The Perfect Neighbor (7 page)

“They mean well.”

“They’re meddling with your life. It doesn’t matter what they mean.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She blew out a breath and smiled at a young couple strolling on the opposite side of the street. “Take my grandfather. Well, he’s not really my grandfather if you get picky, which we don’t. He’s my dad’s sister Shelby’s father-in-law. And on my mother’s side, she’s cousin to the spouses of his other two children. It’s a little complicated, if you get picky.”

“Which you don’t.”

“Exactly. There’s all this convoluted family connection between Daniel and Anna MacGregor and my parents, so why niggle? My aunt Shelby married their son Alan MacGregor—you might have heard of him. He used to live in the White House.”

“The name rings a distant bell.”

“And my mother, the former Genviève Grandeau, is a cousin of Justin and Diana Blade—siblings—who married, respectively, Daniel and Anna’s other two children, Serena and Caine MacGregor. So Daniel and Anna are Grandpa and Grandma. Is that clear?”

“Yes, I can follow that, but I’ve forgotten the entire point of the exercise.”

“Me, too.” She laughed in delight, then had to tighten her grip before she overbalanced. “A little too much wine,” she explained. “Anyway, let me think … Yes, I have it. Meddling. We were talking about meddling, which my grandfather—who would be Daniel MacGregor—is the uncontested world champ at. When it comes to matchmaking, he knows no peer. I’m telling you, McQuinn, the man is a wizard. I have …”

She had to stop, use her fingers to count. “Um, I think it’s seven cousins so far he’s managed to match up, marry off. He’s terrifying.”

“What do you mean, ‘match up’?”

“He just sort of finds the right person for them—don’t ask me how—then he works out a way to put them together, let nature take its course, and before you know it, you’ve got wedding bells and bassinets. He just told me my cousin Ian and his wife are expecting their first. They were married last fall. The man’s batting a thousand.”

“Does anyone tell him to butt out?”

“Oh, constantly.” She tipped up her head and grinned. “He just doesn’t pay attention. I figure he’s going to work on Adria or Mel next—give my brother, Matthew, time to season.”

“What about you?”

“Oh, I’m too slick for him. I know his canny tricks, and I’m not going to fall in love for years. What about you? Ever been there?”

“Where would that be?”

“Love, McQuinn, don’t be dense.”

“It’s not a place—it’s a situation. And there’s nothing there.”

“Oh, I think there will be,” she said dreamily. “Eventually.”

For the second time, she pulled up short. “Oh, damn. That’s Johnny’s car. He’s come in from New Jersey after all. Damn, damn, damn. Okay, here’s the plan.”

She whirled around, shook her head clear when it spun. “I should never have had that last glass of wine, but I’m still master of my fate.”

“You bet you are, kid.”

“Enough to know you call me ‘kid’ so you can feel superior and aloof, but that’s beside the point. We’re just going to stroll on down a few more feet until we’re right in front of her window. Very natural, okay?”

“That’s a tough one, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“I just love that nasty streak of sarcasm. Okay, this is fine, this is good. Now, we’re going to stand right here, because she’s watching, I promise. Any minute you’ll see her curtains twitch. Look for it.”

Because it seemed harmless, and he was starting to enjoy the way she held on to him, he flicked a glance over her head. “Right on cue. So?”

“You’re going to have to kiss me.”

His gaze shot back to hers. “Am I?”

“And you’re going to have to make it look good. If you do it right, she’ll figure Johnny’s a lost cause—for a while, anyway. And I’ll give you another fifty.”

He ran his tongue around his teeth. She had her face tipped back and looked as appealing as a single rosebud in a garden of thorns. “You’re going to pay me fifty bucks to kiss you.”

“Like a bonus. This could send Johnny back to Jersey for good. Just think of it as being onstage. Doesn’t have to mean anything. Is she still watching?”

“Yeah.” But he wasn’t looking at the window now, and didn’t have a clue.

“Great. Good. Make it count, okay. Romantic. Just slide your arms around me, then lean down and—”

“I know how to kiss a woman, Cybil.”

“Of course you do. No offense meant whatsoever. But this should be choreographed so that—”

He decided the only way to shut her up was to get on with it, and to get on with it his way. He didn’t slide his arms around her—he yanked her against him, and nearly off her feet. He had one glimpse of those big green eyes widening in shock, before his mouth crushed down on hers and sent the next babbling words sliding down her throat.

