COPYRIGHT
Falling for the Guy Next Door
Published by Claire Robyns
Copyright © 2012 by Claire Robyns
Cover by Viola Estrella
Smashwords Edition
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]
All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.
www.clairerobyns.com
Chapter 1
Megan pumped the accelerator as she navigated the familiar bends of the winding road. At the very top of Bluff Drive, presiding over the small town of Corkscrew Bay and the moor that slipped off the edge of the cliff, number 21 was an elaborate affair leaning toward the Second Empire style. Curved dormer windows peeped from the steeply sloped Mansard roof and the rest of the two-story house was a production of gables and rounded cornices, pale limestone, wrought-iron balconies and a pretty porch.
The low-cropped hedge splitting the front garden neatly down the middle and the additional front entrance tagged onto the left half of the stately house was barely noticeable. Since World War Two, the house had been hacked into half a dozen one-bedroom flats, put together again by a London stockbroker who’d made a fortune in the late nineties and lost it again at the turn of the century, and finally subdivided into 21a and 21b Bluff Drive.
Lucky for Megan. When she’d bought a few years back, she’d only been able to afford half the house.
Since Frank Marlin’s death three months ago, 21a had stood empty, forgotten…until now, she saw as she rounded the last bend and turned onto the gravel driveway. There was a black Land Rover pulled up in front of Frank’s gate and that could only mean one thing.
Megan parked around her side of the house, grabbed two shopping bags in one hand and entered through the side door directly into her kitchen. The milk and eggs went into the fridge. Everything else could wait.
She pulled her cell phone from her back pocket and called the local Realtor. Mr. Rutland answered on the first ring. With a population of three thousand and dropping, the real estate business in Corkscrew Bay wasn’t exactly a hotbed of activity. Once she’d dealt with the niceties, including the approaching summer storm and his wife’s chest ailment, she asked, “Mr. Rutland, has Jack Marlin put his uncle’s place up for sale?”
“The first I hear of it,” Mr. Rutland grumbled. “Nowadays, everyone’s their own estate agent. All those do-it-yourself websites. Some people don’t even bother visiting the homes for a viewing anymore, they buy direct from those virtual tours. Don’t see as how an honest man’s supposed to stay in this business, I’ll tell you that.”
She’d disconnected the call before the implication hit her. But Jack wouldn’t have sold 21a without letting her know, would he?
Of course he would! If Jack Marlin had one decent bone in his body, she’d yet to discover it. She marched to the small front bedroom that she used as an office and rummaged through the drawer of her desk. He’d given her his new cell number at the old man’s funeral. For emergencies, he’d said, with the house.
Or if, you know, you just want to talk.
Like that would happen in this lifetime, which was why she hadn’t saved the number to her phone. She’d shoved it to the bottom of the drawer for that other thing, the emergency with the house thing.
She stared at the slip of paper she’d retrieved. She’d known she’d have to make this call soon. Her last multi-book contract had put a decent dent in her mortgage and now her dream was to buy the other half of her house and make it whole again. She’d had an excuse so far, telling herself she couldn’t intrude on Jack’s grief. But if he was selling up, she was out of time.
Her stomach plunged a foot. She’d seen Jack at the funeral, of course, even managed to act perfectly civil in deference to the situation. This was different. She hated having to ask him for anything, hated that he had any say in any plans for her future.
She took a deep breath, punched in the number and…and the muted strains of classical music came from down the hall. Megan followed the music into her bedroom. Up against the wall. Someone was playing music next door.
In the master bedroom.
That Land Rover didn’t belong to potential buyers. He’d actually gone and done it. He’d sold the place from under her. Bastard.
She snapped her phone shut in disgust. The music stopped. She paced the room, her blood getting hotter by the second. Fingers clumsy, it took her two attempts to redial.
The same muted strains started up.
She spun about, scowling at the wall. Was it possible? She cut the connection. The music stopped. She repeated the process to make sure, then tossed her phone on the bed and dashed down the stairs.
Her temper was hot enough to heat hell up twice over by the time she’d hopped the low hedge and bounded onto the porch. She ignored the chimes and banged a fist on the door instead.
A moment later, the door opened.
There he stood, his hair a dark, dark brown and slightly mussed. Eyes the same brown, trained on her and softened in amusement. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt. Her gaze skittered over rippled muscle and concave abdomen to where his sweatpants skimmed his hipbone. He hadn’t bothered with shoes either.
“What—” She jerked her gaze all the way back up six foot of gorgeous male. Two day’s growth shaded his jaw. “What are you doing?”
“Sleeping.” He cracked a grin. “At least I was, until someone decided to play musical chairs with my phone.”
He raised a brow at that someone.
Damn caller id. “It’s the middle of the day,” she pointed out.
“I flew in from Kenya this morning and drove straight here from Heathrow.”
That was at least an eight-hour drive. “Why the hurry?”
