The Nosy Neighbor Read online

  Praise for the marvelous

  New York Times bestsellers of

  FERN MICHAELS,

  whose “high-quality, homegrown

  storytelling” (Publishers Weekly) has

  won the hearts of readers everywhere!

  CROWN JEWEL

  “A wonderfully heartwarming, compelling story about families and the lock the past can have on the future, Crown Jewel is a grand drama of discovery and love.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Long-buried secrets cause tension and emotion to run high.”

  —The Old Book Barn Gazette

  “A story of forgiveness and personal redemption…[from] the prolific Michaels.”

  —Booklist

  THE REAL DEAL

  “Fern Michaels is The Real Deal when it comes to exciting contemporary romantic suspense…. The exhilarating White House suspense plot is filled with twists. …Will appeal to fans of Nora Roberts and Jayne Ann Krentz.”

  —Thebestreviews.com

  “[A] fast-paced and engaging story from the prolific and entertaining Michaels.”

  —Booklist

  “If you are seeking a story of passion, suspense, and intrigue…The Real Deal is the perfect choice.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  LATE BLOOMER

  “Michaels does what she does best [in Late Bloomer]…. Entertaining, action-packed…fun to read…engaging romantic suspense.”

  —The Midwest Book Review

  “[A] feel-good page-turner…. An action-packed plot…. Michaels’s fans will be satisfied.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Michaels’s snazzy tale reveals the ups and downs of friendship and small-town life.”

  —Booklist

  “A powerful, character-driven story.”

  —Barnesandnoble.com

  “Heartwarming…. Fern Michaels [is] so talented and versatile, she could be described as the Norman Rockwell of romance writing…. Late Bloomer is nothing short of wonderful. You won’t want to put it down.”

  —Winter Haven News Chief (FL)

  “Miraculous…. Late Bloomer is a rare treasure, a gift for the heart, an incredibly moving story of love, laughter, friendship, and forgiveness.”

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  “A poignant love story…. Late Bloomer is Fern Michaels at her best.”

  —www.bookloons.com

  Also by New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Fern Michaels

  NO PLACE LIKE HOME

  “Uniquely charming…bursting with humor…this warmhearted confection is as soothing as a cup of hot cocoa.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  KENTUCKY RICH

  “[A] Danielle Steel-like fun read…will keep readers on tenterhooks.”

  —Booklist

  PLAIN JANE

  “Michaels delivers another corker with [this] romantic suspense story.”

  —Library Journal

  Thank you for downloading this Pocket Books eBook.

  * * *

  Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Pocket Books and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  Prologue

  Lucy Baker stared across the room at the twelve empty jury seats. She wanted to scream with frustration. What was taking them so long? The judge said the jury had signaled they had a verdict, but that was forty-five minutes ago. She dropped her hand to her side and crossed her fingers. Please, God, let the verdict be guilty. Please, please, please.

  She tugged at the hem of her skirt. Lucy’s brother Steven—sitting second chair on this case—leaned over and smiled confidently. His expression clearly said, don’t sweat it, our client is going to walk out of this courtroom a free man. We did our job, and our bank account is now five hundred thousand dollars more robust.

  Her brother was right—Justin Riley was going to walk because she had put up a superb defense. Unparalleled and unequaled, according to the press. That same press had followed her career and dubbed her Lucky Lucy along the way. What it all meant was she’d never lost a case. Yet. A guilty verdict was wishful thinking on her part. Nonetheless, she started to pray, saying the words she’d learned so long ago in catechism class and now had all but forgotten. Today, for some reason, she feared that God wasn’t listening to her heartfelt plea. Why was that?

  She felt rather than saw her client jerk to attention. Her brother followed suit. The judge was about to enter the courtroom.

  The bailiff walked to the front of the judge’s high desk and said, “All rise. The Honorable Sidney Blake presiding.”

  A hush fell over the courtroom but not before someone coughed. Papers rattled, feet shuffled on the hard wooden floor. Someone else cleared their throat as the jury filed in and took the same seats they’d sat in for the past three weeks.

