Indiscreet Ladies of Green Ivy Way

by Kress, Alyssa

  Dash opened his file on Ms. Taylor and frowned at the contents. "How am I supposed to get close to her?"

  Gideon bit the inside of his cheek. Dash had the look of a confirmed monk, spiritual and ascetic. If his notes on Shana Taylor had any validity, his agent would have no problem gaining her attention. "She's a consultant, owns her own business," Gideon said aloud. "Just...hang out in the front yard. Since she works from home, going in and out all day, it shouldn't be a problem for you to strike up a conversation. You know, neighbor stuff."

  Studying the file, Dash nodded solemnly. And seemed to take Gideon seriously, God help him.

  "Brittany Wells looks like a tough nut," Peter remarked, scanning the slim contents of his own file. "Divorced, two kids, no custody for Dad. Any suggestions?"

  "According to Walter, her house needs a coat of paint in the worst way."

  "Say no more." Peter looked up, grinning. "House painter, plumber, electrician — you name it, I can fake it."

  He could do better than faking, Gideon knew. Peter had worked his way through college doing all, and more, than he'd just named.

  Dash looked up from his notes. "But how do you intend to go from house painter to confidante?"

  Peter rolled his eyes. "Please."

  "Oh, that's right." Dash snickered. "The woman hasn't been born who's immune to your charms."

  Peter pointed his closed file at Dash in a 'you got it' gesture.

  Dash shook his head, and then looked at Gideon. "But who's going to take the third neighbor, this — this — " He opened up his file and looked at the name. Gideon could tell when Dash's fine mind finally registered the obvious. "Olivia Chandler?" he choked.

  "My wife," Gideon confirmed.

  "Sort of," Peter amended.

  Gideon shot Peter the darkest look in his repertoire. "We are still very married."

  "Even though she lives twenty miles away from you and you haven't talked to each other in half a year?"

  Gideon spoke from between clenched teeth. "She's still my wife."

  Dash looked from one of them to the other with undisguised fascination. "I didn't even know you were married, Gideon."

  "That's because you live in outer space," Peter commented.

  "Oh, only part of the time," Dash replied with a smile. He turned to Gideon. "So, explain. If you're estranged from your wife, then how do you even intend to talk to her, let alone gain her confidence?"

  Ah, but wasn't that the heart of the matter? Gideon could feel the eyes of both men trained intently upon him. He could feel his face start to burn traitorously. "I'll think of something."

  Yes, if only he could think of something, something that wouldn't involve betraying the principles that had let him watch Olivia walk out on him in the first place. His principles had made him stand there, passive, even while another part of himself had been screaming to hang onto her, to hang on at any cost.

  But dammit, the woman was supposed to trust him. She was supposed to believe in him. That's what marriage was all about, wasn't it?

  Trust?

  Gideon picked up and squeezed his Cross pen. Yes, he had his principles, but on the other hand, he was damn sick of living without her. He was sick of waking up by himself in the morning, sick of having no company but his own over the dinner table. And he was definitely sick of climbing into his cold bed at the end of the day with no Olivia to wrap her lush, warm curves about him.

  "I'll think of something," Gideon said again, and shifted his gaze from the interested stares of the other two men. Yes, he'd think of something, even if all he could come up with was eating humble pie. He stifled a sigh.

