"Elaine, I'm not going to sleep with somebody just to make you and Mom happy." Mallory Baines cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear and selected a paintbrush. She dipped it in the can of paint and carefully applied Spanish Cream to the trim on the kitchen doorway. "Got that?"
"I never said you had to sleep with someone," her sister protested. "Just go out on a date. Schedule a meeting. Something. I read an article in Jane about how to tell if someone has post-relationship depression, and you got a 'yes' on six of the twelve points. I'm looking out for you, here."
"Six out of twelve?" This was getting worse and worse. "I forbid you to analyze me with a list in Jane. Who is Jane, anyway?"
"Someone who gets more sex than you do, I'll bet."
"Ha, ha. I've been busy." Mallory inspected her free hand. Oops. Another nail was chipped. "And breaking up with Jon was the best thing I ever did."
"It's been six months. And for the last four you've been doing this 'I am woman, hear me drill' thing. You need to come out of that dump and behave like a civilized person."
"My house is not a dump," Mallory said, stung. "It's being renovated."
"With the money from that stock, you could have a brand new house in Palo Alto or San Francisco. But what do you do? You buy a Victorian nobody wants and spend twenty hours a day breaking your nails." Elaine paused ominously. "'Fess up. You've got one of those leather tool belts, haven't you?"
Mallory decided to overlook that. "I don't want the kind of house everybody else has. I want to bring life back to this one. And do something completely on my own, for once." She dipped the brush again and smiled.
"I don't understand you. What do you call putting SpendSafe on the New York Stock Exchange?"
"I did that with Jon. I think it was the only reason we were together. Emotional independence is different, and you know it. And it doesn't include dates with whoever Mom's got up her sleeve for me this week."
"Have you told her about the guy across the street?"
Mallory rolled her eyes. "I don't tell Mom any more than she needs to know. And she doesn't need to know about him."
"Single, responsible, home-owning ... I've seen how he looks at you. And he helps you out, doesn't he?"
"Painting the dining room isn't a declaration of undying love."
"It is for some guys. And speaking of undying love, tell me what really happened between you and Jon--instead of the G-rated version."
Jon, the Man Who Would Not Leave. Mallory owed her ex-fiancé no loyalty, but it was still hard to admit she could look so successful in public and be such a marshmallow inside. She'd spent too many years allowing people she loved to push her into molds that didn't fit her. Now she was a marshmallow in the process of renovating herself as well as this house.
"All right. I'll tell you. That last morning we had a meeting with the SEC, and we fought over whether the black Jimmy Choos went with my suit, or the navy Ferragamos. I could put up with him telling me which direction the plates were supposed to go in the dishwasher. I could even give in on black towels in the bathroom. But a woman's right to choose her shoes is sacred. I cancelled the caterer that same morning."
"I always wondered what happened. It seemed so sudden."
"Now you know. Back to you."
"Okay, so maybe Mom and Jane together made me overreact. I have to admit, I do like your house. Or I will when it has floors. By the way, Mom told me over lunch that you're substituting the house for the family you'll never have."
"Oh, please." Mallory almost leaned on the doorjamb, jerked upright, and craned to look behind her. Not that another streak on her shorts would make much difference. "Know what she did last weekend?"
"I don't think I want to." Elaine paused, as if to brace herself. "What now?"
"She invited me over for dinner--and conveniently forgot to tell me she'd invited Jon."
"Oh, no. You may be over him, but I don't think she is. What did you do?"
"Walking out worked pretty well the last time, so I did it again. I think you're right. I think she's half in love with him herself. If I leave them alone often enough, maybe he'll propose."
Elaine laughed, but it ended in a sigh. "You're so brave. I could never have stood up to her like that."
"Yes, you could. If the two people who wanted to run your life the most ganged up on you over the canapés, you wouldn't just walk. You'd run."
"Come on, Mal. Mom just wants you to be secure and happy."
"I have all the security I'll ever need invested very nicely, thank you." The doorbell rang. "I've got to go. Someone's at the door."
