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Night Moves: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down - Нора Робертс - Читать любовный роман онлайн в женской библиотеке LadyLib.Net
Night Moves: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down - Нора Робертс - Скачать любовный роман в женской библиотеке LadyLib.Net
Робертс Нора
Night Moves: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down
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Chapter 3
For the third morning in a row, Maggie was awakened by the sound of men and machinery outside her windows. It occurred to her that she’d hardly had the chance to become used to the quiet when the chaos had started.
The bulldozer had been replaced by chain saws, industrial weed eaters and trucks. While she was far from getting used to the early risings, she was resigned. By seven-fifteen she had dragged herself out of the shower and was staring at her face in the bathroom mirror.
Not so good, she decided, studying her own sleepy eyes. But then she’d been up until two working on the score. Displeased, she ran a hand over her face. She’d never considered pampering her skin a luxury or a waste of time. It was simply something she did routinely, the same way she’d swim twenty laps every morning in California.
She’d been neglecting the basics lately, Maggie decided, squinting at her reflection. Had it been over two months since she’d been in a salon? Ruefully, she tugged at the bangs that swept over her forehead. It was showing, and it was time to do something about it.
After wrapping her still-damp hair in a towel, she pulled open the mirrored medicine-cabinet door. The nearest Elizabeth Arden’s was seventy miles away. There were times, Maggie told herself as she smeared on a clay mask, that you had to fend for yourself.
She was just rinsing her hands when the sound of quick, high-pitched barking reached her. C.J.’s present, Maggie thought wryly, wanted his breakfast. In her short terry-cloth robe, which was raveled at the hem, her hair wrapped in a checked towel and the clay mask hardening on her face, she started downstairs to tend to the demanding gift her agent had flown out to her. She had just reached the bottom landing when a knock on the door sent the homely bulldog puppy into a frenzy.
“Calm down,” she ordered, scooping him up under one arm. “All this excitement and I haven’t had my coffee yet. Give me a break.” The pup lowered his head and growled when she pulled on the front door. Definitely city-oriented, she thought, trying to calm the pup. She wondered if C.J. had planned it that way. The door resisted, sticking. Swearing, Maggie set down the dog and yanked with both hands.
The door swung open, carrying her a few steps back with the momentum. The pup dashed through the closest doorway, poking his head around the frame and snarling as if he meant business. Cliff stared at Maggie as she stood, panting, in the hall. She blew out a breath, wondering what could happen next. “I thought country life was supposed to be peaceful.”
Cliff grinned, tucking his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “Not necessarily. Get you up?”
“I’ve been up for quite some time,” she said loftily.
“Mmm-hmm.” His gaze skimmed over her legs, nicely exposed by the brief robe, before it lingered on the puppy crouched in the doorway. Her legs were longer, he mused, than one would think, considering the overall size of her. “Friend of yours?”
Maggie looked at the bulldog, which was making fierce sounds in his throat while keeping a careful distance. “A present from my agent.”
“What’s his name?”
Maggie sent the cowering puppy a wry look. “Killer.”
Cliff watched the pup disappear behind the wall again. “Very apt. You figure to train him as a guard dog?”
“I’m going to teach him to attack music critics.” She lifted a hand to push it through her hair—an old habit—and discovered the towel. Just as abruptly, she remembered the rest of her appearance. One hand flew to her face and found the thin layer of hardened clay. “Oh, my God,” Maggie murmured as Cliff’s grin widened. “Oh, damn.” Turning, she raced for the stairs. “Just a minute.” He was treated to an intriguing glimpse of bare thighs as she dashed upstairs.
Ten minutes later, she walked back down, perfectly composed. Her hair was swept back at the side with mother-of-pearl combs; her face was lightly touched with makeup. She’d pulled on the first thing she’d come to in her still-unpacked trunk. The tight black jeans proved an interesting contrast to the bulky white sweatshirt. Cliff sat on the bottom landing, sending the cowardly puppy into ecstasy by rubbing his belly. Maggie frowned down at the crown of Cliff’s head.
“You weren’t going to say a word, were you?”
He continued to rub the puppy, not bothering to look up. “About what?”
Maggie narrowed her eyes and folded her arms under her breasts. “Nothing. Was there something you wanted to discuss this morning?”
He wasn’t precisely sure why that frosty, regal tone appealed to him. Perhaps he just liked knowing he had the ability to make her use it. “Still want that pond?”
“Yes, I still want the pond,” she snapped, then gritted her teeth to prevent herself from doing so again. “I don’t make a habit of changing my mind.”
“Fine. We’ll be clearing out the gully this afternoon.” Rising, he faced her while the puppy sat expectantly at his feet. “You didn’t call Bog about the kitchen floor.”
Confusion came and went in her eyes. “How do you—”
“It’s easy to find things out in Morganville.”