  At this point, it just might be worth it.

  ~~~

  Shana braked her car and gazed out the side window as she drove up to her house on Friday afternoon.

  Oh, my.

  She'd just met with one of her more demanding clients, but now the tension from that conversation rolled off her shoulders. She eased her sunglasses down her nose and slowed the car so she could enjoy the view that much longer. Oh, my, my, my.

  There was an extremely early Christmas present standing by the curb of the house next door to hers. He was six foot something of grown-up teenager; the bookish, soulful type, with a mousy-brown crew cut, wire frame glasses, and a well-laundered sweatshirt that said "Yale" across the front of it. With careful strokes, he was painting a name on the wooden mailbox planted amid the flowers growing just inside the curb line.

  "Dee-licious," Shana murmured as she turned into her driveway. Only to avoid colliding with her garage did she switch her gaze forward. Once inside the garage, she started to grin as she slammed the gearshift into park and turned off the motor. "This might turn out to be a better day than I'd given it credit for."

  She dug a tube of lipstick out of her gold lamé purse and pulled the rear view mirror down so she could re-apply her trademark petal pink. She sucked in her lips, rubbed them together, and came out smiling. This might turn out to be a much better day than she'd thought it would, and an even better night. Lord, it was about time she broke this dry spell.

  Leaving her briefcase behind, Shana got out of her Lexus, straightened her body-hugging skirt, and clicked her three-inch heels in the direction of her mailbox, which just so happened to be set right next to the Christmas present's.

  "Why, hello!" she called, and aimed for an attitude somewhere between friendly neighbor, and answer to a man's wildest sex fantasies.

  He glanced up from his painting with a casual expression that instantly froze. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights.

  "It seems we're going to be neighbors." Shana tilted her head toward the mailboxes while extending a hand. Adoring his expression of bewilderment, she bumped her smile a few degrees further toward the sex fantasy. "I'm Shana Taylor. How do you do?"

  "Uh...Great. Ahem. You can call me Dash." He started to reach out a hand to shake hers, then noticed he was still holding the paintbrush. He did a hasty transfer of the paintbrush to his left hand, wiped his right hand on his sweatshirt and then extended it for the neighborly shake. The clear blue eyes behind his glasses blinked several times.

  Shana felt a shimmer of sheer pleasure. Oh, how she adored the shy ones, awkward clumsiness and all. She loved to coax them out of their shells. She loved to experience what happened when they dropped their restraints. Meanwhile, she took hold of his hand and her eyes widened. There was pure steel beneath his gentle grip.

  Oh, my, indeed.

  "Dash?" she asked and nodded toward the mailbox. "As in 'Dashwood'?" Though she didn't really want to, she released his hand.

  "That's right." He'd recovered enough equanimity to smile at her, and even crack a joke. "We won't talk about my actual first name. And I have to admit I'm not quite your neighbor yet. I haven't closed escrow. The owner's letting me rent in the meantime."

  "Details," Shana said, and sidled closer. She wanted to give him a chance to peek down her blouse. It was silk, from Neiman Marcus, and designed for just such maneuvers. And he'd said 'I haven't closed escrow,' not 'we.' There didn't appear to be a Mrs. Dashwood. "Neighbors are neighbors, renters or not." And single, cute, male neighbors were better than any. "We really ought to get acquainted," Shana told him, leaning forward a little.

  Thus invited, it was the most natural thing in the world for him to oblige by peering down her blouse — making the thing worth every penny.

  Shana wanted to lick her lips. "Dinner?" she asked, in a voice that went a touch huskier than she'd intended.

  His gaze shot back up to her face. "D-dinner?"

  "That is the time-honored custom between new neighbors, isn't it?" Shana did her very best to tone her smile down. She didn't want to spook the fellow at this critical juncture. "Something home-cooked and hospitable. When can you make it?"

  He blinked at her while opening and closing his mouth. For one terrible moment Shana feared she'd misjudged. He wasn't straight. But then he appeared to collect his scattered wits. He st
opped blinking and cleared his throat. "Why, that would be...wonderful, Ms. Taylor — "

  "Shana."

  "Shana." He smiled, a crooked, nervous affair that made Shana's heart do a funny somersault in her chest. "And as for when..." Something strange flickered across his face, something Shana would have called calculating if she didn't know better. "Um... Would tomorrow be too soon?" he asked.

  Too soon? Shana nearly barked a laugh. Tomorrow was eons away. She wanted to unwrap this present now, tonight. However. She straightened and bestowed on him her very warmest smile. The best things were worth waiting for, right? "Tomorrow," she said. "Seven o'clock."

  "I'll be looking forward to it." And his gaze slipped once more, as if despite himself, to her artfully presented breasts.