  The judge banged his gavel. Lucy sat up straighter in her chair. This was the moment when her blood always ran cold.

  The moment.

  The judge turned to face the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

  “We have, Your Honor.” The foreman of the jury, a retired schoolteacher named Abner Scribner, stood and handed a folded sheet of paper to the bailiff, who in turn handed it to the judge. Lucy watched as the judge unfolded the sheet of paper, read the contents, and folded the paper to return it to the bailiff, who then passed it back to Abner Scribner.

  “Will the defendant please rise.”

  Justin Riley rose to his full six-foot-four-inch height. He was trembling. The thought pleased Lucy. Lucy stood, then moved to the side to take her place alongside her client, with Steven on his opposite side. Please, God, let this scumbag be found guilty. Please, please, please.

  Abner Scribner cleared his throat and focused his attention on Justin Riley. “We find the defendant, Justin Riley…not guilty.”

  The courtroom erupted in joyous outcries. Justin’s courtroom fan club, his parents, the media, his brothers and sisters, all shouted with glee. Lucy felt herself being squeezed, then pummeled on her arms by Justin’s fists. Thank God it was Steven who was hugging her. “I have to get out of here!” she hissed into her brother’s ear. “Now!”

  “But—”

  “You deal with the press,” she interrupted, not wanting to hear anything he had to say. “I’m going to the office, then I’m going home. I never want to see Justin Riley again as long as I live, and no, I am not going to any celebratory gathering, so don’t even ask.”

  Lucy motioned to the bailiff, and whispered, “Can you get me out of here and to my car before they attack me?” The bailiff, an older, kindly gentleman, smiled and nodded. Lucy tugged at the jacket of her charcoal gray Armani suit, knowing hundreds of eyes were following her exit.

  Lucy faltered once when she heard Lorraine Sumpter, the victim’s grandmother, shout, “I hope you rot in hell, Lucy Baker!” Lucy didn’t look back. There was no need. She could see Annie Sumpter’s grandmother behind closed eyes. She even dreamed about the little old lady. Now, she would probably have nightmares about Annie’s grandmother.

  It was six-thirty when Lucy rode the elevator to her suite of offices on the eighteenth floor. The lighting in the hallway was dim. Like she cared. She fit the key into the lock, opened the door, and walked inside. One long arm reached out to shove the dead bolt home. She dropped her briefcase on the floor. Angrily, she kicked it across the reception area before she slid out of her shoes. Her shoulders slumped as she walked down the long hallway to her private office. There, with the door closed, she could cry. She could scream and yell and vent to her heart�
��s content. If she wanted to. To what end? she asked herself.

  Lucy sat down in her ergonomic chair, which was surprisingly comfortable, and looked around at the luxurious office. Everything was tony, high-end, and shrieked of billable hours. That was what the law was all about—billable hours.

  Lucy was off the chair a moment later, padding through the meadow of sea-green carpeting that hugged her ankles, to the minifridge, where she withdrew a bottle of wine. She carried it and a Baccarat wineglass reserved for clients back to her desk. It took her a full five minutes to work the corkscrew. She poured till the wine sloshed over onto her desk. Two gulps, and it was gone. She poured again. Two more gulps. Her eyes teared up when she poured the third glass. Big mistake. She hadn’t eaten today because she’d been a basket case, knowing the verdict was coming in.

  “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  Tears rolled down her cheeks as the telephone console on her desk lit up, every line, including her private line, blinking. They can blink from now till the end of time, for all I care.

  Lucy brought the wineglass to her lips and sipped. Tears kept running down her cheeks. Bitter tears of victory. She blinked away her tears to see her brother standing in the doorway, a look of something she couldn’t define in his expression. Wariness, fear, anger? Whatever it was, she didn’t care about that either.

  Steven’s voice sounded jittery when he asked, “Are you all right?”

