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Though he had his back to her, Molly sent him an incredulous look. “You’ve got to be kidding? Do you honestly do that in your kitchen?”
Still smiling, he began unpacking cans. “Yeah, but it’s real easy at my place. I have two cans of soup and one box of microwave popcorn.” He studied the can he held. “Spaghetti sauce. Funny, I’d have bet you made your own sauce from scratch.” His mother always had, even while raising six kids and working full-time.
Carefully, Molly stretched to fit the shelf paper she’d cut in place. “Fast and easy, that’s my style. Actually, I’ve never mastered the fine art of cooking. Growing up, my mom cooked, then at college, our landlady was a terrific cook.” And when she’d married Lee, he’d tasted one or two of her efforts and hired a cook, but she decided not to mention that. “Today, with all the shortcuts available, you can eat really well and not know how to do much besides read the labels.”
He glanced over, taking in those incredibly long, sleek legs. “Yeah, but I thought all women knew how to cook, like it was in the genes or something.”
“Sorry to explode that little myth.”
Devin finished emptying one sack and went searching for another from where they were stacked on the floor while Molly went to work on the second shelf.
“Where in California are you from?” she asked. All right, so she was a little curious about him.
“The L.A. area.” He unloaded boxes of crackers, pancake mix, pasta. “How about you? Are you a native? It seems everyone I talk to in Arizona was born somewhere else.”
“Not me. Born and raised in Phoenix.”
“Never lived anywhere else?” He found that hard to believe. She didn’t look small-town and, by Los Angeles standards, Phoenix was almost backwoods.
“I lived in Tucson during my college years. And, for a while, in Colorado.”
He caught the change in her tone at the mention of Colorado, the reluctance. “Not a happy time?”
Her head swiveled to him. He was too quick, a man who actually listened, not just to words but to voice inflections. It was unnerving. “No, it wasn’t.”
Molly was grateful that he apparently decided to let that alone. They worked in silence for awhile, until she finished papering the shelves and bent to retrieve the dishes she’d carefully wrapped last night. She stretched to reach the top shelf while her sore muscles protested, but she ignored them, as usual. When there was work to be done, Molly just did it.
She’d almost forgotten he was there when he spoke up. “Are you just off a divorce?”
Surprise and irritation warred for dominance in her blue eyes. “What makes you ask that?”
Devin shrugged. “You’re skittish, kind of secretive, touchy. And you have a sad expression around your eyes when you think no one’s watching you.”
Stopping with a dinner platter in her hand, Molly frowned. “What are you, a psychiatrist?”
He had the decency to look sheepish. “Worse. I’m a writer.”
“Figures. Well, save your psychoanalysis for your characters.”
“I’m right then. You’ve just gone through a bad divorce.”
“Your vibes are a little off. It’s been three years.”
“Whoa! Three years and you’re still so testy. Must have been bad.”
Molly had had enough. “Let’s turn the tables here. What about you? Are you married? Have you ever been? Divorced? Children? How is it that you’re probably at least thirty and still renting furnished apartments? Bad relationships or just bad judgment? And how do you enjoy the third degree?” Letting out a whoosh of air, she ran out of steam. Turning aside and brushing back a lock of hair that had come loose from her ponytail, she set the platter on the counter with unsteady hands. “Oh, Lord. I’m sorry. I have no right to go on the attack. I hardly know you. I must be really tired.” One hand braced on the counter, she stood with her eyes downcast.
He stepped in front of her. “It’s all right. I goaded you and I deserved your tirade. I apologize. Occupational hazard. I have this insatiable need to know everything about everyone I meet. Gets me into a lot of trouble, as you can see.”
She still hadn’t looked up, so he went on. “To answer your questions, I’m not married, never have been, and no children. I’m thirty-three and I left California mostly because I have this big, overwhelming family and I need a quiet place so I can write without interruptions. I’ve had a few relationships, one in particular that lasted quite awhile, but when she realized I meant what I said when I told her I didn’t want the house, the picket fence or the two-point-five children she had in mind, we parted quite amiably. Bad judgment? Yeah, I’m guilty of that occasionally, but who isn’t?”
