The Man Next Door
Ellen James writes with warmth, wit and style. I look forward to each new book.–Debbie MacomberMichael Turner is the man next door and he's got problems!He's an ex-cop turned P.I., who's pretending to be a writer.His partner–normally the most rational of women–is pretending she's pregnant.His eleven-year-old son–whom he loves–isn't pretending anything, but then, the boy's barely talking to him.His father–whom he loathes (no pretense here)–is back in town.And to top it all, he's becoming dangerously attracted to the woman next door, a woman he's been paid investigate, a woman who just might be pretending that she hasn't murdered her husband.
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Table of Contents
“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.
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.
