The Man Next Door

Cover Page

Excerpt

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Copyright

“About the Bennett case—we have a problem.”

Donna, his partner, stared at him. “Mike, I don’t like the sound of this. You didn’t kiss her again, did you?”

“Kiss her?” he muttered. “If only it was that simple.”

“Tell me that what I’m thinking isn’t true. For crying out loud, you can’t be involved with this woman! Do you realize how crazy that is?”

He’d asked himself the same question plenty of times since awaking that morning. “We’re not involved in the strictest sense of the word,” he said. “She told me to go to hell before breakfast.”

“There’s more, isn’t there?”

“She knows we’re investigating her.”

“Mike! You just blew the case.”

“Except for one thing. I don’t think Kim Bennett killed her husband.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ever since winning a national short—story contest when she was in high school, Ellen James has wanted a writing career. The Man Next Door, Ellen’s fifth Superromance title, is actually her thirteenth romance novel, so Ellen obviously has her wish. Ellen and her husband, also a writer, share an interest in wildlife photography and American history.

The Man Next Door

Ellen James

CHAPTER ONE

SHE FELL IN LOVE the first moment she saw him. He had curly brown hair tumbling over his forehead, dark brown eyes and knobby knees. His hands were tucked into the pockets of oversize shorts, and his high—top sneakers engulfed his feet, giving him a gangly look. He appeared to be all of ten years old. The expression on his young face wavered between trepidation and defiance.

Kim was careful to keep her own expression deadpan. She stood on the lawn beside her living—room window, studying the shattered glass. She waited for the boy to speak, figuring that sooner or later he’d have to explain himself. Surely it had taken courage for him to approach her; most kids would have run into hiding after breaking the neighbor’s window.

“The ball wasn’t supposed to do that,” he said at last, making an obvious effort to keep his voice gruff.

“I see,” Kim said. “It just sort of flew over here…on its own.”

He shuffled from one foot to the other. Now he looked gloomy, as if determined to face the inevitable however much he dreaded it. Yes, he did possess a certain courage.

Kim supposed she could lecture him, but somehow she didn’t have the heart. He seemed vulnerable in his baggy shorts and too—big T—shirt, as if lost inside his own clothes. Yet he would probably hate anyone thinking he was vulnerable—that hint of cocky defiance never quite left his face.

I should have had a son like this. The thought dismayed Kim, and she tried to battle the regret that swept over her. She reminded herself how impossible, how painful her marriage had become in the end. She ought to be grateful she and Stan had never had children. It would have been a disaster for everyone concerned.

But still the regret stayed with her, brought to life by this tousled—haired kid who’d broken her front window. She didn’t want to feel like this, didn’t want the inconvenient tenderness he seemed to inspire. She moved away from the window and picked up her garden shovel.

The boy watched her closely, as if he still expected a lecture and couldn’t leave until it was over with.

“We only moved in two days ago,” he said, perhaps hoping that would exonerate him.

Kim glanced across at the house next door. She knew she’d retreated inside herself these past few months…ever since Stan’s death. She’d been only vaguely aware of new neighbors moving in. “I haven’t met your mother yet,” she said reluctantly.

The boy poked his toe at the ground. “My mom’s not here. She’s in England. I have to stay with my dad. But just for the summer.”

From behind Kim, another voice spoke—a man’s voice, deep and unfamiliar.

“Don’t make it sound like a prison sentence, Andy.”

The boy turned. “Dad,” he mumbled with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

Kim turned, too, and studied the child’s father. The family similarities were striking; this was the man the boy would become. He was tall, lean in a way that hinted at strong muscles. He had dark rumpled hair and brown eyes the color of toffee. But they weren’t soft eyes; there was a hardness to them, something that put Kim on guard.

“Michael Turner,” he said. “Your new neighbor. I believe you’ve already met my son.” He gave only the briefest of smiles, just enough to hint at a few attractive crinkles around his eyes. Laughter lines, perhaps? Except that he didn’t look like the kind of person who laughed readily.

Kim realized she was staring. But she didn’t smile back at him. These past few months, she’d lost the knack of smiling.

“Yes. Andy and I have met,” she said.

The boy’s gaze traveled guiltily toward the broken window. Michael Turner stepped over to inspect the damage.

“Guess you’d better explain, son,” he said calmly.

Andy’s young face grew belligerent. “You can see what happened,” he muttered. “What’s to explain?”

Michael Turner drew his brows together and regarded Andy. His face was as expressive as his son’s—Kim caught a glimpse of exasperation and puzzlement in his dark intent eyes. But she saw something else there. She saw the love. In that instant, she sensed that this was a man who cared very much for his son. In the same instant, she realized that Michael and Andy Turner didn’t know how to talk as father and son. They stood warily apart, as if unsure how to take the first step toward each other.