He was right. That was her last dizzy thought. He was absolutely right. He did know how to kiss a woman.

She had to grab on to his shoulders. Had to rise up to her toes.

She had to moan.

Her head was spinning in fast, giddy circles. Her heart had flipped straight into her throat to block any chance of air. It made her feel helpless, lost, shaky as his mouth pumped heat like a furnace into her body.

And his mouth was so hard, so hard, and stunningly hungry. What else could she do but let him feed?

It was like the dream, he thought. Only better. Much, much better. Her taste hadn’t been so unique in his imagination. Her body hadn’t trembled with quick, hard little shock waves. Her hands hadn’t clawed their way up into his hair to fist while she moaned pure pleasure into his mouth.

He yanked her back, but only to see if her eyes had gone dark, if heat had climbed into her cheeks the way he felt it climb through his system. She only stared at him, her breath coming short and fast through parted lips, her hands still clutched in his hair.

“Next one’s on me,” he murmured, and took her under again.

A horn blasted. Someone cursed. There was a rush of displaced air from a passing car. Someone shoved an apartment window open and let out a stream of blistering rock music and the acrid smell of burned dinner.

She might have been on a deserted island with crystal-blue waves crashing at her feet.

When he drew her away the second time, he did so slowly, with his hands skimming down from her shoulders to her elbows, then back in a gesture that stopped only a hint short of a caress. It gave her enough time to feel her head revolve once, like a slow-motion merry-go-round, before it settled weakly on her shoulders.

He wanted to lap her up on the spot, every inch of that flushed, lovely skin. To devour her innate—and, to him, misplaced—cheerfulness that shone out of her like sunlight. He wanted all that impossible, unflagging energy under him, over him, open to him.

And he had no doubt that once he had, he’d leave them both bitter.

Now the hands that lingered on her shoulders eased her back off her toes. Steadied her. Released her. “I think that ought to do it.”

“Do it?” she echoed, staring up at him.

“Satisfy Mrs. Wolinsky.”

“Mrs. Wolinsky?” Absolutely blank, she shook her head. “Oh. Oh, yeah.” She blew out a long breath and decided her system might settle sometime before the end of the next decade. “If it doesn’t, it’s hopeless. You’re awfully good at it, McQuinn.”

A reluctant smile flitted around his mouth. The woman was damn near irresistible, he thought, and, taking her arm, turned her toward the front of the building. “You’re not half bad at it yourself, kid.”

Cybil sang as she worked, belting out a duet with Aretha Franklin. Behind her, the open window welcomed the cool April breeze and the amazing noise that was the downtown streets in brilliant sunshine.

The stream of light was no sunnier than her mood.

Turning to the mirror on the wall beside her, she tried to work her face into a state of shock to help her with a character expression. But all she could do was grin.

She’d been kissed before. She’d been held by and against a man before. As far as she was concerned, comparing all her other experiences to that stunning sidewalk embrace with the man across the hall was like pitting a firecracker against a nuclear attack.

One hissed, popped and was momentarily entertaining. The other detonated and changed the landscape for centuries.

It had left her marvelously dizzy for hours.

She loved the sensation, adored every moment of that giddy, slack-muscled, purely feminine rush. Could there be anything more wonderful than feeling weak and strong, foolish and wise, confused and aware all at the same time?

And all she had to do was close her eyes, let her mind wander back, to feel it all over again.

She wondered what he was thinking, what he was feeling. No one could be unaffected by an experience of that … magnitude. And after all, he’d been right there with her at ground zero. A man couldn’t kiss a woman like that and not suffer some potent residual effects.

Suffering, Cybil decided, as her body tingled, was highly underrated.

She chuckled; she sighed; then, bending over her work, sang with Aretha about the joys of feeling like a natural woman.

“God, Cyb, it’s freezing in here!”

Cybil looked up, beamed. “Hi, Jody. Hi, sweet Charlie.”

The baby gave her a sleepy-eyed smile as Jody strode to the window with him cocked on her hip. “You’re sitting in front of an open window. It can’t be more than sixty degrees out there.” With a little grunt, Jody shoved the window closed.