“Certainly not me,” she said so softly he had to move closer to hear the words.
Devin dared to reach up and touch her chin, forcing her to face him. “I’m sorry if I was out of line, Molly. Don’t be angry, please.” The word fragile came to mind. He hadn’t figured under all that bright energy that she’d be fragile.
His eyes were the color of jade tonight in the glare of the overhead kitchen light. So deep a green they were almost black. Maybe she was being taken in, but they also seemed sincere. “I’m not angry, just tired. Let’s forget it.”
Turning to gaze about the kitchen, Molly saw that only two boxes of dishes remained unpacked on the floor. “I think it’s time to call it a night. I’ll get to the rest tomorrow.” She walked over and picked up her canvas handbag, then snapped off the overhead light.
Standing in the moonlight on the back porch, she locked the door, then made a mistake. She looked up at him again and their eyes collided and held. Molly saw far more than she wanted to see in those green depths.
Slowly, Devin trailed a fingertip along the silk of her cheek and saw the pulse in her throat leap. “You’re going to be a distraction I don’t need, Molly Shipman.”
“No, I’m not. I don’t want to get involved with you, with anyone. I want you to ignore me as I plan to ignore you.” She stepped away and didn’t look back. “Good night.”
Walking to her car, Molly wondered if she had the fortitude to stick to her guns.
Chapter Two
Devin turned off his computer with a nod of satisfaction and leaned back. It was working just fine, thank goodness. His computer was the only item he’d carried up the stairs and into his spare room with the same care he might have shown delicate bone china, if he had any. In a way, computers were just as fragile. Unexpected jarrings or, God forbid, a near-drop and all that intricate wiring inside could cause the loss of a great deal of important data. Whole files could be erased or be extremely difficult to retrieve.
With all the many moves in his travels, fortunately he’d never had a problem. But he’d heard horror stories about systems crashing and motherboards that needed replacing after relocation. So he babied his equipment as if his livelihood depended on each and every component part. Because it did.
Stepping back, Devin gazed around his new office. The computer desk was in place along with his lucky chair, a somewhat beat-up old leather swivel that he’d sat in to pound out his first fiction pieces back when he was writing short stories on an ancient portable Smith-Corona. He had a sleek electric typewriter now as backup on the long table that also held his printer, copier and fax machine. Amazing the machinery a person had to have to write today. He’d read that Ernest Hemingway had carted an old portable Underwood all over Europe and done fairly well on it. But this was the nineties.
Devin strolled over to his bookcase filled to overflowing with reference material, books dating back to his college days and a shelf of well-read paperbacks he couldn’t seem to give up. With a sense of awe that was still very present in him, he reached to the top shelf and picked up his first published book, Murder at Oak Creek Canyon. Never had he seen anything more beautiful than his name above the title or his words and thoughts inside.
For as far back as he could recall, Devin Gray had wanted to write. And he had—essays, a journal, stories, even some very bad poetry—for his eyes only. Then, as a student at the University of Southern California, he’d met a professor who’d recognized his talent and encouraged him. In the beginning, he’d written short stories, nine his first year after graduation as he’d traveled all over the southwest, working all sorts of odd jobs to pay for rent and food. After two years, they’d finally begun selling. The income wasn’t much but the euphoria of seeing his name in print kept him going.
Devin lovingly ran his hands over the dust jacket. He’d kept moving, traveling, learning, researching. A hundred short stories later, he decided to try a novel. His love of the west combined with his fascination with mysteries led him to concentrate on western mysteries, which only a handful of authors were writing at the time.
He’d hired an agent who’d begun submitting his work to various publishers. It had taken three years—three long, hard years—before his first book sold. The following year, he’d published the second just as the first was published in paperback. Now, at long last, he was on his way, contracted for two more for more money than he’d dreamed possible.