  You won't be the only one, doll. Shana could practically feel the fellow's long, deft-looking fingers exploring the breasts he was even then admiring.

  Shana was so lost in happy anticipation that she would have forgotten to take the mail out of her mailbox. Fortunately, she was snapped out of her daze by catching sight of a dog, that dog, slinking down the sidewalk.

  "Damn it!" she exclaimed.

  "Pardon me?" Her new neighbor was, understandably, baffled.

  Shana whirled and pointed. "There it is. There!"

  "Where?" Dash, who couldn't possibly know what she was talking about, nevertheless obliged by craning his neck. But the ugly dog had already slipped into Mrs. McGillicuddy's bushes.

  "Damn it, damn it, damn it," Shana muttered. "That dog was skulking around this morning, too, looking pit-bull-ish and abandoned."

  Dash continued staring at Mrs. McGillicudy's bushes although the dog was nowhere to be seen. "That sounds dangerous," he murmured.

  "Oh." Belatedly, Shana realized she didn't want her soon-to-be-conquest worried about moving into the neighborhood. She flapped a hand dismissively. "I'm sure it's nothing. He'll probably find his way home soon."

  "Hm," Dash said, and continued gazing concernedly at the bushes.

  It was time, Shana decided, for him to return his attention to her. "Dash," she said, and put a hand on his arm.

  His arm. Shana caught her breath. Just like his hand, there was pure steel underneath that sweater.

  Meanwhile Dash, attention duly caught, swiveled his head to stare at her. Oh, his reaction to her was...so satisfying.

  Shana cleared her throat. "Then we're on for tomorrow?" She made so bold as to give his amazing arm a little squeeze.

  He cleared his throat. "Oh, yes. Certainly. We're on."

  "Good." She managed to remember her mail, which was still in the box, presented him one last smile, and waggled her fingers before starting toward her house.

  She didn't look, but was fairly certain he took a gander at her backside as she made her way up the front walk. Shana's smile was beatific as she unlocked her front door and walked inside.

  Next Wednesday she'd be able to tell the girls she'd succeeded in unloading her burden of celibacy, but good.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Armed and dangerous." Dash's voice buzzed over Peter's cell phone, although the words didn't make any sense. Peter frowned as he guided the '05 Ford pickup through afternoon traffic. Was Dash calling for reinforcements — ?

  "That woman," Dash went on. "My so-called target. I'd like to know who's the target, actually, that's what I'd like to know."

  Peter frowned as, with a casual turn of the wheel, he avoided plowing the truck into a kid flashing through the residential intersection on a scooter. "What are you talking about?"

  "Shana Taylor." Dash pronounced the name as if it were the designation of some new disease. "She invited me over for dinner."

  Peter's eyebrows went way up, nearly touching the paint-splattered baseball cap he'd shoved on. "Good going, champ. I was wondering how you were even going to manage to meet the lady." Peter had known Dash for six years, which was long enough to learn he wasn't the sharpest blade when it came to women.

  "Yeah, well, guess what's on the menu. Me."

  Peter choked and nearly ran the Ford up a curb. "Excuse me?"

  "The lady — and I use the word loosely — wants to eat me. Literally. Well...almost literally."

  Peter was laughing so hard now that he drove right past the intersection where he was supposed to turn. He swore, without much heat, and pulled the truck into a three-pointer. "Well, gee, Dash, that's — that's — "

  "Peter, what am I supposed to do?" Cool, unflappable Dash actually sounded beside himself.

  "Uh..." Peter moved the truck toward his missed intersection. "Enjoy yourself?"

  Dash uttered a very unusual expletive.

  For Dash to swear at all was so rare that Peter made an effort to sober himself. "Okay, okay. Sorry, Dash. But how can I help you with this, er, situation?"

  "Tell me what to do."

  "You mean...step by step instructions?"

  Peter heard a growling sound. "In how to strangle you, maybe. No, I mean...just how far am I expected to go for God and country?"

  "Oh." Though he couldn't stop grinning, Peter made an effort to consider Dash's question seriously. It wasn't easy, but he tried. "You tell me, Dash." He turned the truck when he got to the corner. "Just how dangerous is this vector deal that Anja stole?"

  There was a revealing silence over the encrypted airwaves. They both knew the vector was potentially very dangerous, indeed. "Great," Dash said finally, flat, and there was a click as he hung up.

  Peter chuckled and hit the end button on his cell phone. Oh, he knew the situation they were working on involved dire global consequences. He understood the stakes. But he was a firm believer in seizing the day. No point in dragging your face until those awful consequences hit the fan. Enjoy the moment.

  Now from under the brim of his baseball cap, he leaned down to check addresses. He was nearly there. Ah, yes, the faded two-story job on the corner. He pulled his truck to the curb, turned off the motor, and adjusted his cap. Adrenaline poured pleasurably through his body as he looked forward to beginning his own fun and games.

  He was whistling a minute later as, in his white, splattered painter's overalls, he strolled up the walkway.

