by Nancy Warren
“Of course you’re not a burden,” Daddy said, glaring at his wife. “And we’re not poor, love, we’ve simply got to retrench.”
Mother rose and tottered to the drinks trolley.
“What about my credit cards?” Chloe asked, horrified.
Her father looked ill and for the first time she worried about him. He looked so old and worn out. She experienced a twinge of guilt.
“I’ll pay them up once more. But that will be the last time.”
“Don’t worry, Daddy,” she said, feeling like Pollyanna. “Once I get my new company started in America, I’ll be sending money home.”
She managed to get her first chuckle out of her father. “Of course you will, pet. Of course you will.”
She left her home after the weekend, quite worried.
All right. She had hoped to borrow some start-up money from her parents to fund her new venture, but obviously that wasn’t going to work.
Luckily, the Italian ski racer she’d been recently engaged to hadn’t wanted the vulgar diamond he’d given her for an engagement ring. The thing was the size of a small Alp and brought in a satisfyingly large amount of cash when she got her brother Jack to take care of a private sale for her.
Six weeks later, Chloe was on her way to Austin, Texas.
Jack, who was very annoying but also quite sensible in a way she never would be, and whose advice was usually right, warned her away from Manhattan. “The shopping and parties will do you in in a fortnight,” he’d warned. “And this time you’re on your own.”
Then it turned out that Rachel, his girlfriend the fabulous chef, had lived in L.A. and didn’t think it was quite right for Chloe either. It was her friend Gerald who, once more, stepped into the breach.
“There’s a man I know in Austin, Texas, who owns some property. He’s a decent fellow and he’d look after you. Why not start there? I’ve already talked to him and he has a house for rent that’s much more reasonable than what you’d pay in Manhattan or L.A.”
Chloe wasn’t nearly as stupid as she sometimes pretended to be and she knew that Jack had immediately called Gerald to try to steer her somewhere safe. Instead of annoying her, the thought that these people cared about her made her happy. Besides, something about Texas appealed to her. Maybe it was from watching all those reruns of Dallas and Dynasty when she was a child, but she quite liked the notion of living somewhere so over-the-top. All those acres of land, and men in cowboy boots, Stetsons, and low-slung jeans wandering around with their shirts off.
She’d waffled a bit over Austin, but then she saw the picture of the house. It was a proper house with a pretty garden and three bedrooms, so she could have her office at home.
Texas. Cowboys and oil wells. Ranches and land barons. Stetsons and spurs.
Within a ridiculously short amount of time, she had everything organized. Jack had helped her sort out a visa. She had business cards printed and had placed ads in all the important papers. She even had a website.
Her ads were simple.
The Breakup Artist
Breaking up is hard to do. We can help end your relationship for you. Experienced, professional, creative.
We do the dirty work and do our best to make sure there are no hard feelings afterward.
Discretion assured.
Chloe had enough money for about six months if she was careful. Of course, by that time her business would be established. Perhaps then she’d expand into bigger cities, she thought, filled with the optimism with which she threw herself into every new venture.
So, it was with a light heart that she stepped out of a cab onto a charmingly suburban street in Austin. She was to pick up her key at the house next door to the one she would occupy. All very simple.
She looked around, ready to be pleased with America. The street was lined with some kind of tree she’d never seen before. The houses were neat, mostly brick and with well-kept gardens, the sort of home where a person might raise a family. In fact, now she looked again, she saw some kind of playground in one of the backyards. Once the cab driver had unloaded all her luggage for her, she walked next door and knocked.
So far, the people she’d seen in this country, at the airport and on the street, had been disappointingly average. Then the door opened.
She found herself confronting a long, lean, muscular man with world-weary gray eyes, a tangle of dark brown hair, and a jaw whose toughness was softened not at all by the shadow of stubble.
She knew she’d found Texas.
Or heaven.
“Good afternoon,” she said, “I’m Chloe Flynt. I’ve taken the house next door.”
He blinked down at her and she felt his focus sharpen, which usually happened when men looked at her. It wasn’t that she courted male attention, exactly, more that she would have missed it if it stopped.
She glanced up at him—way up—from under her lashes. She wasn’t particularly short at five feet five inches, but next to this man she felt tiny.
“Gerald’s friend. Right.” He stood there, all masculine and delicious in a T-shirt that showed off lovely muscles, and low-riding jeans. “I thought you’d be older.”
She smiled at him. Next to her pout, her smile was her deadliest weapon. “Well, one day I will be.” What the bloody hell had Gerry said about her?
“I’m Matthew Tanner.”
She held out her hand, since it didn’t look as though he was going to. She was pleased to find his grip warm, firm, and manly. Yes, she thought, he might make an interesting neighbor.
“I need you to fill out some tenant forms.” He glanced at her again. “But you look pretty tired. Here’s the key. Get yourself settled and we can do the paperwork tomorrow. Everything’s hooked up and ready for you.”
Tired? She looked tired? And Gerald had made her sound old? Right. The first thing she would do after a good long sleep was to sort the closest day spa.