Replacing the book alongside his second novel, Devin anchored them between two brass owl bookends, gifts from his father. He strolled into his living room, stopping to look out the large double windows. He could see Camelback Mountain in the near distance, serene as always under a clear, sunny sky. He’d visited many parts of Arizona in his travels, and fallen in love with the redrock country he used as the backdrop for some of his books.
Recently, when he’d decided it was time to leave the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles for a variety of reasons, he’d picked Scottsdale on the eastern border of Phoenix. Because it was small enough, western yet hardly provincial, classy yet homey. And it was only an hour’s flight to visit his family if he got the urge.
Here he could live quietly with a minimum of interruptions and only an occasional pang of guilt for not being at the beck and call of his huge clan. Devin loved his parents and five siblings and their spouses and his eleven nieces and nephews. But there was total bedlam when all the Grays got together, which was often enough to distract him big-time. They all seemed to thrive on chaos where he preferred quiet solitude. He’d decided to rent for a while and see if he liked the area well enough to build his dream house here. Already Scottsdale felt like home.
The almost constant sun rose early these days, and he’d been up with it, arranging his television set across from another old favorite, a stretch-back leather lounger. He’d hooked up his stereo in his bedroom and unpacked a few family pictures he set out in every apartment he’d ever occupied. Devin took a moment to study one framed photo of the entire clan taken at his parents’ anniversary party last year. There was no denying the Grays, for they all resembled their father with his black hair, green eyes and that prominent cleft in a square chin.
His mother was a lovely woman, but not one of her six offspring had inherited her blond hair, fair skin and blue eyes. Yet she’d been the guiding force of the family, working long hours alongside her husband at the family hardware store, making sure it succeeded, then grew from one store to two, then three and finally six. She’d run the household of six children strictly, relying heavily on the help of her eldest, Devin. She’d piled a lot of responsibility on him at an early age and he’d come through, always there for household chores, baby-sitting, often discipline. Even attending college, he’d lived at home because the family had needed him. Perhaps that was why he’d escaped into travel soon after graduation.
It had felt good, being on his own. Yet even on his travels, he’d been constantly called home for this emergency or that disaster where his help was needed. When he’d settled down in an apartment clear across town, they’d taken to inviting him over or dropping in constantly, hanging on the guilt if he begged off. He’d felt hounded, smothered. He’d simply had to get away.
At the moment, he didn’t even have a phone, though they’d promised him service Monday. He’d put in an address change at the post office, but he was going to guard that information for awhile. He wouldn’t put it past several members of his family to come charging over to check out his new digs. An unmarried son, no matter what age, was always fair game.
Through the window, he saw Molly’s Honda turn into the drive followed by a truck stacked high with furniture. Molly pulled up close to the back door, then quickly jumped out and walked over to the two men getting out of the pickup. One was tall and thin, young enough to still be in his teens, wearing a baseball cap backward. The other was middle-aged and balding with the start of a pot belly. Quickly the three of them began unloading furniture.
Should he go down and offer to help? Devin wondered. Last night, he’d helped her in the kitchen because he was curious about her more than anything else. She’d made it perfectly clear that she didn’t want his assistance, as she probably would again if he went down. If solitude was what he wanted, if noninvolvement was what he’d decided on, if being left alone to do his work was his primary goal, then he’d best stay away. After all, she had two guys to give her a hand.
Who were they? he wondered idly. People she’d hired? Relatives? Friends? Surely Molly wasn’t romantically involved with either. He watched as the teenager’s eyes followed her as she reached into the truck and hauled out a lamp. Devin couldn’t blame the kid. She was wearing another loose cotton shirt over jeans and white canvas shoes. Her face was free of makeup and her hair was pulled back and anchored with some sort of plastic gizmo. She looked about sixteen. Devin saw her smile at the boy before walking away and noticed the teenager’s face redden. Poor kid had a crush on her.
Stepping back, Devin decided he could spend his hours more gainfully than watching his neighbor move in. He walked into his office, pulled out his chair and stared at the computer. From somewhere below, he heard a laugh drift up. Female, smoky, mellow.
