Hoodwinked. Diana PalmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
insinuations.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work,” she murmured, averting her face.
“What do you people in quality control do?” he asked coldly, watching her. “If you did your job properly, that new jet wouldn’t have embarrassed the company on its first test flight.”
She colored delicately and wished she could escape. He made her feel guilty and she almost apologized. He was the most intimidating man she’d ever met. “Mr.—Mr. Blake works very hard,” she protested. “Maybe it was a mechanical problem,” she added with bravado. “You’re a mechanic, aren’t you?”
She hadn’t raised her voice, but he glanced around anyway. Assured that no one was close enough to hear them, he turned his attention back to Maureen.
His eyes narrowed. “That’s one reason I was surprised by your very obvious attempt to concoct an engine problem yesterday for my benefit,” he said.
“I told you, I had a corroded battery cable, and I didn’t have to concoct it. You saw the corrosion yourself.” She clasped her hands nervously. “I think you’re very conceited.”
It was like waving a red flag at a bull, she thought, fascinated by the black lightning flashing in his eyes.
“I’ve had that dead-battery routine pulled on me before,” he interrupted curtly.
She started moving away. “I don’t pull routines. And I can change the oil and spark plugs, and even change a fan belt if I have to.”
“A woman of accomplishments,” he said. His eyes narrowed, calculating. “You know something about engines, then?”
“About Volkswagen engines, yes,” she said. “My uncle was chief mechanic at an import shop for years. He taught me.” She lifted her chin. He brought out something deeply buried in her—a temper she didn’t know she had. She felt her face going hot and her hands trembling, but she couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “And just to set the record straight, you appeal to me about as much as this sandwich did.” She waved it at him.
He lifted an eyebrow, and there was something almost sensual in the set of his wide, chiseled mouth. “Odd. I’ve been told that I don’t taste half-bad.”
She didn’t know if he was joking or not. Probably not. He wasn’t smiling, and his face was like stone. It didn’t matter, anyway; she wanted nothing else to do with him. She turned and left the canteen quickly, on legs that threatened to fold up under her. He’d ruined her lunch and the rest of the day. She’d never talked angrily to anyone in her life. He was really bringing out her latent beastly qualities, she thought, and almost laughed at the way she’d bristled. That would have amused her father and mother. The thought made her sad. She quickened her steps back to the office.
Mr. Blake had more correspondence for her to cope with after lunch, and again she was late leaving the office. But this time, thank God, the red-and-rust-colored pickup truck was missing from the parking lot, so she climbed gratefully into her small car and went home.
Bagwell was playing with a lava rock on a chain when she went in through the back door, but he dropped it the minute he spotted her and began to dance and prance and purr.
“Pretty girl!” he cooed. “Pretty girl! Hello!”
“Hi, Bagwell.” She smiled, stopping by the cage to unfasten it and let him out. He climbed onto the overhead perch and ruffled his feathers, tolerating her affectionate hand on his green head for a minute before he tried to make a meal of it.
“Vicious bird,” she muttered, grinning. “Biting the hand that feeds you. How about some apple?”
“Ap-ple,” he agreed. “Ap-ple.”
She put down her purse, kicked off her shoes with a sigh, and shared a tart, crunchy Granny Smith with him. “Bagwell, the days get longer and longer. I think I need a change of scenery.”
“Good ap-ple,” he murmured, preoccupied with the slice of fruit he was holding in his claw.
“You’ve got a one-track mind,” she said. She got up and looked in the cupboard to see what there was to eat. “Well, it’s the grocery store for me tomorrow, old fellow,” she said, grimacing when she saw the meager supply of food. “I guess it’s cereal or sandwiches.”
She changed into jeans and a sweatshirt while he was still working on his apple. Then she brewed a pot of coffee, got out bologna and mustard and made herself a sandwich, and turned on the television, searching in vain for anything except local or national news. In desperation, she slid a science-fiction movie into the VCR her parents had given her two Christmases ago and sat back to watch it.
Unfortunately Bagwell liked the sound of high-tech fantasy weapons and could mimic them very well. But he didn’t stop when they did. He continued through the dialogue, shrieking and firing and booming.
“I hate parrots,” Maureen told him as she switched off the movie in self-defense.
He flew down from his perch and walked over to the sofa, pulling himself up by his beak to stand on the arm of the rickety, worn piece of secondhand furniture.
“I’m pretty,” he said.
She scratched his head lovingly. “Yes, you are, precious,” she agreed with a smile. She leaned back and he climbed onto her jeans-clad leg. Seconds later, he was fluffed up with one foot drawn under him, half-asleep.
“Hey, now, no dozing,” she teased. She got him on her forearm and carried him to his cage. He dozed on while she cleaned it and put in fresh water. Then she put him up for the night, covering him with a thin sheet.
He was a lot of company, but he had to have at least twelve hours of sleep or he got grumpy. So she spent most of her evenings watching television alone.
She curled up with a new book on Tudor history—a work about Henry VIII—and sipped black coffee. The man next door wasn’t far from her thoughts. He irritated her more than anyone she knew, and his frankly insulting attitude in the canteen had made her angry. She’d never realized how uncomfortable it could be to have an enemy. He was her first. But she didn’t know why he disliked her, and that made things worse.
She’d never mixed well. During her childhood, she’d been pretty much a loner and a misfit. Her father had been a college professor, a brilliant man who taught physics, and her equally brilliant mother had taught English at the high-school level. They’d enlarged on her school curriculum with things for her to study at home, and her well-rounded education had set her apart from her friends, who didn’t understand why Maureen had her nose stuck in a book all the time. She loved to read, and she liked learning new things. But her love life suffered, along with her social life. Boys had avoided her in school, just as grown men avoided her now. Her pet interests were Plantagenet and Tudor England, and ornithology; and her idea of the perfect date was a trip to a museum. Sex was something other people had, and she didn’t know a birth-control pill from an aspirin. So, she told herself, perhaps it was just as well that she wasn’t a raving beauty and fascinating to men; she didn’t really have the right personality to be a swinger.
A light tapping on the wall next door caught her attention. It seemed to be coming from her bedroom. She put down her book and walked into the room, but then the tapping abruptly stopped. She went nearer to the wall and studied it closely, looking for holes. Surely the new neighbor wasn’t a Peeping Tom! He wasn’t the kind of man for that sort of thing. Or was he? But she didn’t see any holes. With a sigh that was part irritation, part frustration, she went back into the living room and back to her book. Lately, life seemed to be chock-full of obstacles.
She carried Bagwell in his cage into the bedroom with her, as she usually did, so that he wouldn’t start screaming when she turned off the lights.
“I love you!” he called loudly and made a noisy round of his cage before she talked softly to him, soothing him, and covered him again. She turned out the light, still talking softly, and he muttered for a minute, then curled one leg under, fluffed