“Well, it’s none of your—”
“Hard to keep your business to yourself in small towns,” Cliff interrupted again. It amused him to hear her breath huff out in frustration. “Fact is, you’re about the top news item in town these days. Everybody wonders what the lady from California’s doing up on this mountain. The more you keep to yourself,” he added, “the more they wonder.”
“Is that so?” Maggie tilted her head and stepped closer. “And you?” she countered. “Do you wonder?”
Cliff knew a challenge when he heard one, and knew he’d answer it in his own time. Impulsively, he cupped her chin in his hand and ran his thumb over her jawline. She didn’t flinch or draw back, but became very still. “Nice skin,” he murmured, sweeping his gaze along the path his thumb took. “Very nice. You take good care of it, Maggie. I’ll take care of your land.”
With this, he left her precisely as she was—arms folded, head tilted back, eyes astonished.
By ten, Maggie decided it wasn’t going to be the quiet, solitary sort of day she’d moved to the country for. The men outside shouted above the machinery to make themselves heard. Trucks came and went down her newly graveled lane. She could comfort herself that in a few weeks that part of the disruption would be over.
She took three calls from the Coast from friends who wondered how and what she was doing. By the third call, she was a bit testy from explaining she was scraping linoleum, papering walls, painting woodwork and enjoying it. She left the phone off the hook and went back to her putty knife and kitchen floor.
More than half of the wood was exposed now. The progress excited her enough that she decided to stick with this one job until it was completed. The floor would be beautiful, and, she added, thinking of Cliff’s comments, she’d have done it herself.
Maggie had barely scraped off two more inches when there was a knock behind her. She turned her head, ready to flare if it was Cliff Delaney returned to taunt her. Instead, she saw a tall, slender woman of her own age with soft brown hair and pale blue eyes. As Maggie studied Joyce Morgan Agee, she wondered why she hadn’t seen the resemblance to Louella before.
“Mrs. Agee.” Maggie rose, brushing at the knees of her jeans. “Please, come in. I’m sorry.” Her sneakers squeaked as she stepped on a thin layer of old glue. “The floor’s a bit sticky.”
“I don’t mean to disturb your work.” Joyce stood uncertainly in the doorway, eyeing the floor. “I would’ve called, but I was on my way home from Mother’s.”
Joyce’s pumps were trim and stylish. Maggie felt the glue pull at the bottom of her old sneakers. “We can talk outside, if you don’t mind.” Taking the initiative, Maggie walked out into the sunshine. “Things are a little confused around here right now.”
“Yes.” They heard one of the workers call to a companion, punctuating his suggestion with good-natured swearing. Joyce glanced over in their direction before she turned back to Maggie. “You’re not wasting any time, I see.”
“No.” Maggie laughed and eyed the crumbling dirt wall beside them. “I’ve never been very patient. For some reason, I’m more anxious to have the outside the way I want it than the inside.”
“You couldn’t have picked a better company,” Joyce murmured, glancing over at one of the trucks with Delaney’s on the side.
Maggie followed her gaze but kept her tone neutral. “So I’m told.”
“I want you to know I’m really glad you’re doing so much to the place.” Joyce began to fiddle with the strap of her shoulder bag. “I can hardly remember living here. I was a child when we moved, but I hate waste.” With a little smile, she looked around again and shook her head. “I don’t think I could live out here. I like being in town, with neighbors close by and other children for my children to play with. Of course, Stan, my husband, likes being available all the time.”
It took Maggie a moment; then she remembered. “Oh, your husband’s the sheriff, isn’t he?”
“That’s right. Morganville’s a quiet town, nothing like Los Angeles, but it keeps him busy.” She smiled, but Maggie wondered why she sensed strain. “We’re just not city people.”
“No.” Maggie smiled, too. “I guess I’ve discovered I’m not, either.”
“I don’t understand how you could give up—” Joyce seemed to catch herself. “I guess what I meant was, this must be such a change for you after living in a place like Beverly Hills.”
“A change,” Maggie agreed. Was she sensing undercurrents here, too, as she had with Louella’s dreaminess? “It was one I wanted.”
“Yes, well, you know I’m glad you bought the place, and so quickly. Stan was a little upset with my putting it on the market when he was out of town, but I couldn’t see it just sitting here. Who knows, if you hadn’t come along so fast, he might’ve talked me out of selling it.”
“Then we can both be grateful I saw the sign when I did.” Mentally, Maggie was trying to figure out the logistics of the situation. It seemed the house had belonged exclusively to Joyce, without her husband or her mother having any claim. Fleetingly, she wondered why Joyce hadn’t rented or sold the property before.
“The real reason I came by, Miss Fitzgerald, is my mother. She told me she was here a few days ago.”
