The Perfect Neighbor by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online Page B

flickering dimple, and wonder again.
    “You’re so good. I can’t imagine you won’t find steady work really soon.”
    Amused, he lifted his wine. She thought he was an out-of-work musician. Fine, then. Why not? “Gigs come and they go.”
    “Do you work private parties?” Inspired, she leaned on the table. “I know a lot of people—someone’s always having a party.”
    “I bet they are, in your little world.”
    “I could give your name out if you like. Do you mind traveling?”
    “Where am I going?”
    “Some of my relatives own hotels. Atlantic City’s not far. I don’t suppose you have a car.”
    He had a snazzy new Porsche stored in a downtown garage. “Not on me.”
    She laughed, nibbled on bread. “Well, it’s not difficult to get from New York to Atlantic City.”
    As entertaining as it was, he thought it wise to steer off awhile. “Cybil, I don’t need anyone to manage my life.”
    “Terrible habit of mine.” Unoffended, she broke the bread in half and offered him part. “I get involved. Then I’m annoyed when other people do the same to me. Like Mrs. Wolinsky, the current president of Let’s Find Cybil a Nice Young Man Club. It drives me crazy.”
    “Because you don’t want a nice young man.”
    “Oh, I suppose I will, eventually. Coming from a big family sort of predisposes you—or me, anyway—into wanting one of your own. But there’s lots of time for that. I like living in the city, doing what I want when I want. I’d hate to keep regular hours, which is why nothing ever stuck before cartooning. Not that it isn’t work or doesn’t take discipline, but it’s my work and my time. Like your music, I guess.”
    “I guess.” His work was very rarely a pleasure—as hers seemed to be. But his music was.
    “McQuinn.” Smiling, she nudged her bowl to the side, thinking it would make him a very nice meal later in the week. “How often do you really rip loose and come up with more than, oh, say, three declarative sentences in a row during a conversation?”
    He ate the last half of his last meatball, studied her. “I like November. I talk a lot in November. It’s the kind of transitory month that makes me feel philosophical.”
    “Three on the button, and clever, too.” She laughed at him. “You have a sly sense of humor in there, don’t you?” Sitting back, she sighed lustily. “Want dessert?”
    “Damn right.”
    “Okay, but don’t order the tiramisu, because then I’d be forced to beg you for a bite, then two, then I’d end up stealing half of it and go into a coma.”
    Keeping his eyes on hers, he signaled for the waitress with the casual authority of a man used to giving orders. It made Cybil’s brow crease.
    “Tiramisu,” he told the waitress. “Two forks,” and made Cybil weak with laughter. “I want to see if putting you into a coma actually shuts you up.”
    “Won’t.” She patted her chest as the last laugh bubbled out. “I even talk in my sleep. My sister used to threaten to put a pillow over my head.”
    “I think I’d like your sister.”
    “Adria’s gorgeous—probably just your type, too. Cool and sophisticated and brilliant. She runs an art gallery in Portsmith.”
    Preston decided they might as well finish off the wine. It was a very nice Chianti, he mused, which probably explained why he was feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks. Months, he corrected. Maybe years. “So, are you going to fix me up with her?”
    “She might go for you,” Cybil considered, eyeing him over her glass and enjoying the happy little buzz the wine had given her. “You’re great-looking in a sort of rough, I-don’t-give-a-damn way. You play a musical instrument, which would appeal to her love and appreciation of the arts. And you’re too nasty to treat her like royalty. Too many men do.”
    “Do they?” he murmured, realizing that his talkative dinner companion was well on her way to being plowed.
    “She’s so beautiful. They can’t help it. Worse,