The Perfect Neighbor by Nora Roberts Page A

admired and respected. He doubted Daniel MacGregor would return the compliment if he learned that Preston McQuinn had made his little girl cry.
    And, Preston realized, Daniel MacGregor’s opinion mattered to him.
    So, a little voice nagged at him, did Cybil’s.
    That was why he was pacing the living area of his apartment instead of working. He’d heard her go out, again, but hadn’t been quite quick enough to get downstairs and into the hall before she’d gone.
    He could wait her out, Preston thought. She had to come back sometime. And when she did, he’d head her off and offer her a very civilized apology. It was blatantly obvious the woman had a soft heart. She’d have to forgive him. Once she had, they could go back to being neighbors.
    There was the matter of the hundred dollars, as well, which instead of amusing him as it had initially, now made him feel nasty.
    He was sure she’d be ready to laugh the whole thing off now. How long could that kind of cheerful nature hold a grudge?
    He would have been surprised to find out just how long, and how well, if he’d seen Cybil’s face as she rode the elevator up to the third floor.
    It annoyed her, outrageously, that she had to pass the man’s door to get to her own. It infuriated her that doing so made her think of him, remember how stupid she’d been—and how much more stupid he’d made her feel.
    She shifted the weight of the two bags of groceries she carried in either arm and tried to dig out her key so she wouldn’t have to linger in the hallway a second longer than necessary.
    The elevator gave its usual announcing thud when it reached her floor. She was still searching for the elusive key when she stepped off.
    Her teeth set when she saw him, and her eyes went frosty.
    “Cybil.” He’d never seen her eyes cold, and the chill of them threw him off rhythm. “Ah, let me give you a hand with those.”
    “I don’t need a hand, thank you.” She could only pray to grow a third one, rapidly, that could find her bloody keys.
    “Yes, you do, if you’re going to keep rooting around in that purse.”
    He tried a smile, then scowled as they played tug-of-war with one of her bags. In the end he just wrenched it out of her grip. “Look, damn it, I said I was sorry. How many times do I have to say it before you get out of this snit you’re in?”
    “Go to hell,” she shot back. “How many times do I have to say it before you start to feel the heat?”
    She finally snagged the key, jabbed it into the lock. “Give me my groceries.”
    “I’ll take them in for you.”
    “I said give me the damn bag.” They were back to tugging, until she hissed out a breath. “Keep them, then.”
    She shoved open the door, but before she could slam it in his face, he’d shoved it open again and pushed his way inside. Their eyes met, both narrowed, and he thought he caught a glint of violence in hers.
    “Don’t even think about it,” he warned her. “I’m not an underweight mugger.”
    She thought she could still do some damage but decided it would only make him seem more important than she’d determined he would be. Instead, she turned on the heel of her pink suede sneakers, dumped her bag on the counter. When he did the same, she nodded briskly.
    “Thanks. Now you’ve delivered them. Want a tip?”
    “Very funny. Let’s just settle this first.” He reached in his pocket, where he’d folded the hundred-dollar bill she’d given him. “Here.”
    She flicked the money a disinterested glance. “I’m not taking it back. You earned it.”
    “I’m not keeping your money over what turned out to be a bad joke.”
    “Bad joke!” The ice in her eyes turned to sharp green flames. “Is that what it was? Well, ha-ha. Now that you bring it up, I owe you another fifty, don’t I?”
    That hit the mark, had his jaw clenching as she grabbed up her purse. “Don’t push it, Cybil. Take the money back.”
    “No.”
    “I said take the damn money.” He grabbed her