Kim gripped her shovel. Why did she feel such protectiveness toward a child she’d only just met? And why did she want to tell Michael Turner that he ought to exercise his laughter lines a little more?

Kim pushed the shovel into the ground, wishing she could get back to work and forget about the two Turner males who had intruded on her life. But they would not be ignored. They remained in her yard beside the broken window.

“Andy,” Michael Turner said, “you have an apology to make.”

Andy stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets. Again he managed to look both stubborn and unsure at the same time. He didn’t say anything, glancing covertly at his father now and then. Michael Turner gazed back steadily at his son. In the end, the man won out over the boy. Andy grudgingly addressed Kim.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

Kim leaned on her shovel and considered the situation. After a moment she shook her head.

“Apology not accepted,” she pronounced.

Both Turners stared at her. For this moment at least, they seemed united in their surprise at Kim’s words. Then Michael Turner frowned.

“Son,” he said, “I think you’d better run along home.”

Andy hovered for a second or two. Kim suspected it had become a habit with him not to obey his father right away—perhaps as a point of honor. But at last he began sidling across the yard. He seemed about to go sprinting off when he gave Kim a glance. She felt it more than ever—a quick unreasoning affinity with this boy. And, from the brightness in his eyes, she knew he felt it, too. Then he turned and finally did go sprinting off, his too—big sneakers thumping over the grass. He reached the house next door and promptly disappeared around the side.

Kim took a deep breath. What was wrong with her? The boy had a mother, whether or not she happened to be in England. Kim was just the neighbor lady. If she had any misguided maternal instincts, she ought to forget about them.

She gripped her shovel again, but it seemed she still had Michael Turner to deal with.

“So it wasn’t the best apology in the world,” he remarked. “But it was an apology.”

“Not good enough,” Kim said.

“I’ll repair the window.”

“Well, that’s the point,” she said. “Don’t you think Andy should be the one who does the repairing?”

Michael Turner looked thoughtful. “Are you telling me I’m too lenient with my son?”

Kim shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve barely set eyes on the two of you. I’m just telling you what my terms are.”

He examined her with disconcerting thoroughness. “So we’re negotiating,” he said.

“Something like that.” Kim paused. She didn’t like the way her gaze kept returning to this man, drawn by some enigmatic quality in him. He gave a disquieting impression of restrained power. “Andy mentioned that your. uh, wife is out of the country. Maybe he’s acting up because of that, who knows, but—”

“Ex—wife,” Michael Turner said impassively. “And yes, Andy isn’t too happy about being left with me for the summer. I think he made that pretty clear.”

Kim wondered irritably why she was poking into Michael Turner’s personal life. Against her will, she found herself studying him more carefully. She supposed you could call him handsome, what with his strong features, his dark eyes under dark brows. You could certainly call him virile. But surely that was another knack that Kim had lost somewhere along the way—the ability to appreciate a good—looking man. She didn’t think she’d be getting that one back anytime soon. All she felt right now was the dull, heavy emptiness that had become too familiar.

Kim glanced away from him. She focused on the bush she’d been trying to unearth when that ball had come flying into her yard. Digging her shovel into the ground, she stood on top of it, centering her weight. Just a little more, and maybe she’d finally get somewhere.

“You’re doing that all wrong,” Michael Turner said. “The way you’re tussling with that thing, you’re liable to hurt yourself.”

Kim wiped away a trickle of sweat with her gardening glove. “I can manage.”

“Perhaps. But the bush can’t.”

She glanced at him sharply, unable to detect any humor in his expression. “I don’t usually attack shrubs, if that’s what you’re thinking. But this is a special case.” She regarded the bush once more. It was an evergreen, limbs shorn naked except for three round tufts of greenery on top. The thing had always made Kim think of a spindly cheerleader waving pom—poms in the air.

Michael Turner studied the bush, too. “Sure is ugly.”

“Well, you understand then. It has to go.”

“Understand?” he said, with a tinge of impatience. “I understand that whoever trimmed it had a lousy eye and even worse execution.”

“My husband trimmed it,” she said in a stern tone that surprised even her. “Yet another reason why the damn thing’s got to go.”

Michael Turner continued to study the bush in a brooding manner. “It’s ugly all right, but what the hell. I’ll take it off your hands.”

“You can’t possibly want it,” she protested.

A flicker of dissatisfaction showed in his face, as if he’d had enough of both Kim and the bush yet a sense of duty impelled him to stay—perhaps because his son had broken her window.

“You’re right,” he said gruffly. “I don’t want.it. But I’ll take it, anyway.”

