Falling for the Guy Next Door

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

M
egan 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 kicked 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.

B
leary-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.