"Call me later. I could use some pointers on how to just say no."
The bell rang again as she got to the door. She stood on tiptoe and peered out the beveled glass window just as the guy on the porch raised his hand to the button again. "Can I help you?" she said through the glass.
"I'm looking for the person who owns this house," he told the door in the voice people usually reserved for the very old and deaf.
"Why?"
He reached into his left back pocket of his jeans as if to retrieve some identification. Frowned. Slapped a hand on the front pockets. Checked the right back pocket. Relief filled his face as he pulled out a slim black leather wallet.
She squinted to read it, gave up, and flipped the dead bolt to open the door. "If you're trying to list it, it's not for sale."
He looked at her blankly, then glanced down as if to check that he had the right card behind the plastic cover. In doing so, he fumbled it and it fell face down on the mat. He bent to retrieve it.
Oh, my.
Stop that, Baines. You shameless hussy.
"I'm not a Realtor." He straightened, dusted off the wallet and handed it to her. "I'm a private investigator. Duncan Moore." He smiled, a little-boy smile so appealing she caught herself smiling back. "And you are ...?"
"Mallory Baines," she said absently as she read. The card confirmed what he'd said, so she memorized the phone number to check later, and handed it back.
Then what he'd said actually registered. "Did I do something wrong?" She couldn't have. She hadn't been out of the house except to buy building supplies and food.
Her fingers tightened on the doorknob as icy apprehension splashed through her stomach. Jon. The fiancé scorned, the man who still couldn't accept that he'd lost control of his most valuable asset. Jon had sent this guy to tell her that she'd missed some microscopic detail during the initial public offering, that the SEC was going to have her arrested and confiscate all the money. And then she'd be sorry for breaking their merger--er, engagement.
No, that couldn't be right. The IPO was finished. And anyway, they'd send the FBI for that, wouldn't they?
The detective was giving her the once-over, ending his perusal at the paint-speckled bandanna that held back her uncontrollable hair. "No, not at all. May I come in?"
"No, you may not." She closed the door slightly and wedged her body and one foot behind it. A guy with a cut that gave him a permanent case of bed head had no business staring at other people's hair. "What is this all about?"
He looked around as if there might be eavesdroppers hiding in the hydrangeas, and then smiled at her again. It was hard not to remember he was a total stranger, that smile was so wickedly intimate. He had the kind of mouth good girls only dreamed about.
Stop that!
She had no business thinking about any kind of intimacy, much less looking at his mouth. Or his hands. Or his eyes. That kind of observation was what had drawn her into Jon's orbit two years ago, and look how that had turned out.
"I'm on the level," he said in a low voice. "Please?"
She dragged her attention back to the matter at hand. "Not until you tell me what you're here for. If it's got anything to do with my ex-fiancé, I'll ask you politely to leave."
"Don't know anything about him," he said. "I'm working a case and I need your help."
"My help?" She did a quick catalogue of her family and close friends. Nobody she knew had been doing anything scandalous lately. She stepped out on the old-fashioned, wraparound porch and closed the door behind her.
He stepped back, almost to the stairs, and a board creaked under his foot. "Ma'am?"
When men start calling you ma'am, it's a sign you're turning into your mother. Although her mother wouldn't be caught dead in shorts and a camisole top. Well, she worked hard. He was lucky she wasn't in bare feet and the T-shirt she slept in that said, "Save the Whales--They Make Me Look Thin."
"We can talk about it right here." She wasn't about to let a total stranger in the house, no matter how intriguing his eyes were. "If it's not Jon, what is it?"
He shoved both hands in his back pockets. His white cotton T-shirt pulled snugly across a broad chest. His arms and thighs were layered with muscle, and he had the kind of tan a man got by running and working outside.
"Unfortunately, I can't give you any of the details." He gave her an intense look from under long lashes. Mallory felt her briskness evaporate as she sank slowly into that warm gaze. She'd never met anyone who gave his attention so fully to the person he was talking to. It made her skin prickle. She wondered what it would be like to make love with someone who was so totally aware of--
Mallory, I warn you. Enough. He was a detective. It was his job to do things like that. He was probably looking for signs of drug use or confirming she wasn't wearing stolen jewelry.