“Thank you so much,” she said, accepting the key. She turned and put a little extra something into her walk just to let him know she was neither too old nor too young, but just right. And she was certainly not tired.
She hauled her luggage into her new home next door and proceeded to set up house. She loved the place the second she entered it.
The hardwood floors were warm and welcoming. To the left of the entry hall was a cozy living room with basic furniture. All very clean and durable. She’d have to do something to pretty it up. Some throws and pillows and things, she thought. She peeked through, and behind the living room was a dining area and a bright kitchen with a big window and a back door leading out to a back garden with a patio. Of course, some tubs of flowers would brighten up the patio in no time. There was even a gas barbecue tucked to one side.
She ran upstairs and thought how pretty the big front bedroom was. Rather masculine, but at least there was bedding. Something else Gerald had arranged for her, bless him. Her bedroom boasted an ensuite bath with shower.
There were two other bedrooms, one of which was already set up as an office. Excellent. She peeked into the third bedroom thinking it could be a guest room if any of her friends popped over for a visit. And there was another big bathroom. Again, quite utilitarian, but nothing she wouldn’t soon have prettied up.
Tomorrow, she’d worry about groceries. Tonight she was happy she’d packed the absolute essentials. A tin of tea by Taylors of Harrowgate and a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray.
With the tea made and her essentials unpacked, she set up her laptop in the spare room, where she was delighted with the old oak desk. Since the house came furnished, she’d imagined having to store a spare bed and buy a desk, so the fact that there was already a desk here, and wireless Internet, convinced her she’d made a good choice.
Her luck continued to hang about in the stratosphere when she found in her inbox, among farewell and good luck posts from her friends, a message from her first potential client.
Can you help? I can’t get rid of my girlfriend. I keep trying to break up
with her, but she’s not getting the message.
Allan
She shook her head. How people could make heavy work of the simplest things. She emailed him back and made an appointment for the following day. Then she went to bed and thought about her first job as the owner of her own company.
Her strategy would depend both on the man and what he told her of the woman, but already she was playing with ideas. She could re-enact the dramatic breakup she’d managed for Martin Willowbrook when he’d been stalked by that woman he’d met at Oxford. That had been simple and effective.
But where would she borrow a baby?
Chapter 3
Matthew wandered past his front door, yawning and fantasizing about the first strong, black cup of coffee of the day, when he noticed a fat envelope that had obviously been stuffed under the door.
He stood there for a moment regarding it, eyes unconsciously narrowing. It wasn’t part of the regular mail delivery. He’d locked up just after midnight and the envelope hadn’t been there then. He glanced at his watch and wondered who had dropped off a fat piece of mail in the last seven hours and whether he should be alarmed.
As usual, curiosity was stronger than caution. He picked up the envelope. Chloe was handwritten on the front. The envelope was soft, the flap tucked in but not sealed. A man with strong moral fiber and a healthy conscience would walk right next door and push the envelope through the correct mail slot.
He pulled out the tucked flap and peeked inside, where he found a wad of cash. And a note.
Chloe, thanks so much. Didn’t want this on my credit card for obvious reasons. Everything worked out great. I’d use you again.
Allan
He counted the money. Stood there chewing his upper lip with the unpleasant feeling that both he and his London acquaintance Gerald had been snowed. Then he shoved the money back and walked outside into the cool of morning. Lights were on in a few of his neighbors’ windows and Horace Black, across the street and two down, was backing his new truck down the driveway.
Up and down the street were signs of life, but in his new neighbor’s house nothing. She’d been here for two weeks, and while she seemed like a good tenant, she came and went at strange hours. He had a bad feeling he now knew why.
He strode next door and knocked on her front door, perhaps a little more aggressively than necessary. He’d been conned, and he didn’t like being conned.
Probably he should go back to his house and drink some coffee, give himself a chance to cool down and Little Miss I’ll use your services again time to wake up. But he didn’t feel like doing the sensible thing.
He gave it a minute, then banged again, holding the bell with his finger at the same time.
After an age and a half, the front door opened. Chloe Flynt stood there, her black hair soft and tousled in the sexiest case of bedhead he’d ever seen. Her eyes were the most amazing purple-blue, and they gazed at him in the vaguely unfocussed way of someone who’s not totally awake yet. He had no idea what—if anything—she was wearing, since everything from the neck down was behind the door.
“You should have asked who it was before opening the door,” he snarled.
“I looked out the bedroom window,” she said on a yawn. “I could see you.” Almost as though his sharp advice to be cautious had the opposite effect, she straightened and opened the door fully.
He’d checked her out, the way a single man in his prime always checks women out. He’d sensed a very nice body was packaged in the trendy clothes she wore. But he’d had no idea.
She wasn’t a tall woman, but she was exquisite. She wore teeny-tiny girl boxer shorts with the Union Jack stamped all over them and a little white T-shirt with Rule Britannia printed across the chest. Her legs were shapely, her breasts small and perfect. Even the tiny strip of skin between the end of her shirt and the beginning of the shorts fascinated him. So white, so smooth.