What the hell! They’d finish faster with another pair of hands. He started for the stairs.
Devin saw that the two guys were in the pickup untying a dresser before unloading it. “Hi. I thought you could use a hand.”
The kid wearing the baseball cap turned toward him. “Uh, yeah, sure, I guess.” He glanced over at his uncle.
Hank glanced at the newcomer. “We can handle it, but thanks.”
Real friendly, Devin thought. “I’m a neighbor,” he said by way of explanation.
“Uh-huh.” Hank concentrated on untying a snagged knot, obviously hoping the man would go away.
Annoyed, Devin picked up a kitchen chair that was standing alongside the truck and carried it onto the porch. The screen door had been taken off the hinges and placed off to the side. Giving a quick warning knock on the doorjamb, he walked in and spotted Molly in the kitchen. He strolled closer and saw she was setting up a small bowl that held an assortment of colorful stones, a hunk of fern and a blue fish nervously swimming around. “Hey, there,” he said, not wanting to startle her.
Wiping off the bowl, she looked up. “Hey, yourself. Meet Jo-Jo, my beta fighting fish. My niece named him.”
Devin set the chair down and leaned over for a closer look. “He doesn’t look very scary like a fighter should.”
“He would if you were another fish. These little guys are so mean you can’t put more than one in a bowl or they’ll kill each other.” She scooted the bowl into the far corner of the kitchen counter and stood admiring him.
“So you got him for protection, eh?”
She smiled at that. “Actually, I got him because I wanted something alive in the house…” She waved toward the other side of the room. “…other than my plants.”
She did have plants, Devin thought, gazing at two hanging baskets, a tall ficus in a red pot and several small containers along the two windowsills containing African violets. “They must keep you busy watering and trimming.” He didn’t have a plant or a fish at his place. Only his dog who right this minute was whining in the fenced yard wanting to inspect the men unloading the truck.
Devin set the chair he’d carried in next to a white pine table, noticing in the sunlight that poured in through the windows that she had a sprinkling of freckles across her nose, something he hadn’t seen last night. They made her look even younger. “I came down to see if you needed another pair of hands.”
“Molly,” came a gruff voice from the open front doorway, “you wanna come show us where you want this dresser?” The burly older man was sweating profusely and staring at Devin none too friendly-like.
“Sure, Hank.” She hurried ahead of the men, moving into the bedroom and pointing to the wall where she’d decided her dresser would go. Stepping aside, she waited until they’d set down the heavy piece, Hank grunting with the effort. “That’s perfect. Thanks.”
Wiping his broad forehead with a soggy handkerchief, Hank made his way back to the living room. “We’re going back for the living room stuff. You coming, Molly, or are you staying here?” His eyes shifted to Devin as if reluctant to leave her here with him.
“If you don’t need me, I think I’ll stay and make up the bed and put things away.” She noticed Devin standing in the archway. “Devin, this is Hank Thompson, the owner of the Pan Handle, and this is his nephew, Jerry. They volunteered to move me. Hank, this is…”
“Yeah, I know, your upstairs neighbor. We met.” Wondering why this guy was so curt with him, Devin decided to give it one more shot. “You sure I can’t help? I’d be glad to go along.” He tried a smile. “I’ve got a strong back.”
“We’ve got things under control. Be back soon, Molly.” Stuffing his kerchief into his back pocket, Hank followed his nephew outside.
Frowning, Molly watched them get into the truck. “That was a little rude,” she commented softly, wondering why her boss was being so unfriendly. “Hank’s usually not like that.”
“Maybe we were enemies in another life.”
“He’s a little protective of his girls, as he calls the three waitresses who work for him.” Molly checked several boxes on the floor, searching for the one filled with linens.
Or maybe good old Hank had designs on Molly himself and wanted to issue a warning. “Is he married?”
“Divorced. The Pan Handle seems to attract divorced people. Every one of us except Hector, the evening shift cook.” Hoisting the box, she headed for the bedroom.
