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unlocked her door and slammed it behind her. “Thanks a lot, Dad,” she said to the empty room. “Looks like you found me a real prize.”
    Dora dumped her things on a settee blooming with cabbage roses, brushed her hair back with impatient fingers. The guy might have been a pleasure to look at, she mused, but she preferred a neighbor with a modicum of personality. Marching to her candlestick phone, she decided to call her father and give him an earful.
    Before she’d dialed the second number, she spotted the sheet of paper with its big heart-shaped happy face drawn at the bottom. Quentin Conroy always added some little drawing—a barometer of his mood—on his notes and letters. Dora hung up the phone and began to read.
    Izzy, my darling daughter.
    Dora winced. Her father was the only living soul who called her by that derivative of her name.
The deed is done. Well done, if I say so myself. Your new tenant is a strapping young man who should be able to help you with any menial work. His name, as you see on the copies of the lease awaiting your signature, is Jed Skimmerhorn. A full-bodied name that brings lusty sea captains or hearty pioneers to my mind. I found him fascinatingly taciturn, and sensed a whirlpool bubbling under those still waters. I couldn’t think of anything nicer to give my adored daughter than an intriguing neighbor.
    Welcome home, my firstborn babe.
    Your devoted father.
    Dora didn’t want to be amused, but she couldn’t help smiling. The move was so obvious. Put her within elbow-rubbing space of an attractive man, and maybe, just maybe, she would fall in love, get married and give her greedy father more grandchildren to spoil.
    “Sorry, Dad,” she murmured. “You’re in for another disappointment.”
    Setting the note aside, she skimmed a finger down the lease until she came to Jed’s signature. It was a bold scrawl, and she dashed her own name on the line next to it on both copies. Lifting one, she strode to her door and across the hall and knocked.
    When the door opened, Dora thrust the lease out, crushing the corner against Jed’s chest. “You’ll need this for your records.”
    He took it. His gaze lowered, scanned, then lifted again. Her eyes weren’t friendly now, but cool. Which suited him. “Why’d the old man leave this with you?”
    Her chin tilted up. “The old man,” she said in mild tones, “is my father. I own the building, which makes me, Mr. Skimmerhorn, your landlord.” She turned on her heel and was across the hall in two strides. With her hand on the knob, she paused, turned. Her hair swung out, curved, settled. “The rent’s due on the twenty-first of each month. You can slip the check under my door and save yourself a stamp, as well as any contact with other humans.”
    She slipped inside and closed the door with a satisfied snick of the lock.

CHAPTER
THREE
    W hen Jed jogged to the base of the steps leading up to his apartment, he’d sweated out most of the physical consequences of a half bottle of whiskey. One of the reasons he’d chosen this location was the gym around the corner. He’d spent a very satisfying ninety minutes that morning lifting weights, punching the hell out of the heavy bag and burning away most of his morning-after headache in the steam room.
    Now, feeling almost human, he craved a pot of black coffee and one of the microwave breakfasts he’d loaded into his freezer. He pulled his key out of the pocket of his sweats and let himself into the hallway. He heard the music immediately. Not Christmas carols, thankfully, but the rich-throated wail of gospel according to Aretha Franklin.
    At least his landlord’s taste in music wouldn’t irritate him, he mused, and would have turned directly into hisown rooms except he’d noted her open door.
    An even trade, Jed figured, and, dipping his hands into his pockets, wandered over. He knew he’d been deliberately rude the night before. And because it had been deliberate, he saw no reason to