“Maybe I had an itch for Cornish cream and scones.” He folded his arms and leant a hip against the doorpost. “Why the twenty questions? Did you miss me?”
The fight fled her blood, leaving her suddenly weary. “What are you doing here, Jack?”
His grin faded as he looked into her eyes, long and deep. The kind of look that made one want to lose yourself in. The kind of look that tempted one to forgive and forget. “Let’s just say I came to check up on things.”
Heat crept up her throat. She stepped back, swallowing past a lump of remembrance. “How long do you intend to stay?”
“For as long as it takes,” Jack said.
“As long as what takes?”
“Things.” He shrugged and the grin returned. “But you’re the one playing tag with my phone. Building up the courage to ask me out?”
“In your—”
“Dreams?” he suggested softly.
Megan bristled. “I thought you’d gone and sold your half of the house without even asking if I’d be interested in first option.” She turned and stomped down the porch steps before she slapped that arrogant grin from his face.
“What kind of bastard do you take me for?” he called after her.
“The very worst kind,” she assured him with a glance over her shoulder.
He was still chuckling when she slammed her front door shut behind her. Honestly, she shouldn’t have to put up with this. Thank God she was leaving for London in the morning. Actually… She ran up the stairs to her bedroom and started pulling open drawers. If she caught the night train, she’d have the whole day for shopping before the conference k
icked off with the formal ball tomorrow night. Surely he’d be gone before she got back? Jack never stayed put longer than three days, at least not in Corkscrew Bay.
What she wouldn’t give to have never set eyes on the man.
Summer, two years ago
Her middle finger hovered over the backspace key… The duke was tall, dark and incredibly handsome…
Could she make him any more clichéd?
Her gaze drifted outside the window. No inspiration there. Unless one counted Mr. Marlin, which she didn’t. The old man was patrolling his side of the neatly trimmed hedge, up and down, up and down. God only knew what that was about. He was an odd sort, the type who woke up under a black cloud and grew grumpier by the hour.
At least he was quiet. Considering how thin the walls between them were, that made him an excellent neighbour in her book. That’s another cliché.
“Aargh.” She rolled her eyes, was about to bring her gaze back inside, when sunlight glinted off silver halfway up the steep road.
She didn’t know anyone who drove a silver car and, in the year she’d been here, Mr. Marlin had never received a single caller. Corkscrew Bay was bursting with the summer trade, but generally the Private Road sign at the bottom kept them off Bluff Drive.
The car didn’t do a U-Turn at the top of the drive, but continued and pulled up in front of the house. Mr. Marlin’s pacing took direction. Shading his eyes with one hand, he unhooked the gate and held it open.
Megan stood, leaning over her desk for a better view at the guy in a white T-Shirt unfolding himself from the silver Peugeot. His hair was a rich brown and long enough to curl into his nape. Broad shoulders, toned arms with the kind of tan one didn’t get beneath a Cornish sun and long legs that hinted at muscle beneath those well-worn jeans.
He approached Mr. Marlin and stood there talking for a few heartbeats while Megan’s gaze got stuck on the ridges and hollows of a face that was strong, hard as granite and finished off with bold strokes of arrogance. He had a self-assured, forbidding look that was far too male for anyone’s good. But then he gave a lopsided grin that pressed a groove into his cheek and her pulse hiccupped.
Maybe she should go and help out with this straggler. Mr. Marlin was getting on in years and old men were even worse at directions than young men.
Before she could slide out from behind her desk, though, Gorgeous Guy wrapped an arm around the older man’s shoulders in a stiff man-hug. Mr. Marlin’s arm came around, his hand hovering before delivering a hesitant pat on Gorgeous Guy’s back.
“Well.” Megan fell back in her seat. Not a lost holidaymaker then.
Her gaze landed on the laptop screen and suddenly her hero shaped up inside her head. She hit the backspace key and hunched forward over the keyboard.
The duke stood at least two heads taller than her. The superb cut of his superfine jacket gave him a supine grace, yet hid nothing of those broad shoulders and a rock-hard chest. His face was all harsh angles and deep valleys, cast in shadows where no emotion would dare to tread.
But Amelia didn’t cower when he offered his arm. She slipped her gloved hand over his arm and let the Duke of Abberley lead her onto the dance floor. She’d seen his smile and knew his secret. The Duke wasn’t nearly as fierce as he thought himself to be. The music started…
When Megan looked up again, it was past one in the morning. The house was quiet and the silver Peugeot was still parked outside.
Chapter 2
Bleary-eyed and highly irritated, Megan stepped off the train at Paddington Station. So much for sleeping on the go and arriving fresh.
Half of her wished she hadn’t left home in such a hurry, hadn’t allowed Jack Marlin to drive her out of her own home, her own comfortable bed.
