Hoodwinked. Diana Palmer

and she was glad that she had a weekend to regroup.

      The next day was Saturday. Once, weekends had been the most important part of Maureen’s life, because she could garden and stay outdoors. But not anymore. Now she was too aware of eyes next door. She knew he was watching her. She didn’t even know how, but she could feel his gaze when she went to the trash can or the clothesline. She started digging a row in her small flower bed in which to put daisies, but even in jeans and a tan tank top, she felt as if she were working in the nude. She put her implements up and went inside to do housework instead.

      He left about noon. She heard the pickup backing out, and with a cry of pure joy, she rushed into the backyard and started digging with a vengeance. By the time she heard the truck return, she’d done two rows, added fertilizer and planted seed. So there, she thought victoriously as she put up her gardening tools. If I have to dig and plant at night, I’m having my flower garden!

      It was ridiculous, of course, to let a neighbor interfere with her activities to that extent. She started thinking about stone walls and huge privacy fences. But they cost money, and she didn’t have any to spare. It took everything she made to pay the bills; there was nothing left over for extravagance.

      The rest of the day was as lonely as it usually was. She watched a movie and went to bed early. Sunday morning she got up, made breakfast and went to church. Ordinarily she would have lain out in the sun that afternoon, but not with her new neighbor in residence. His pickup truck stayed in the driveway all day. But she hadn’t heard any sounds coming from his apartment, and about dark, she heard a car pull up next door. Peeking out through the curtains, she watched a Mercedes convertible let out the big, dark man just before it backed out into the road and took off.

      He wasn’t dressed like a mechanic. He was wearing what looked like a very expensive light tan suit and a shirt under it that almost had to be silk. She darted back from the window as he glanced in her direction. Well, well, she thought. Wasn’t that one for the books? He was accusing her of dressing in an uptown way, so what would he call his own leisure clothes?

      Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Could he possibly be the saboteur? Her heart jumped. He was new at the company. He wasn’t known. He seemed to be a mechanic, but he dressed like a man with expensive tastes. Didn’t saboteurs make a lot of money? He could have been hired by someone to make the plane fail. Not Mr. Peters, she decided firmly. By a curious coincidence, Mr. Peters of Peters Aviation was a member in good standing of the church she attended, and she knew he wasn’t the kind of man to do something dirty like trying to undermine a competitor’s product. But there were other people who might try to topple a new design—like two renegade members of MacFaber’s own board of directors who’d wanted to sell out to Peters and were angry that Mr. MacFaber had blocked the plan.

      She felt a surge of excitement as she considered her next move. She had the perfect opportunity to observe her next-door neighbor. Having him in proximity meant she could watch him. She could find out who his associates were, where he went, what he did. She could be—Maureen Harris, secret agent. She giggled. If only she had a trench coat.

      She drifted off into a very satisfying fantasy. She’d just uncovered the saboteur and saved MacFaber’s company. They were pinning a medal on her. It hurt!

      She gasped, looking down to the big beak that was sinking into her sneaker.

      “Bagwell!” she muttered. She offered him a shirt-clad arm and he climbed aboard with happy little mumbles. So much for fantasy, she sighed.

      She carried Bagwell back to the kitchen, frowning thoughtfully. Of course, she’d have to be careful about her observation. It wouldn’t do to let her sneaky neighbor see her watching him. Now she began to wonder if his moving in next door was really a coincidence, after all. Perhaps he’d known beforehand that she was Mr. Blake’s secretary and thought that he might find out things about the jet from her. But that wasn’t realistic, she decided with a sigh. What did she know about jet designs? She’d seen the blueprints only once, and her job involved less exciting things than the actual design of airplanes.

      She pursed her lips thoughtfully. Her new neighbor might actually be a struggling mechanic, but he had some ritzy friends—if that car was anything to go by. She went to feed Bagwell, visions of trench coats and spy cameras running rampant in her bored mind. That was the trouble with living such a dull life, she told herself. It would get her into trouble one day.

      The next week went by quickly, with only glimpses of her neighbor. Very cautiously, she kept an eye on him. She found subtle ways to question people, and she found out that his name was Jake Edwards and that he was from Arkansas. He had excellent credentials, but he kept very much to himself and nobody knew anything about him.

      She felt guilty because of her snooping, even though she felt a sense of accomplishment that she’d found out so much. But her conscience and the mechanic’s evident dislike of her made her keep out of his way as much as possible. After all, he’d already accused her once of chasing him. God forbid that she should display any interest.

      She’d started eating lunch in her office to make sure she didn’t run into him in the canteen. And the next weekend was a repeat of the one before. She darted out to do her gardening when he wasn’t home, otherwise never venturing outside. She had a post-office box, so she didn’t have to go out to a mailbox, and she only subscribed to the weekly paper, which came in the mail.

      The only unpleasantless was when she tiptoed outside to the trash can very early Sunday morning, with her long hair tumbled to her waist, wearing the men’s pajama top that came to her knees. It was a shock to find her neighbor at his trash can, staring blatantly at her. She’d been too embarrassed even to speak. She’d darted back into her apartment and closed the door. After she got back from church, she hadn’t ventured out in the yard even once. She and Bagwell had spent the day in front of the television, watching old war movies together.

      She seemed to spend her life avoiding her new neighbor, she thought ruefully. But it never occurred to her that he’d notice, or that it would matter to him. So she got the shock of her life the following Monday when he came into her office at lunchtime to find her eating a bowl of canteen chili with some crackers she’d brought from home along with a thermos of coffee. She paused with the spoon halfway to her mouth and stared at him.

      He stared back. He looked even bigger at close range. He had the kind of physique that must have required some careful eating. He was enormous, but most of him seemed to be muscle. He had a broad face, almost leonine in look, with large dark eyes under a jutting brow. His eyebrows were bushy, but they suited him, like his imposing nose and square chin. He was even good-looking in a rough sort of way. He had hands like hams, and Maureen thought that she wouldn’t have liked to run afoul of him if she’d been another man instead of a woman.

      “Have you gone into hibernation?” he asked. He folded his arms across his massive chest and leaned back against the door with the nonchalance of a man who never doubted his instincts for an instant.

      She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

      “You’ve been studiously avoiding me for two weeks,” he replied. “Not an easy task when you’re living next door to me.”

      “I didn’t think you’d noticed,” she murmured.

      “That yellow car is hard to miss,” he replied. “Prepared flower beds seem to appear by magic in your backyard. Clothes go up and come down under invisible hands. I never see you, or hear you except accidentally.”

      She put the chili down. “God forbid,” she said. “I’d hate to be accused of moving next door to chase you, even if I was there first.”

      “You’re blushing,” he observed, noting her heightened color with an odd expression.

      “You make me nervous,” she said. She didn’t look at him. “The last tenant was hardly ever home, and when he was, he was playing hard rock so loud that he didn’t know what was going on around him.” She sighed heavily. “I’ve been afraid that you’d mind Bagwell.”

      “Your live-in lover.” He nodded. “I never