  ~~~

  It had been a hell of a day. The little one had cried nonstop, some teething thing. Then when Brittany had picked up Sean from kindergarten, the teacher had informed her that her son had taken to biting people he disagreed with.

  Wonderful. Nothing like a spot of infantile regression to round out the day. Oh, and that was leaving out the babysitter who'd called, saying she couldn't make it that evening because she was sick. Again. Brittany wouldn't be able to attend the PTA meeting, for the third time in a row.

  Now she was regarding a T-shirt of Sean's just out of the washing machine in the upstairs hall. Did the dirt stains still streaking across Spiderman's face mean her housekeeping skills were under par, or that the machine was on the fritz again? This burning question occupied her interest far more than the doorbell going off downstairs.

  "Mo-um!" shouted Sean, from the direction of the kitchen. It occurred to Brittany she probably ought to find out what Sean was up to in there. Meanwhile Sean continued his wail, "Someone's at the do-or!"

  Brittany could have done without the loud announcement they were at home. Now she'd have to open the door. But at least Sean had listened to orders this time, and not opened the door himself.

  "Mo-um!" Sean repeated, as again the doorbell chimed.

  "I'm coming!" Brittany dropped the offending Spiderman shirt back into the washer and stomped down the stairs, wondering who in their right mind rang doorbells right during dinnertime — not that she'd gotten around to starting dinner yet.

  Sighing across the front hall, she reached the front door and opened it.

  Adonis stood on her front porch.

  Brittany blinked, but he was still there; Adonis, dressed in a pair of paint-splattered white overalls and an ancient Padres baseball cap. Dark gold hair struggled to get out from
under the cap and bold, even strokes drew his face in lines of sheer masculine beauty.

  She registered all this in half an instant, dimly intrigued she'd even noticed. What she'd told the girls on Wednesday night was true. She hadn't felt a sexual urge in over two years. Who had the time? And who wanted the unavoidable interaction with a member of the male species?

  Her brows drew down as she regarded this particular specimen of the male gender. "Yeah?" she demanded. "Whadda you want?"

  He appeared completely unfazed by her belligerence. In fact, his smile actually grew as he put a hand to the bill of his cap and gave it a tug. "House painting." He pulled out a plain, black-and-white business card and offered it to her. "Ten years experience. Fully bonded and licensed. Are you in the market, by any chance?"

  Was she in the market? Hadn't he taken a look at the outside of her house? Brittany squinted at his card. Peter somebody, it said. But doubting that even this particular member of the male species might have a use, she tried to hand back the card. "I don't think I'd be willing to pay your price."

  He blinked. "We haven't even talked price."

  "We don't have to." Brittany rubbed her fingers over the business card with a wry smile. "People take one look at the neighborhood and bump up their fees by twenty percent." Not that she couldn't afford it. She'd engineered a pretty good deal out of Blake, but it was the principle of the thing.

  The fellow tipped his hat back a fraction. "Okay. Let me be frank. I'm not looking to make a big profit my first time at bat around here. I just want an 'in' for this part of town, get some word-of-mouth going." He tilted his head, looking at her with a pair of much too beautiful, amber-colored eyes. "Name your price."

  Oh, right. Name her price. Brittany wasn't buying a word of this. The guy was a certified snake charmer, and he wasn't above using masculine sex appeal to strike a deal.

  However...she might as well name a price. "Twenty-five hundred."

  His lips split in a fun-filled grin. "You're joking."

  It was a low price, but he'd invited her to name one, and now he was trying to make her feel ashamed. Brittany was done. She lifted her arm to shut the door. He was just another con artist, another man out to take advantage of her.