed the receiver off the wall. “Hello?”
“Evening, Vanessa. It’s Connor Jarvis from number fifteen.”
Her heart sank. Her elderly neighbor took his self-designated role as McKenzie Road’s protector of the street’s females seriously. While it was flattering most of the time, tonight was not the night. “Hi, Mr. Jarvis. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I know the Taylors below you are away for the month and, ahhh…” She waited patiently for Jarvis’s hacking cough to subside. Finally he wheezed, “So you know I told you about that guy loitering at number seven last night?”
“Yes?”
“Well, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think he’s out in front of your place.”
“What?”
She walked swiftly over to the living room window, dipping down the blinds a bare inch and staring at the lamp-lit street.
“Outside?” she said. “Where?”
“He was at the curb a few minutes ago, looking up at your window. But now I can’t see him.” Jarvis paused again, coughing for long-drawn-out seconds.
“You sure it was a man?” Vanessa said, slowly scanning the shadows outside.
“Couldn’t miss it. Tall, broad. Dressed in a suit, for crying out loud. What kind of criminal wears a suit?”
“Ones who’re good at their job?”
Jarvis burst into wheezy laughter until Vanessa began to feel bad about her lame joke. Finally, he got it under control enough to say, “You want me to call the cops?”
Before she could answer, she caught movement in her yard. The security light came on a second later, bathing the would-be criminal in a harsh amber glow.
Vanessa sucked in a breath as her stomach bottomed out.
“You want me to call the cops?” Jarvis repeated.
“No. No, I…” She sighed. “I know him. Thanks for letting me know, Mr. Jarvis. I’ll deal with it. You have a good night.”
She quickly hung up before the man had a chance to grill her further.
Vanessa paused in the middle of her living room, moments passing before she realized she had the tip of her thumb in her mouth, the nail flicking back and forth over her front tooth.
Fingers out of your mouth, Vanessa!
She winced. Even now, the mere memory of her father’s commanding bellow still had the power to make her jump.
Focus. Chase Harrington. Right.
She could ignore him.
Yeah, right. You think Mr. Million Dollars would stand for being ignored?
Her mind whirled with too many questions lacking answers. What on earth was he doing here? Lord, had he actually thought she’d been serious about her sarcastic Dylan’s “girlfriend” crack? So what did he want? She swallowed. And the big one—did he know about the girls?
She hesitated, uncertain and unprepared until the doorbell made the decision for her. In a flurry of irritation she raced down the steps and yanked the door open.
“Don’t touch that bell again!”
His hand hovered, then dropped as he stared at her through the security screen. He dominated the space on her porch—tall, broad-shouldered and dressed in an expensive suit, an equally fine winter coat only emphasizing his impressive frame. “Okay.”
“Are you stalking me, Mr. Harrington?” She crossed her arms against the night chill.
“No. I just want to talk to you.”
“If you’ve tracked me down to accuse me of something else—”
“That’s not it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Can we talk inside?”
“You could be a psychopath for all I know,” she retorted. Of course, she’d checked up on Mr. Million Dollars—have to stop calling him that!—days ago. And what she’d found gave no indication he was a criminal…at least, not on the record, anyway.
Across the street a light came on—Connor Jarvis’s—and she sighed. After a quick glance up the stairs, she unlatched the screen door. “Fine. Come in.”
He paused on the threshold. “I could be a psychopath.”
“Apparently you’re not, or so Google says.”
Surprise flashed across his face and she swallowed a satisfied smile, adding, “Silver Spring’s a bit far from One Madison Park just for a talk.”
Yes, I’ve been checking up on you. She let him digest that as she relatched the door.
She hadn’t forgotten their encounter, least of all that weird, tense moment just before Ann’s driver had inadvertently rescued her. She’d spent the last few days trying to forget it, steadfastly refusing to do what she normally did, which was scrutinize every single word, every action and reaction, then sort and define subtext and body language, keeping herself awake at night in the process.
She could practically hear her sister Juliet’s teasing laughter ringing in her ears. You always analyze things way too much, Ness. Does he like me? Do I like him? Should I hold his hand? Should I kiss him? And if I do, will it mean I’m too easy?
She’d interpreted Dylan’s interest—correctly, as it turned out—and followed up on it, which was how she’d ended up in his bed. And boy, had that turned out to be one colossal misjudgment on her part.
Only an idiot makes the same mistake twice, chère, her grandma used to say. And Partridges are smarter than that.
She finally turned to face him, the hall’s subdued lighting creating shadows and slashes of light across his face. Unfortunately, it was a very nice face and