Kim was intrigued in spite of herself. “I’ve heard of people taking home stray dogs, but stray shrubs?” She glanced across at the rambling two—story house next door, impressive with its red—tile roof and carved balustrades—very upscale for all that it was a rental. The yard had long ago been turned into a neatly maintained rock-and-cactus garden. “You wouldn’t have a place to put it over there. The owner doesn’t like mess.”

He nodded. “I’d already guessed as much. When I signed the lease, she threatened a lawsuit if I spill anything on the carpets.”

Kim hesitated, but then she spoke. “The owner also happens to be my mother-in-law.”

“She mentioned that, too.”

Nobody could accuse Michael Turner of being loquacious. If he was curious about anything, he didn’t let on. Kim suddenly felt a discontent she couldn’t explain, and she jabbed her shovel into the ground again.

“For eight years, I’ve looked at this damn bush,” she muttered. “That’s about to change.”

He didn’t answer. With seemingly little effort, he managed to walk over to her and relieve her of the shovel. Kim felt a stirring of unease. Yes, there was an aura of power to this Michael Turner, as if he was accustomed to taking what he wanted.

She’d known, of course, that Sophie had been looking to rent the house next door. The last tenants had been a pleasant older couple, but they’d moved out more than a month ago. Her new neighbor, this Michael Turner, started digging around the shrub, every motion efficient and methodical. No show of brawn here; he was just getting the job done. Kim suspected he was the type of person who’d always get the job done, whatever it happened to be. As he worked, his dark hair curled a little over his forehead. The way it refused to stay properly in place implied a certain unruliness.

Silently she cursed Sophie for renting to this man and his son. Of course, she’d been cursing her mother—inlaw for one reason or another these eight long years. Why should that change even now?

Kim felt a bitter sensation inside. She couldn’t let herself think about Stan and all the rest of it. She couldn’t let her anger out, that was for sure. Because if she ever started to let it out, who knew where she’d end up?

Meanwhile, this stranger was digging up a bush in her front yard.

“It was therapy,” Kim said.

Michael Turner glanced at her, although he kept on working. It was remarkable how much progress he’d made in just a few minutes.

“Digging up the damn bush was therapeutic!”

He glanced at her again, his dark eyes unreadable. And then, silently, he handed the shovel back to her.

“Thanks for your help,” she said.

He gave another faint smile. “Why say it if you don’t mean it?”

“Something to do with being polite.” She worked the shovel into the ground.

“Forget polite,” he said. “You’re not very good at it, anyway.”

Kim wished she could start over with the man, maybe something on the line of “Hello, neighborgoodbye.” She dumped a shovelful of dirt beside her.

“Funny, but my mother-in-law has a similar complaint about me. Says I’m not nearly well mannered enough.”

“Do you listen to her?”

Once again Kim couldn’t detect any humor in his expression, just that hardness she’d already sensed. Michael Turner, a man of stony edges.

“Mr. Turner,” she said, “it’s been nice getting acquainted, but—”

“You’re pretending to be polite again.”

She’d scarcely met the man, but already he chafed at her nerves. It almost seemed as if he was doing it deliberately, to get a reaction from her. Kim wielded her shovel more forcefully.

“Not very many people rent in this neighborhood,” she said. “Everyone here likes to think of themselves as the silk—stocking type. Pride of ownership, the whole bit. Pretty snobbish, unfortunately—”

“Why don’t you come right out and ask what I’m doing here?” he suggested. The mildness in his tone sounded deceptive.

“Hey, nobody’s too sure I belong in this neighborhood,” Kim said. “I’ve lived here eight years, and they still don’t know whether to accept me or not. But that’s beside the point. I’m just saying you seem more like the home—owner type yourself.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really.” She was lying. For all that he was a father, Michael Turner didn’t look like the kind of person who would settle down behind a white picket fence. He had a watchfulness about him, like someone who always had to be on his guard, someone who perhaps wouldn’t stay in any one place for very long. Certain details about him she couldn’t seem to fit anywhere, such as that he was home in the middle of a weekday. Other men on this street worked long hours as lawyers or business executives to afford the life—style of the neighborhood.

“Okay,” Kim said, giving in with a sigh. “What are your credentials, Mr. Turner? What’s your. line of work?”

He paused just a second before answering. “I’m a writer.”

He didn’t look like a writer, Kim thought. It seemed too tame an occupation for him.

“What kind of writer?”

Again the slightest pause. “Mystery.”

That made sense, anyway. “Well,” Kim said inadequately. “Sounds.interesting. Not that I’m trying to be polite.”

He remained inscrutable. “As long as we’re swapping credentials, it’s your turn.”

Kim realized she’d forgotten to shovel, so she got to it again. “I don’t have any credentials—unless you count my marrying into the Bennett clan. 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.