His gaze returned to her eyes and he found them fully awake now and regarding him with a certain amused speculation. Damn it, she’d knocked him on his ass and she knew it.
“Don’t tell me—your bra has the queen on one cup and Prince William on the other.”
She glanced down at her outfit as though she’d forgotten what she was wearing. “A going-away present from a friend.”
The sun was against his back, already warm. To his right he heard a bee sounding like it was snoring in the Texas lilac bush he’d planted last year.
“Did you come over to check that my pajamas are patriotic?” she asked.
He realized he was staring and felt stupid, which annoyed him even more. “I came to deliver some mail that came to me by mistake.”
He held out the envelope.
“Thank you.” She put out her hand but he didn’t relinquish the envelope.
“What’s going on, Chloe?”
Her eyebrows rose in an incredibly snooty fashion, as though she might call her palace guards to come and have him shot. “I beg your pardon?”
“Somebody stuffs a thousand bucks in cash in my mail slot in the middle of the night, it makes me curious.”
“A thousand dollars?” she exclaimed, sounding delighted. “He must have added a tip. How sweet.”
For an instant he was distracted by the thought of what her services were and what she’d done to deserve such a big tip.
A jovial male voice called out, “Mornin’ Matt, ma’am.” Chloe waved in greeting and he turned to see Chuck Dawson and most of his car pool waving as his van drove slowly by. He moved his body to block Chloe from view, though he wondered why he bothered, since she didn’t seem at all worried about waving her flag to whoever went by.
“Maybe we could discuss this inside,” he said.
“Discuss what? You’re bringing me my mail. Thank you.” She held out her hand again, flat palmed.
“Where did the money come from?”
“None of your business.”
He shifted and as he did, he saw a white convertible turn into the road, one he recognized all too well.
“Shit,” he muttered, then stepped forward so fast his neighbor squeaked when he bumped her with his body, pushing her inside the house and shutting the door fast behind them.
“How dare you? Leave this house instantly,” she demanded, small and fiery.
He ducked away from the window and made a dash for the kitchen.
“Are you a lunatic?” that crisp English voice trilled.
“Quiet. She’ll hear you.” He was in the kitchen, jamming his butt onto a kitchen chair that put him out of window range of his own house next door.
“Who will hear me? Matthew, what on earth—”
“Brittany.”
She followed him into the kitchen and looked down at him. “And who is Brittany?”
“My girlfriend.”
She looked at him like he was a few cattle short of a herd, but she didn’t say a word, for which he was ridiculously grateful. Explaining Brittany was complicated, and getting more so every day. She was perfect for him in every way. Sweet, cute, sexy, nice, and the kind of woman who would make a wonderful mom. So why was he, a grown man who should be getting on with his life, hiding in the kitchen of a neighbor who was probably a criminal?
Chloe left him sitting at the oak kitchen table he’d refinished himself, his fingers tapping the edge of the money-stuffed envelope.
Without a word she started coffee. Then she walked out of the kitchen and back toward the front of the house.
“What are you doing?” he whisper-yelled.
“Don’t you want to know what she’s doing?”
“I already know.” He could picture Brittany now. “She’s walking up to the front door. And she’s got a plate of muffins in her hand.”
Chloe turned back to him. “Coffee cake. She’s very pretty.”
“I know.” There was no more commentary from the front room, but Chloe didn’t come back either. He was such an asshole. “She’s writing a note now, isn’t she?”
Chloe returned to the kitchen and a minute later he heard a car drive away.
Her eyes widened and her eyebrows rose in a question. “Cream and sugar?”
He blinked at her. “Unless your X chromosome is still asleep, you’re dying to know what that was about.”
“Of course I am. But everyone’s entitled to their privacy, Matthew.” She sent a significant glance toward the package in his hand.
He picked up the envelope and tapped it against the tabletop. “The cases aren’t the same at all. When you filled out the tenant form you said you had your own business.”
“And I do.”
“I figured it was a hair salon or a dress store or something.”
“How sexist of you.”
She poured coffee into white mugs as elegant as swans, which she must have purchased since he didn’t recognize them. He realized he’d never answered her question about how he liked his coffee when she poured milk into a pitcher that matched the mugs and placed it and a pot of sugar on the table in front of him with a couple of spoons that gleamed with newness.
He slurped some milk into his coffee. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have made assumptions.” He glanced up. “So, what kind of business are you in?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
He tapped his spoon against the lip of the mug, then, irritated by the sound he was making, put down the spoon and sipped the coffee. It was good. Strong and rich and he took another hit. Across the table Chloe watched him with her purple-blue aristocrat’s eyes over the rim of her own mug.
The envelope of money lay between them, along with a silence thicker than brick.
Finally, he blurted, “Look, I’m an ex-cop. You can’t stay here if you’re a hooker.”
Her eyes widened, whether because he’d accused her of being a hooker or because he was an ex-cop, he wasn’t sure.
“So, you’re not only sexist, you’re vulgar, offensive, and unimaginative as well.” She put the cup down on the table and it clicked like the period at the end of a sentence.
