Turn Up the Heat. Isabel Sharpe
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toward his garage for a bag of salt, reminding himself that he owned this spacious two-thousand-square-foot house with full basement, instead of the cramped two-bedroom he’d sold in Solana Beach, his hometown on the California coast. Point in Wisconsin’s favor, they were practically giving houses away here. He’d jumped on this one, a typically midwestern brick bungalow on a quiet street in Shorewood, just north of the city of Milwaukee, and made enough profit on the sale of his old house not only to buy the place with cash, but to allow himself time to settle in and write the first book in what could turn out to be a very profitable series with Troy, his closest friend from college.
Justin hadn’t been planning to move, but the coauthoring book deal from Troy and the amount of work they’d need to do together, coupled with the nasty break-up of a relationship, had certainly planted the seed. It wasn’t until his new neighbor, out of the blue, made a very generous offer to purchase his house that Justin started to view the idea seriously. In the end, it almost seemed as if the fates were pointing him here.
The fates clearly had a high tolerance for cold.
He made it to the garage, no falls or bruises, all bones intact, hefted the bag of salt and managed to work out a method of sprinkling and shuffling carefully forward at the same time, ice crackling under the mineral assault. If he was lucky, he could get the car over this and onto the street without smashing into anything. Snow driving and Justin were only just getting acquainted.
At the end of the driveway he’d turned and started on the sidewalk when a movement across the street caught his eye. His neighbor, whatever her name was, had emerged from her house into the strong beam of her back-door light, and was sauntering toward her car, a bright red minivan parked on the street. He’d seen her through the window a couple of times, but meeting people on a block where no one was ever outside unless he or she was pushing a roaring snowblower had proved complicated.
This woman intrigued him. Not just because she was young, attractive and he hadn’t happened to see a guy attached to her, but because, unless she was one of twins or triplets, every time he’d seen her in the past week she’d been sporting a completely different look. Not just different clothes, but hair, accessory styles, even her movements. The first time he’d noticed the change from her usual casual outfit and aura, she’d been striding aggressively toward her car in a pantsuit masculine enough that he could have worn it, no coat, hair in a severe bun, eyes imprisoned by thick, dark-framed glasses. The second time, late one evening, she’d been taking out her trash at the same time he was watering plants in his living room—plants he’d bought to remind himself that not every living thing had died in October. That time, Mysterious Neighbor wore unobtrusive rimless glasses and had her hair in a soft, long braid, exposing chunky gold earrings. On her slender body a bulky hip-length cream sweater hung over casual tan pants and sensible brown shoes. She’d moved in slow dreamy steps, a book tucked under her arm.
Tonight? Whew.
Dark hair hanging sexily loose past her shoulders, tight black miniskirt, fabulous legs in sheer black stockings, which happened to be one of his favorite looks. His gaze followed those shapely legs downward into black lace-up stiletto ankle boots. Under her gaping long black sweater—she must be part Siberian not to be wearing a coat—a purple clingy top dropped low enough to make him yearn for a two-scoop ice cream sundae in spite of the cold. Delicate silver earrings, a silver bracelet, rings on her fingers—bells on her toes?
He realized he was gaping and gave what he hoped was a friendly and neighborly wave, which was all they’d exchanged so far. Her answering smile reached across the street and practically pushed him off his feet.
Whoa.
He crossed, almost forgetting to check for cars, took off his right glove and offered to shake with frozen fingers. “Hi there. I’m Justin.”
Her fingers, extracted from black leather and lace, were warm. “I’m Candy.”
He was about to say, yes you are, when it occurred to him what could be a fun compliment from someone she trusted would sound slimy coming from a stranger. “Nice to meet you, Candy …”
“Graham.”
“Candy-gram?”
She shrugged, smiling wryly. “Dad had a weird sense of humor. My real name is Catherine. I’ve tried to switch to the full name, but …”
He knew this one. “But everyone has always called you Candy, and using another name would be like throwing part of yourself away.”
Her turn to gape at him, but unfortunately not because he was the hottest thing she’d seen all winter long as had been the situation when he was doing it. “How did you know?”
“My last name is Case.”
“Case?”
“Justin …”
“Justin Case.” She cringed, where every other person who made the connection burst out laughing. “Oof. Sorry.”
“Thanks.” He was distracted by the way her full curving lips were colored a plummy shade that complemented her top. She parted those lips and her breath emerged, a soft white cloud in the dim light. He had a sudden and urgent desire to kiss her, and when he lifted his gaze to her eyes and felt the earthquake shock of attraction, he almost did.
Almost. “Uh, yeah, my dad was quite the jokester, too.”
“Apparently.” She broke the eye contact, glancing across the street at his house. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood, Justin Case. How long have you been here?”
“Since November.” He put his glove back on, crossed his arms over his chest. She had dynamite eyes, lashes long but not fake-looking; subtle liner and smoky brown shadow made them large and smoldering, yet he had the feeling that when she wasn’t dressed and made-up in one of her guises, she’d look farm-girl sweet. Nothing turned him on more than the combination of heat and innocence. He wanted to ask if she was seeing anyone, and how she’d feel about staying indoors with him for the rest of this miserable season. “Pretty serious cold here today, huh.”
“Today?” She blinked at him.
“My thermometer said eighteen. Brutal!” He shook his head, taken aback when she looked puzzled. “For this time of year, I mean.”
“You’re not from Wisconsin, are you.”
“Uh. Southern California?”
She smirked. “That explains it. Eighteen is a pretty normal temperature. This winter has actually been really mild. We usually go subzero in January.”
He shuddered. Were there flights out of Milwaukee to anywhere warm leaving this afternoon?
“It’s not that bad.” She shifted on the sidewalk, gesturing with her hands in her pockets; her sweater gaped and he got a very nice eyeful. She wasn’t tall—he was six-one and she came up to his chin in those incredible boots—but perfectly proportioned. If anything could warm him up … “What made you move here, Justin?”
“A book contract.” His teeth started to chatter; he wondered if she’d think he was making a move on her if he invited her to continue their conversation inside.
“No, kidding! What about?”
“An interactive how-to computer manual. There will be a disk with the book, and an e-version. In the ebooks, readers will be able to click links to pursue subjects further, see short animated demos or try out software screens. We’re trying to duplicate a classroom experience. A friend pitched the idea to our publisher. He’s the computer guy. I’m the writer.” Could she tell his sentences were getting shorter and shorter as his body started to want to shake in earnest? It took more and more energy to hold still. Not macho to start violent trembling. “If it flies they’ll want a whole series.”
“No kidding! That is most excellent. Did you write in California? Where were you from exactly? I have a friend in L.A.” Her conversation tumbled out, as if she’d been holding back before.
“I’m