Curiosity had Devin following her. “Do you and Hank…you know…date?” The man surely was acting territorial. Of course, it was none of his business.
Molly removed the mattress pad from the box and tossed it onto the bed before raising her eyes to Devin’s face. Studying him, she recognized that unmistakable male-female interest in his eyes that she’d become aware of last night on the back porch, and wondered what to do about it. She didn’t want to be as rude as Hank, but that sort of thing could become a problem, living so close as they would be. And it had absolutely nowhere to go. Perhaps it would be kinder to lay it all out for him once and for all.
“No. I don’t date Hank. He’s a good friend and old enough to be my father. I don’t date anyone else, either, for that matter.” She waited for the disbelief, the inevitable questions. She’d been down this road before.
Moving to the opposite side of the bed, Devin automatically grabbed one end of the mattress pad and began pulling it into place. “You don’t date anyone? I guess your ex really did a number on you.”
Intent on making him see, Molly adjusted her side of the pad to fit. “Actually, my decision has little to do with him.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but close enough. “I simply don’t have time. My work at the café, including quite a bit of overtime some weeks, keeps me very busy. I take night classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays at Arizona State, except the summer session. During tax season, I work part-time for a CPA. With all that, I scarcely have time to get in six hours of sleep, much less a date.” She reached for the pale-peach fitted bottom sheet, wondering why she was bothering to explain herself to this stranger.
Maybe because he was so damn persistent. Grabbing his side of the sheet, Devin bent to maneuver it into the upper corner. “C’mon, Molly. Everyone needs a little R-and-R now and again. Haven’t you heard about all work and no play making Jack—or Jill—very dull?”
Why was it that men thought that their mere presence in a woman’s life would change dull to unbearably exciting? “I take time for myself. I have friends, two in particular, former college roommates, and Trisha. I go shopping with my mother, have an occasional dinner out with my sister, take my niece to the movies. Oh, and sometimes I baby-sit Trisha’s little boy when she goes out. I watch television, read, garden. I think my life’s pretty full.” She sent him a challenging look.
He didn’t let her down. “Were you always so reclusive, content with work, family, friends and TV? Don’t you get lonely for a one-on-one with a man? You probably dated a lot before your marriage. You had to have. I mean, a woman like you…”
Molly’s head jerked up from securing her corner. “What do you mean, a woman like me?”
Devin straightened, wondering why she was so defensive. “I mean a woman who’s very attractive and obviously intelligent. Why would you choose to spend all your free time with your mother, old college friends and a couple of kids?”
She had dated a lot in college and some after she’d first walked away from Lee. The problem was that by the second date, indeed if they’d waited that long, they’d been all hands and pressure and a wet, seeking mouth. So she’d stopped dating, stopped hoping there was someone out there who could care for her for all the right reasons, a mature man who was his own person. One who could love a flawed woman with a trampled heart.
After three years, she’d about convinced herself that no such man existed, and she didn’t want the other kind.
“It’s just easier, that’s all.” She picked up the top sheet and shook it out, then realized what she was doing. She was making up her bed with a near stranger, an intimate act if there ever was one.
Molly drew in a deep breath. “Listen, I can do this myself. Don’t you have some work to do?” Maybe rude was all he understood.
He’d watched the play of emotions revealed so clearly on her transparent face. “You really have a great deal of trouble accepting help, don’t you?”
Their conversation was exasperating her. “When I need help, truly need it, I’ll ask. But I’ve been making beds alone for years. Don’t you have a book you need to write, or is this part of your research?”
He smiled at that. “Are you worried you’ll wind up in one of my books?”
“Not really.” She began spreading out the top sheet. “My life is too dull to interest anyone.”
Despite her admonitions, he pitched in on his side of the bed. “I doubt that, not if someone were to dig deep enough. Readers like to read about people’s good points and bad. Genuine people, warts and all.”
“I have as many warts as a pondful of frogs.”
“Toads.”
“What?” She reached for two pillows, then their cases.