“Yes, she’s a lovely woman.”
“Yes.” Joyce looked back toward the men working, then took a deep breath. Maggie no longer had to wonder if she was sensing undercurrents. She was sure of it. “It’s more than possible she’ll drop in on you again. I’d like to ask you a favor, that is, if she begins to bother you, if you’d tell me instead of her.”
“Why should she bother me?”
Joyce let out a sound that was somewhere between fatigue and frustration. “Mother often dwells on the past. She’s never completely gotten over my father’s death. She makes some people uncomfortable.”
Maggie remembered the discomfort she’d felt on and off during Louella’s brief visit. Still, she shook her head. “Your mother’s welcome to visit me from time to time, Mrs. Agee.”
“Thank you, but you will promise to tell me if—well, if you’d like her to stay away. You see, she’d often come here, even when the place was deserted. I don’t want her to get in your way. She doesn’t know who you are. That is—” Obviously embarrassed, Joyce broke off. “I mean, Mother doesn’t understand that someone like you would be busy.”
Maggie remembered the lost eyes, the unhappy mouth. Pity stirred again. “All right, if she bothers me, I’ll tell you.”
The relief in Joyce’s face was quick and very plain. “I appreciate it, Miss Fitzgerald.”
“Maggie.”
“Yes, well …” As if only more uncertain of her ground, Joyce managed a smile. “I understand that someone like you wouldn’t want to have people dropping by and getting in the way.”
Maggie laughed, thinking how many times the phone calls from California had interrupted her that morning. “I’m not a recluse,” she told Joyce, though she was no longer completely sure. “And I’m not really very temperamental. Some people even consider me normal.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t. Come back when I’ve done something with that floor, and we’ll have some coffee.”
“I’d like to, really. Oh, I nearly forgot.” She reached into the big canvas bag on her shoulder and pulled out a manila envelope. “Mother said you wanted to see these. Some pictures of the property.”
“Yes.” Pleased, Maggie took the envelope. She hadn’t thought Louella would remember or bother to put them together for her. “I hoped they might give me some ideas.”
“Mother said you could keep them as long as you liked.” Joyce hesitated, fiddling again with the strap of her bag. “I have to get back. My youngest gets home from kindergarten at noon, and Stan sometimes comes home for lunch. I haven’t done a thing to the house. I hope I see you sometime in town.”
“I’m sure you will.” Maggie tucked the envelope under her arm. “Give my best to your mother.”
Maggie started back into the house, but as she put her hand on the doorknob, she noticed Cliff crossing to Joyce. Curiosity had her stopping to watch as Cliff took both the brunette’s hands in his own. Though she couldn’t hear the conversation over the din of motors, it was obvious that they knew each other well. There was a gentleness on Cliff’s face Maggie hadn’t seen before, and something she interpreted as concern. He bent down close, as if Joyce were speaking very softly, then touched her hair. The touch of a brother? Maggie wondered. Or a lover?
As she watched, Joyce shook her head, apparently fumbling with the door handle before she got into the car. Cliff leaned into the window for a moment. Were they arguing? Maggie wondered. Was the tension she sensed real or imaginary? Fascinated with the silent scene being played out in her driveway, Maggie watched as Cliff withdrew from the window and Joyce backed out to drive away. Before she could retreat inside, Cliff turned, and their gazes locked.
There were a hundred feet separating them, and the air was full of the sounds of men and machines. The sun was strong enough to make her almost too warm in the sweatshirt, yet she felt one quick, unexpected chill race up her spine. Perhaps it was hostility she felt. Maggie tried to tell herself it was hostility and not the first dangerous flutters of passion.
There was a temptation to cross those hundred feet and test both of them. Even the thought of it stirred her blood. He didn’t move. He didn’t take his eyes from her. With fingers gone suddenly numb, Maggie twisted the handle and went inside.
Two hours later, Maggie went out again. She’d never been one to retreat from a challenge, from her emotions or from trouble. Cliff Delaney seemed connected with all three. While she’d scraped linoleum, Maggie had lectured herself on letting Cliff intimidate her for no reason other than his being powerfully male and sexy.
And different, she’d admitted. Different from most of the men she’d encountered in her profession. He didn’t fawn—far from it. He didn’t pour on the charm. He wasn’t impressed with his own physique, looks or sophistication. It must have been that difference that had made her not quite certain how to handle him.
A very direct, very frank business approach, she decided as she circled around the back of the house. Maggie paused to look at the bank fronting her house.
The vines, briars and thick sumac were gone. Piles of rich, dark topsoil were being spread over what had been a tangled jungle of neglect. The tree that had leaned toward her house was gone, stump and all. Two men, backs glistening with sweat, were setting stone in a low-spreading wall where the edge of the slope met the edge of the lawn.
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