Still, she resisted the urge to check whether her buttons were done up. She could almost feel his concentration on her skin. This must be how Elaine felt all the time. She'd cornered the market on cheekbones and skinny blonde looks, while Mallory got the genetic leftovers like Great-Grandma Baines's Edwardian bosom and Grandpa Morrison's freckles.
"May I call you Mallory?"
She hesitated. "All right."
"I need to enlist your help. Now, this might seem a little unusual, but in reality it happens all the time." He gestured to the porch ceiling, and despite herself, Mallory looked up. "I'd like to ask if I could use one of the upstairs rooms."
She stared at him. This happened all the time? Did detectives routinely move in with unsuspecting homeowners all over America? "For what?"
His gaze caught hers and held it. "For a surveillance. A stakeout. I'm working a fidelity case and the suspect has been seen in this neighborhood. In order to avoid being spotted and spooking the person, I'd like to conceal myself. And your dormer windows are perfect."
"Those dormers are my personal space, Mr. Moore. I'm sorry, I'd love to help with truth and justice and all that, but not in my bedroom."
The moment the words left her mouth, she felt her indignation drain away and a flush creep up her cheeks. He broke eye contact, and she dragged a breath into lungs that suddenly felt constricted.
"Well then, would it be all right if I parked on the street in front of your house?"
His expression was warm and open, as if thoughts of her bedroom were furthest from his mind, but behind the warmth was something else. When working a roomful of potential investors, she had put on the same kind of smile and charm, and all the while she had been concentrating on extracting their cooperation and their money. And he certainly wanted her cooperation.
Mallory eyed him. He shifted from one foot to the other, and the board creaked again. She hoped it would hold. Among their other skills, private investigators were probably pretty good at lawsuits. He wore lace-up boots that looked like they'd pounded their share of pavement. The hems of his stovepipe jeans were slightly frayed, but clean.
A licensed investigator, huh? A stranger, too. Anybody with a laser printer could produce cards and official-looking licenses in moments. There was a lot of discreet money in this neighborhood. He could be a scout for a burglary ring, scoping out all the houses from the safety of her curb.
Well, she'd hired and fired enough people in SpendSafe's brief but brilliant life to know if someone was conning her or not. He didn't seem underhanded, just determined. A nice woman would cooperate fully with the next thing to law enforcement. But until she was convinced his motives were what he said they were, there was no law that said she had to give him what he wanted, just because he asked.
"No," she said at last. "I don't want you in my house. Or sitting in front of it." It felt odd delivering that so bluntly, offering no reasons, making no excuses. It almost felt rude. Mallory returned to the door and stood with one hand on the handle.
The determination faded from his eyes. The charm, however, did not. He gave her a megawatt grin that took her aback all over again. "I won't bother you. You won't know I'm there. And I'm harmless." As if to prove his point, he held both hands out, palms up.
"Not to whomever you're waiting for," she retorted.
Across the street, Blake Purdue came out of his house, looked over at her, and waved. When she waved back, like a good neighbor would, he loped toward them. The detective had looked over his shoulder when he'd lost her attention, and now had gone very still as he watched Blake come up the steps.
"Hey, Mallory." Blake sounded a little out of breath, but his smile was wide and steady. "How's it going? I heard Bank Lady last night on the way home from work. It was pretty funny."
"Thanks. Has she made you change banks yet?"
"No." He looked a little embarrassed.
"That's okay. Luckily I didn't have to be a customer either, before I got the gig."
"Bank Lady?" The detective looked puzzled.
"She does radio commercials." Blake looked as proud as if he were her agent. Mallory decided to step in.
"For Mid-City Bank. They keep groceries in the cupboards."
"Speaking of cupboards," Blake said, "do you want to set up a day to finish the painting?" Moments too late, he seemed to figure out what Duncan might be there for. "Oh. Sorry. Am I interrupting something?"
