Mr Right Next Door. Teresa Hill

her bedroom and bathroom. Not a great view into those rooms, but a view.

      Nick listened in on the calls as she made them.

      Two friends from high school, another from college. Fellow teachers at the elementary school where classes had ended only two weeks before. All wanting to know the same thing—what had happened on her trip?

      Was he mistaken or did she sound less excited with each recitation of events? Did she sound a little sad? Maybe a little worried?

      He thought she did.

      And he had a name the guy had given her.

      Eric Daniels.

      An occupation. Something vague having to do with investments.

      Yeah, right.

      The place? Apparently, the guy moved around a lot because she did indeed mention the guy being in Colorado and Cleveland. No Pittsburgh. And apparently, his home base was California. She didn’t mention a city. So half of what Nick had heard at the diner had some basis in reality? How was he supposed to function in this town?

      She vacuumed and dusted her apartment, and he watched. She cleaned out the refrigerator and wiped down the counter-tops, and he watched. She went into the bathroom and, judging from the time she spent in there and the way she looked when she came out, she must have taken a bath. Nick, thankfully, saw nothing but the closed bathroom door and a view of her that made him groan out loud when she emerged, hair wrapped in a towel with a few damp curls escaping down her pretty neck, a flimsy, shimmering robe—God help him—clinging to what had to be still slightly damp curves, bare legs peeking out from the slit in the ends when she walked. Bare feet, he thought. Bare toes. With his high-powered binoculars, which he’d gotten out and used out of sheer curiosity, he caught a hint of bold color on her toenails and felt like a complete voyeur.

      Which he was.

      He was a damned Peeping Tom.

      Night had fallen.

      Her living room was lit with the light of a lamp in the corner. She had window blinds, but they were angled up toward the sun, no doubt to let the light in. But Nick was sitting there by his window, maybe five feet higher than hers, and he could see everything.

      It looked like she was talking to herself, humming or maybe singing—some silly song about being in love, he feared.

      He watched the robe billow out and flow behind her as she walked, the fabric swishing slightly this way and that with the movement of her hips. She grabbed a bottle of lotion out of the bathroom, propped her leg up on the coffee table in the living room and started smoothing it down her legs and onto her feet. That was…okay. He could handle that. He’d seen her put on sunscreen lotion on the ship and survived to tell the tale.

      Then her hands started working their way up, slipping under the ends of the robe, to her pretty thighs. Had to keep that tan looking good, he suspected, groaning as he watched her hands move over herself. It was so much worse than what he’d seen on the ship. Her out-in-public touching herself had been difficult enough, but her alone-in-her-nightclothes touching herself was something out of an erotic film. She hadn’t really looked up at him and said, Do you want to touch me here? Had she?

      No. She hadn’t.

      It was just all too easy to imagine that she had, imagine his hands following hers.

      They could play a game.

      His hands following hers, wherever they went, wherever she wanted.

      Nick made a pitiful, whimpering sound.

      Honest to God, he was pathetic.

      She pushed up a sleeve and spread lotion over one of her forearms and then the other.

      Okay. That was better.

      Then one of her hands slipped inside her robe, working on her neck, her shoulder and, he suspected, her chest.

      Nick decided it was one of the sexiest things he’d ever seen. Pretty Kim Cassidy rubbing lotion all over herself, her hands slipping beneath her own robe, caressing her own bare skin.

      You’re going straight to hell for this one day, Nick told himself.

      Straight to hell.

      What was it about a woman touching herself that did this to men?

      He’d never understood it, never bought it.

      The man should want to be the one doing the touching, right? Not the other way around.

      His hands on her. That’s what a man should want.

      But with her he got the whole fantasy thing.

      Got that silly male voyeur thing and the effect of her with her hands all over her body and what it was doing to him. It was like an invitation, he decided. He could imagine her whispering, See what I’m doing? Come here. You could be doing this, too.

      Or she could simply be giving him some helpful hints. See this? I like this. I like to be touched like this.

      Fine by him.

      He had a raging hard-on and couldn’t take his eyes off her.

      He imagined her getting ready for a date to show up. For a lover. Soaking in her bath, the water a little murky, just enough to keep him from having a perfectly clear view of her. Her hair would be piled on her head, her face and arms damp with moisture from the heat and the bath. Her eyes would be closed, dreamily, her knees breaking the surface of the water as she hunched down in the tub and maybe the tips of her breasts visible, too. She’d lie there, sweet perfume in the water seeping into every inch of her skin, and then she’d get out, water running down her body in ways that made him groan. She’d towel herself off or maybe he’d dry her. She’d slip into that silky robe and maybe he’d watch while she rubbed lotion all over herself, getting herself ready. For him.

      She’d smile when he showed up at the door, greet him wearing nothing but the robe and hold out her welcoming arms to him. He’d pull her to him, feeling every bit of the heat of her and her pretty curves through the thin silk of the robe, then slip his hands inside, as he’d just watched her do, running his hands over soft, silky, still-damp skin.

      She’d open herself up to him in every way.

      Would he carry her to the bedroom or stop at the couch, too impatient to go any farther? Or have her right there against the wall, that robe still wrapped around her, but pushed aside so he could see her breasts, her pretty thighs? He wasn’t sure if he’d have the patience to take it off of her. To do anything more than he absolutely had to do to get where he wanted to be, which was inside of her.

      He could just imagine what she’d feel like in his arms, how she’d taste, the little sounds she’d make as…

      As…

      The lights went out.

      Nick blinked once, then again.

      He couldn’t see anything anymore.

      No more Kim in her pretty robe, her hands all over herself.

      She’d turned out the light!

      And left him sitting here practically panting after her, having some damned sexual fantasy worthy of a seventeen-year-old Peeping Tom.

      Nick groaned, a mixture of disgust at himself and frustrated desire. Completely inappropriate for a man in his position but, honestly, he was just a man and she’d been… Well, she’d been doing things any woman might do in the privacy of her own apartment. In what she believed was the privacy of her own apartment.

      How many women expected someone like Nick to be watching their every semierotic move while in the privacy of their own apartment?

      Nick fought the urge to beat his own head against the wall.

      Women who fell in love with crooks and potential terrorists should expect exactly this sort of treatment and should exercise some caution