“I was feeling kind of warm.” Cybil set her pencil aside to stroke Charlie’s pudgy cheek. “It’s miraculous, isn’t it, that men start out this way? As pretty little babies? Then they … wow, boy do they grow up into something else.”

“Yeah.” Puzzled, Jody frowned, examined her friend’s somewhat glassy eyes. “You look funny. Are you okay?” Jody laid a maternal hand on Cybil’s forehead. “No fever. Stick out your tongue.”

Cybil obeyed, crossing her eyes as she did and making Charlie bubble with laughter. “I’m not sick. I’m fabulous. I feel like a million after taxes.”

“Hmm.” Unconvinced, Jody pursed her lips. “I’m going to put Charlie down for his morning nap. He’s zonked. Then I’ll get us some coffee and you can tell me what’s going on.”

“Sure. Um-hmm.” Dreaming again, Cybil picked up a red pen and began to doodle pretty little hearts on scrap paper.

Since that was fun, she drew larger ones, sketching McQuinn’s face inside one.

He had a great one, she mused. Hard mouth, cool eyes, very strong features set off by that thick, dark hair. But that mouth softened a bit when he smiled. And his eyes weren’t cool when he laughed.

She loved making him laugh. He always sounded just a little out of practice. She could help him with that, she mused, drawing his face again with the warmth of laughter added. After all, one of her nice little talents was making people laugh.

And after she’d helped him find some steady work, he wouldn’t have so much to worry about.

She’d get him some work, make certain that he ate regular meals—she was always cooking too much for one person anyway—and she was sure she could find someone who had a secondhand sofa they were willing to part with on the cheap.

She knew enough people to start the ball rolling here and there for him. He’d feel better, wouldn’t he, once he was more settled in, more secure? It wouldn’t be like meddling. That was her grandfather’s territory. She would just be helping out a neighbor.

A gorgeous, sexy neighbor who could kiss a woman straight into the paradise of delirium.

Of course that wouldn’t be why she was doing it. Cybil shook herself, turned the scraps of paper over a little guiltily. She’d helped Mr. Peebles find a good podiatrist, hadn’t she? And nobody would consider him a cool-eyed Adonis with great hands, would they?

Of course not.

She was just being a good neighbor. And if there were any other … benefits, well, so what?

Satisfied with her plans, she folded her legs under her and got back to work.

* * *

Jody settled the baby, thinking as she always did when she tucked him in that he was the most beautiful child ever to grace the planet. When his heavy eyes shut, his blanket was smoothed and his favorite teddy bear left on guard, she trotted downstairs to turn down the music.

As at home in Cybil’s kitchen as her own, she poured morning coffee into two thick yellow mugs, sniffed out a couple of cranberry muffins, then loaded up a tray.

The midmorning ritual was one of her favorite parts of the day.

In the past few years, Cybil had become as close as a sister to her. Closer, Jody thought, wrinkling her nose. Her own sisters were always bragging about their husbands, their kids, their houses—when anyone could see her Chuck and her Charlie were miles superior. But Cybil listened. Cybil had held her hand through the difficult decision to quit her job and stay home with the baby full-time. It had been Cybil who’d stood by during those early days when she and Chuck had been panicked over every burp and sniffle Charlie had made.

There was no better friend in the world. Which was why Jody was determined to see Cybil blissfully happy.

She carried the tray up, set it on the table, then handed Cybil her mug.

“Thanks, Jody.”

“Great strip this morning. I can’t believe Emily decking herself out in a trench coat and fedora and tailing Mr. Mysterious all over Soho. Where does she get this stuff?”

“She’s a creature of impulse and drama.” Cybil broke off a piece of a muffin. It was usual for them to discuss Emily and the other characters as separate people. “And she’s nosy. She just has to know.”

“What about you? Did you find out anything yet about our Mr. Mysterious?”

“Yeah.” Cybil said it on a sigh. “His name’s McQuinn.”

“I heard that.” Instantly alert, Jody jabbed out a finger. “You sighed.”

“No, I was just breathing.”

“Uh-uh, you sighed. What gives?”

“Well, actually …” She was dying to talk about it. “We sort of went out last night.”

“Went out? Like a date?” Quickly, Jody pulled over a chair, sat, leaned close. “Where, how, when? Details, Cyb.”