  Lucy eyed her handsome brother and was reminded of Justin Riley. They were both tall, preppy, handsome, the type of man women drooled over. Both of them knew how to take advantage of that particular characteristic. She continued to watch as Steven shuffled his feet. He didn’t, however, cross the threshold. No one ever entered Lucy’s private office unless invited.

  “Do I look like I’m all right, Steven?” Even she was surprised at how slurred her words sounded.

  “You look…drunk.”

  “That’s because I am drunk. If I’m drunk, I have to look like I’m drunk.” To prove her point, she reached for the bottle and upended it.

  “I think you’ve had enough, Lucy. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

  Lucy looked around the office again. She had to squint to bring the room into focus. The rich mahogany paneling, the custom-made cherrywood desk, the wine-colored Naugahyde furniture, the custom bookshelves with the leather-bound law books, the thick carpeting, the lavish drapes, all courtesy of billable hours. “I don’t want to do this anymore, Steven.”

  “You always say that after a verdict, Lucy. Go home and sleep it off. Things will look different tomorrow.” His voice was pleading—he was worried. Yes, his sister always said she wanted to quit practicing law after a verdict, but she had never gotten drunk after a verdict. Even he knew that this time was different. He wished he had the guts to step into her office.

  “It wasn’t till closing arguments that I knew that bastard was guilty. Afterward I accused him of being guilty, and do you know what he said, Steven?”

  “No. What did he say, Lucy?” Steven asked, knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer.

  “He didn’t answer. He laughed at me instead. His eyes said it all. The State’s case was circumstantial. Justin Riley is a pedophile and a murderer. I don’t care how good-looking, or how preppy he and his rich, influential family are. He is what he is. And I got him off. Me and you. Do you hear me, Steven? We sold ourselves to the Rileys for five hundred thousand dollars. And you know what else? The Rileys paid us in full—their account is current.”

  “The jury said he was innocent,” Steven reminded her. “We did our jobs. We gave him the best defense possible, and we got lucky. That’s what defense lawyers do. The law says justice was served. Mr. Riley Senior said he’s giving us a bonus of a hundred thousand. That’s not shabby, Lucy. We followed the letter of the law. We did what we were hired to do.”

  “Steven, read my lips. The guy killed that little girl. I know it, and you know it. He is now walking free to do it again because we did such a damn good job. I haven’t been able to sleep since he laughed at me. I can barely eat. I wasn’t absolutely sure until that precise moment. I saw it in his eyes. Do you want to know something else? His sister and his mother believe he did it, too. His sister Sally told me the things he used to do to her when she was little. And to her little friends. Don’t take that bonus. That’s an order, Steven.”

  “All right, Lucy, I won’t take the bonus. But it’s a mistake not to take it because we earned every damn dime of it.”

  Lucy brushed at her hair to get the spiky bangs off her forehead. Fashionable hairdo or not, it was annoying her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so tired, so drunk. She slugged from the bottle, and, when nothing came out, she said, “Ooops, gotta get another bottle. Don’t even think about telling me I can’t, Steven. Go home. I’m going to sleep here on the sofa tonight. I have a lot of thinking to do.”

  “You can’t possibly think with your snoot in a bottle. Come on, Lucy, let me take you home. We can get some coffee and talk all night if you like.” Home was a brownstone on East Forty-ninth Street that he and Lucy had inherited from their parents. The bottom floor was rented out to two doctors for enough money to pay the taxes and utility bills. Lucy lived on the second floor, Steven on the third. It worked for all concerned.

  “I’m talked out, little brother. Didn’t you hear what I said? I don’t want to do this anymore. I’ve had it with the criminal justice system. I need to get a life. I’m sick and tired of working ninety hours a week so some jerk can go out there and mutilate a little girl because of some sick—Go home, Steven, and leave me alone.”

  “They’re just about ready to announce your appointment to the bench. Are you giving that up, too?” Steven asked uneasily.

  Lucy yanked at the cork, and both cork and corkscrew flew across the room. “Wow, did you see that? The answer is yes. I told you to go home.”

