LITMIR.BIZ

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old apartment building on the edge of the industrial district. It didn’t look good, he’d said. It didn’t look successful—and projecting the image of success was important.

      It was more than just image that had prompted her to buy the town house, of course. She had worked long and hard to earn the chance to have a home of her own. Still, it was going to take some adjustment before it all seemed real. Before it seemed that she deserved it.

      She noted that the lights were blazing in her own unit—the previous occupants had left only minimal window coverings—and, in a more subdued fashion, in the town house next door. The real estate agent had told her the neighbors were a nice couple. An attorney and a software engineer, if she remembered correctly what Patty had told her. Not that Delainey was likely to have time to form friendships, so she hadn’t paid a lot of attention.

      Delainey opened the back door of her car to survey the few things she’d brought with her—a couple of boxes of items that were too precious to trust to the movers, a bundle of firewood that she’d bought on impulse on her lunch hour, and her briefcase. What to carry in first?

      She saw movement from the corner of her eye and turned swiftly to confront the man who approached. You’ve got to stop jumping like that, she told herself. You’re not living in the inner city anymore. This is White Oaks.

      “You must be the new owner,” the man said.

      His voice was soft and deep and rich, with a texture which caressed Delainey’s ears in exactly the same way her cashmere scarf caressed her throat. She would have expected that the rest of him would match—an alpaca overcoat perhaps, pin-striped suit, silk tie, polished wing tips. Instead, he was wearing faded jeans that looked as if they’d shrunk to the precise shape of his body, running shoes, and a leather jacket that had definitely seen better days. His head was bare, and the crisp breeze ruffled his black hair, just a little too long over the ears. He did not look like White Oaks’ usual clientele.

      But that was a foolish reaction. Delainey had learned the lesson long ago—in the first week she’d worked as a teenage teller-trainee at the bank—that the customers who always looked like a million bucks were seldom the same ones who actually kept that much in their accounts.

      She nodded. “Yes, I’m Delainey Hodges. And you’re—?”

      He didn’t seem to see the hand she’d stretched out. “Any idea when your movers will be finished?”

      “I’m sure they’re anxious to get home,” Delainey said levelly. “Why are you concerned, Mr.—?”

      “Wagner. Because they’ve managed to block my drive, that’s why.”

      He was right, Delainey saw. Each unit had its own garage, nestled into the town house it served but set at an angle from the entrance so it would be a less prominent part of the facade. Though the moving van was parked in front of her unit, the front wheels indeed had encroached on the neighboring drive in order to line up the ramp with Delainey’s sidewalk.

      “I’m sorry,” she said. “The movers probably didn’t realize which garage was which and thought they were blocking mine.”

      “No doubt. But that doesn’t move the truck.”

      Isn’t this going to be fun. This mannerless cretin lived right next door—and if he was as touchy about other things as he was about his driveway….

      An attorney and a computer engineer. She wondered which one he was. Well, Delainey told herself, the real estate person might not have been entirely wrong about the neighbors being a nice couple. She’d wait to see what Mr. Grumpy’s wife was like—though she had to admit she was already questioning the woman’s judgment. If her taste in men was any indication…

      What were you just thinking about the dangers of jumping to conclusions based on first impressions? she reminded herself.

      “Of course,” she pointed out, “instead of merely stewing about it and lying in wait for me to arrive, you could have just asked them to move the truck.”

      He looked startled. “That’s what I was coming over to do when I saw you drive in.”

      “I’ll take care of it.” She turned back to the car. She’d leave the boxes for now, she decided, but she could carry both the firewood and the case that held her notebook computer. She picked them up, leaned a hip against the door to shut it, and realized that the cretin-next-door hadn’t moved. “Is there anything else you’d like me to do for you?” she asked pointedly. “Or are you planning to just stand out here and freeze until they move the truck?”

      “On second thought,” he said, “I’ll go ask them myself. I must admit to being curious. I assumed from the little they took out of the van that they’d be gone within an hour. What have they been doing in there all afternoon—having a party?”

      He’d actually watched while the movers unloaded her possessions? “It must be nice to have the kind of time on your hands to sit and watch the neighbors’ furniture,” Delainey muttered.

      His eyebrows rose, as if he was wondering why she sounded irritated. “That’s my point. It didn’t take all that long.”

      Maybe he hadn’t actually been prying, Delainey told herself. She supposed there could have been other reasons why he’d been sitting by the window watching every box come off the moving van. She just couldn’t happen to think of any at the moment.

      “I do hope you kept a running inventory,” she said sweetly. “It’ll come in handy in case the movers have lost any of my possessions.” She started up the sidewalk.

      Just as she stepped onto the tiny porch, the front door of the town house opened and two burly men came out, one carrying an armload of neatly folded furniture pads, the other pulling a two-wheeled cart. “Just finished, Ms. Hodges,” the one with the cart said. “It’s all yours.” He hesitated on the top step. “You’re absolutely sure you want that futon downstairs?”

      “Those were the instructions I left, yes.”

      He shrugged. “You’re the boss. It just seemed odd to me, to have two big bedrooms and not a stick of furniture in either of them, only clothes and boxes—so I thought I’d better check.”

      “Your first house?” the cretin-next-door asked casually.

      “Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m sure you’re anxious to be going, Mr. Wagner, now that the truck will soon be out of your driveway.” She didn’t wait for an answer before going inside.

      She closed the front door behind her and leaned against it, looking across the open plan of the first floor, through the entry and living area, past the stairway set off to one side and the kitchen half tucked underneath, to the glass atrium door at the back leading onto a patio.

      She had seen the town house only once before, when she’d looked at it before making an offer to buy. She hadn’t expected it to appear quite so different now.

      But of course on that first visit it had been daylight, and the previous occupant’s furniture had still been in place. There had been posters on the walls and knickknacks on the mantel.

      Now, even though the movers had left all the lights on, the rooms seemed dim and almost dingy. On the beige walls were patches of darker color where frames had hung, protecting the paint from fading. With only her own few bits of furniture in the living room—the futon, a small rocking chair, the stereo system and a television on a cart—the whole town house seemed to echo. She could hear her heartbeat, though perhaps that wasn’t the silence so much as the sudden realization of the responsibility she had taken on in buying a house.

      Her cell phone rang, startlingly loud in the quiet room. She glanced automatically at her watch before answering.

      The voice on the other end was that of the real estate agent who had closed the deal. “How’s the move going?”

      “Hi, Patty. It’s all finished, except for the unpacking.”

      “Oh,

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