"That's okay. Mr. Moore was just leaving."
Mr. Moore didn't seem to be in any hurry. He stuck out his hand. "Duncan Moore. Nice to meet you."
"Blake Purdue." They shook hands. "You a friend of Mallory's?"
The detective grinned. "Not exactly. I was hoping to pick up some work around the place."
Mallory opened her mouth to correct him. His lashes flicked up and those green eyes flashed some kind of message at her. This man had chutzpah, along with the eyes and the mouth. First he wanted to move in. Now he was deliberately misleading her poor, unsuspecting neighbor.
And she was letting him.
Blake settled his weight on both feet. "I've been helping Mallory with the painting. The rest of the inside is pretty much finished up. You could try down at the union office."
The detective--if he was a detective--pulled one of his cards out of his wallet, its blank side towards Blake, and handed it to her. "If you change your mind, give me a call. Thanks for your time."
Automatically, she pocketed it and watched as he climbed into his car and drove away. She bet herself a dollar it didn't say Duncan Moore, Private Detective. It probably said Painter, or maybe Professional Fibber.
Misleading or not, at least he was interesting. Long-legged men in worn jeans with dazzling smiles didn't turn up on her doorstep every day of the week. Not that she cared, mind you. She was glad she'd stood up to him and ordered him off the property. A little practice at that was good for a woman.
So Elaine thought she was depressed and reclusive, did she? Hardly. Why, the place was overrun with men. Contractors. Lost tourists. Blake. And now a private investigator. It wasn't as if Jon were her last hope. She could get involved with someone ... if she wanted to. Her sex drive was temporarily in the shop, that was all.
Blake was still standing there, hope in his guileless blue eyes. She'd thought more than once that if you crossed Greg Kinnear with a golden retriever, you'd get Blake Purdue. She smiled at him, and he smiled back, her knight in white picket fences. It wasn't his fault she didn't need a knight at the moment.
"I hope that guy wasn't giving you any trouble," he said. "I saw him through the window and it didn't seem like you wanted him around."
Now would be the time to share a little neighborhood gossip, have a cup of coffee and speculate about the fidelity case and who could be cheating on whom. But that would bring the conversation around to relationships, which was a little too close to sex, which was a topic she didn't want to get into with Blake Purdue under any circumstances.
She ran her thumb along the edge of the card in her pocket, and pulled it out. Moore Investigations, it said. Specializing in lost people and possessions.
"No, he was just looking for work," she murmured. And wondered what it was about Duncan Moore that would make a grown woman lie.
Schluss! Aus und vorbei! Mallory hat es so satt, sich von ihrer Mutter und ihrem erzkonservativen Exverlobten dominieren zu lassen. In ihrem neuen Leben ist dafür kein Platz mehr! Fernab von ihnen mietet sich Mallory ein zauberhaftes altes Haus an der kalifornischen Küste. Als mitten in die Renovierungsarbeiten ein attraktiver Fremder hereinplatzt, ergreift Mallory ihre Chance! Der smarte Privatdetektiv muss einen Mann beobachten - von ihrem Schlafzimmer aus. Genau der richtige Platz für diesen sexy Typ! Jetzt wird sie ihn nach allen Regeln der Kunst verführen - Mallory ist entschlossen, in Duncans starken Armen Stunden der Liebe zu erleben, die sie beide nie vergessen werden ... 
Il detective privato Duncan Moore ha bisogno di Mallory Baines, o meglio, della sua camera da letto. Da lì infatti potrà spiare agevolmente il suo vicino di casa, principale indiziato di una grossa truffa su cui Duncan sta indagando. Mallory accetta la presenza ingombrante dell'investigatore, in cambio di un aiuto nella ristrutturazione della dimora, ma non è che faccia i salti di gioia: quale donna sarebbe contenta di sapere che un uomo vuole arrivare al suo letto... solo per guardare dalla finestra? 
Interesting cover ... anyone care to translate? :)