  “All right, I’m going.”

  “ ’Night, Steven!” she bellowed.

  When she finally managed to weave her way back to the ergonomic desk chair, Lucy could see that the telephone console was still lit up. The blinking red light indicated there was voice mail on her private line. Only four people had her private number. Steven, the mayor, her housekeeper, and Jonathan St. Clair. She pressed the button to hear the message.

  “Lucy, it’s Jon. I just flew in this afternoon and heard about the verdict on the news. I was calling to invite you to dinner, but I guess you’re out with your colleagues celebrating. Congratulations. They said you were the best of the best, honey.” His carefully modulated voice turned intimate, and Lucy had to strain to hear the words. “I could have told them how really wonderful you are, but they didn’t ask me. I’ll call you in the morning. Sweet dreams, my darling.”

  Lucy eyed the newly opened wine bottle with a jaundiced eye. Did she really want to drink more wine? Of course she did. She tilted the bottle and watched the wine splash into the glass and over her desk. She sat down and propped her feet on the desk.

  Jonathan. Jonathan with the infectious smile and crinkly eyes. Jonathan with the wicked sense of humor. Jonathan the consummate lover. She’d known Jonathan for a year, having met him on the tennis court at the City Raquet Club. One thing had led to another, and they’d ended up a couple. She thought she loved him. He said he loved her. Sometimes she found that hard to believe. She flipped the pages of her day planner to confirm what she already knew. In the year she’d known him, she’d been with Jonathan a total of twenty-two times. Either she was tied up in a court case or he was traveling on business. There had been one, wild, delicious four-day weekend where they’d both professed their love. Then she hadn’t seen him for a solid month. Phone calls and e-mails were not the most satisfying kind of interpersonal communication for a woman going on thirty-eight whose biological clock was ticking. And yet their relationship worked for both of them.

  Lucy slurped from t
he wineglass. She felt like crying all over again because she knew she was drunk and had just missed out on spending an evening with the man she adored. Talk about stupid, bad luck. Hers was running at an all-time high. As she made her way to the couch, wineglass in hand, she couldn’t help but wonder if her parents were spinning in their graves over her decision to abandon the practice of law.

  Both her parents had been attorneys. Her mother had been in family law, her father in corporate law. They’d built the firm. Then, nine years after her mother died, her father had retired to roam the world and she and Steven had taken over. At the height of his retirement while he was exploring the Amazon, he’d contracted a jungle disease she couldn’t even pronounce and died within two weeks. Baker, Baker, Wong, and Lickenstein was one of the most prestigious firms in the city. There never had been a Wong or a Lickenstein. Her father had thought it was more impressive to have four names on their letterhead when he started the firm. Lucy couldn’t ever remember a client asking for Wong or Lickenstein. What she did know for sure was that with her and Steven at the helm, the firm had one of the best criminal practices going.

  Lucy moved over to the couch and plopped down. In the morning she was going to have the Queen Mother of all hangovers. She reached for the pillow one of her first clients had crocheted for her. It was tacky, with its gaudy colors and equally tacky fringe hanging from the corners, but she loved it. A moment later she was sound asleep.

  1

  Six Months Later

  Lucy Baker shoved her tennis racquet into its case, waved to her tennis partner, and proceeded to jog across the high school field to the track where she would run her daily five miles. A roll of thunder caused her to pick up her feet and sprint. When she reached the track, she tossed her canvas bag onto the bleachers and took off running.

  Tennis, and a five-mile run every day regardless of the weather, had became a routine for her in the six months since she’d stopped practicing law.

  Lucy kept one eye on the threatening thunderclouds overhead and the other on the track. She picked up her speed, not wanting to get caught in a thunderstorm. Off in the distance she could hear hard, rolling thunder, which seemed to be getting closer. One more lap to go. If she pushed it into high gear, she could pass the other runners, who looked like they were dragging. It was always this way on the last lap, she thought smugly.