The other half knew that when it came to Jack, she couldn’t be trusted to stay. Not when he looked into her eyes with that dark intensity, as if he knew exactly how deep to search for the burning ache that had never fully faded, no matter what he’d done.
He’d always known how to melt her and that hadn’t changed. Her head might be spitting fury at the man, her heart might be cursing him to a thousand deaths, but the rest of her still tingled, melted, burned and crashed at the mere suggestion of his touch.
At the end of the platform, she was refereeing the fight between the turnpike and her small suitcase on wheels when her backside vibrated. As she tumbled out on the other side of the turnpike and joined the stream of commuters toward the exit, she pulled her phone from her back pocket.
She immediately recognised the last four digits of the number. She was tempted to delete the text message unread. Unfortunately, Jack came attached to her precious house, for now at least, and there might be an actual emergency.
She opened the message. You never came home last night. Where are you?
“Well, of all the—the—” She shook her head on a bitter laugh, glanced up, and caught the bemused eye of the man walking beside her. Huh! She shoved the phone back into her pocket and stormed outside into the sunlight.
Who did Jack think he was with that proprietary insinuation? They might share a house, but her home was 21b Bluff Drive and his was 21a. She jerked her suitcase over the lip of the pavement and slammed her way inside the glass doors of the Starbucks squashed between a Laundromat and Kebab takeaway on the high street.
Her blood didn’t cool until she was tucked behind a corner table with a large Café Latte in one hand and her phone balanced in her other. In between sips, she scrolled down her inbox, re-read Jack’s message and hit the reply button.
Who is this?
A few seconds later a new message popped up. Very funny.
You have the wrong number. She placed her phone on the table and settled back in her chair. There, that would wipe the smirk from his attitude.
She’d almost finished her Latte when her phone buzzed again.
When did you remove my number from your phone? This is Jack.
Never removed it. Didn’t store it. What do you want?
I was worried.
Her teeth bared. He had no right to be worried. No right to anything. I don’t intend to report my movements to you. I’ll be back when I’m back.
Tell me where you are.
The threat was implied. She could imagine his eyes darkening, his jaw locking down into a grimace. Or what?
I’ll report you as a missing person at the police station.
I’m an adult and twenty-four hours haven’t even passed. They’ll laugh at you.
Harry and I have become good buddies.
When? Jack hadn’t spent enough time in Corkscrew Bay to know where the police station was, let alone make buddies with the officer-in-charge. Still, she didn’t want to have phone Harry and explain why Jack was making a nuisance of himself.
Her thumb moved over the keypad. London!!!!!
She stared at the phone for another ten minutes, checked the connection, manually refreshed the inbox, but nothing came through.
Good.
Excellent.
She hadn’t rearranged her schedule just to be a jittery mess in London. She had shopping to do. And it would be lovely to spend more time with Lucy than she’d originally planned. She called her friend at once to make arrangements to meet up later.
After checking into her hotel, Megan hit the shops on Oxford Street. She should have tried to fit a quick nap into her day, but her brain was too wired for sleep. By the time she turned up at Lucy’s Chelsea townhouse, she’d bought out half the high street.
Lucy groaned when she opened the door and saw the dozen or so bags Megan was clutching. “I thought we were going shopping after lunch tomorrow.”
“We are,” Megan assured her, stepping into her friend’s hug before they made their way further inside.
“I’ve just got off the phone with Kate.” Lucy moved behind the island that separated her kitchen from the living room. “She popped by Bluff Drive at the crack of dawn to say goodbye, but you’d already left.”
“I didn’t have to.” She went to the fridge and came back with a bottle of white wine. She arched a brow at Megan. “She bumped into Jack Marlin.”
As if on cue, Megan’s phone vibrated in her back pocket. She pulled it out.
“Spur of the moment decision, my ass,” Lucy said. “He’s back and you ran.”
I don’t bite. You didn’t have to run from me.
Megan glared from her phone to her friend. “My life and plans do not revolve around Jack Marlin!”
Lucy poured the wine and brought the glasses over to the sofa. “I know what he did was terrible, but have you—”
“No,” she cut in firmly. Lucy was the only one she’d told about that night and they had a deal. “We don’t talk about Jack, remember?”
Her brown eyes narrowed in what was probably both concern and frustration. But she made the sign of zipping her lips and shrugged. “How’s the new book coming along?”
“I have an earl who refuses to kiss his new bride,” Megan said grumpily. “I have no idea how I’m going to get these two into bed.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing at all.” Megan sipped on her wine, her mind instantly swept into the lives of her characters. “Elizabeth is the most beautiful debutante London has ever seen. She’s vivacious and witty and—”
“Okay, okay. So, what’s wrong with the earl then?”
“He’s first wife died ten years ago. He has to re-marry for an heir, but he’s never got over the love of his life.”
Wine spluttered from Lucy’s mouth. She lowered her glass and narrowed her eyes on Megan. “Let me guess, he’s been celibate for a decade?”
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