A Touch of Heaven

Copyright © 2011 by Portia Da Costa

For the two Simons, human and feline.


Chapter One

He’s there again, my new neighbor, the guy who’s house-sitting next door for the Johnsons. At least I think he’s house-sitting. I can’t remember them mentioning him before they went away.

I wonder if they knew he likes sunbathing naked when they asked him to mind the house for them.

Yes, naked. Starkers. In the buff. Not wearing a stitch. There he is on the lawn again on his tatty old blanket. Stretched out in the sun, exactly as the good Lord intended.

And speaking of the good Lord, thank you, God, for giving this old bird a treat.

This is the third day in a row that he’s been out there, and the third day I’ve sneakily watched him from my balcony. Does he know I’m spying on him? He certainly doesn’t give any indication. But then again, all he seems to do is sleep. He worships the sun for hours on end, and somehow he never seems to get burned. His skin always looks golden, beautiful and smooth, not the slightest bit red.

I shuffle my sun mattress over to the wrought iron railings at the edge of the balcony so I can get a better view, and boy, is he a sight for sore eyes.

He’s got the body of a god and the face of an angel, and that’s not exaggerating. From this vantage point, I can only see his profile and his tousled golden hair, but I know for a fact the rest of him is just as scrumptious, face and body. His back is a sculpted poem of muscle and his ass is nothing short of breathtaking. His strong, narrow feet look touchingly vulnerable stretched out in the sunlight.

I should go down. I should talk to him. He must know I’m here and that I’m looking. So why am I shilly-shallying? I’m a grown woman-far too far grown for my liking-and I shouldn’t be afraid of some strip of a lad, of a youth or whatever, a guy who’s probably far more years my junior than I care to count.

I pop my head up for a better view.

Well, he might be drop-dead gorgeous, but he’s an unrepentant slob. His rug is littered with books, newspapers, an iPod, about half a dozen soft drink cans and the wrappers of several chocolate bars and at least four empty crisp packets. The lucky devil. Not only can he lie out in the sun for hours without burning, it also seems that he can guzzle junk food without putting on an ounce or damaging his pearly white teeth. And they are pearly white, because I just saw them. He smiled to himself a moment ago in his sleep.

I wonder what he’s smiling about. Something must have amused him.

Even as I speculate, he lifts his head, looks over his shoulder and smiles again. But this time, it’s directly at me.

Oh hell, that’s torn it. What shall I do?

Several possible courses of action occur. Do I duck down again, pretend I’m not here and hope the sun was in his eyes and he didn’t actually see me?

Don’t be an idiot, Miranda. Of course he saw you. He’s not blind.

Or do I brazen it out and smile right back? Give him a cheery, neighborly wave and grasp the opportunity I’ve desperately been waiting for-a chance to meet this dreamy guy face-to-face? I’ll be playing with fire, obviously, given my history. Handsome younger men are a flame I’ve been well crisped by before. But hey ho, you only live once, don’t you? I’m prepared to risk getting kicked in the teeth again, for just a chance to get close to a heavenly body like his.

Easing myself up into a sitting position, I smile down and flap a cautious wave at my naked neighbor. “Hi. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Great opening, Miranda, so original. But Golden Boy doesn’t seem to mind. Yanking out his earbuds, he sits up, swivels around and gives me the full beam of the most extraordinary, spine-meltingly gorgeous smile I’ve ever seen on any man, woman or child.

And that’s not all… I also get an extended flash of a sizeable and equally gorgeous penis.

Lord, have mercy.

“Marvelous,” he concurs, looking up into the cloudless sky for a moment as if he’s searching for something. Then his stare flicks back to me, his smile daring me to comment on his nakedness, challenging me not to look away.

“Er…um…are you having a picnic down there?” Great, Miranda, yet more sparkling repartee. He’ll just write you off as a dotty old lady at this rate.

Still smiling, he glances at the detritus surrounding him. “Yes, I suppose you could say that. A picnic, yes. Would you care to join me?”

Oh hell.

Excuses clamor to be made. I start confabulating stories about housework to do, shopping needed, or visits owed to friends. My bravado is in danger of withering on the vine and the sanctuary of indoors beckons me-a refuge from the dangerous temptation of beautiful young men.

I dither on, and he cocks his head on one side in a challenging way that’s also completely irresistible. Before I know what I’m doing, I say, “Great. I’d love to. I’ll be right down.”

“Wonderful.” His beautiful smile widens, and as I haul myself up from the mattress, my knees feel weak. And for once, it’s nothing to do with middle-age wear and tear, arthritis and other general aches and pains, and everything to do with skittish, flurrying excitement and a mad, sweet, ridiculously girlish infatuation. The kind I told myself, never again, never again.

I grab my hat and my sun lotion and my water bottle, and slither into my wrap. I wish I dare dash inside and check myself in a mirror because I know I’m a disheveled fright. But with every sneaky glance I cast his way, I see him staring back up at me, waiting. Looking eager…

Now don’t fret, Miranda. He’s just being neighborly, so it doesn’t matter whether you look like a sophisticated prime-time woman or a scruffy old harridan. It’s purely academic.

Clutching my belongings in one hand, I make my way cautiously down the external wrought-iron stairs leading down to the garden, then pad across to the borderline between my realm and his. The low, insignificant hedge looms like a mighty Rubicon, but before I can hesitate again, Golden Boy springs up from his blanket and comes to meet me. He puts out a hand to take mine and helps me over the scrubby little barrier.

Great, now he is treating me just like a dotty old dowager, a ruin who can’t manage to get across a foot-high hedge without toppling over. So much for my misplaced hopes he might fancy me.

And yet the cheeky twinkle in his eye is unmistakable. It’s not sympathy. It’s interest. I’m sure it is. I have to fight not to check out his cock for confirmation.

Calm down, you fool. He’s just being nice. He’s not like you. He doesn’t have a fatal weakness for older women the way you do for younger men. And if he did, he probably wouldn’t have it for women with quite so much mileage.

I offer him a nervous grin, and his answering smile makes me feel as if I’ve just drunk a glass of champagne far too fast. How could anyone feel worried or bitter or scared faced with that? It’s just heavenly. And so are his face and body. No woman on earth could think straight around a guy who so casually displays a sumptuous cock like his.

I smile back at him, again fighting a titanic battle not to ogle his crotch. And failing miserably. South of the border, he’s long and thick. Decidedly perky.

“Er… I’m Miranda, by the way. Miranda Clay,” I burble as he leads me to his impromptu picnic ground. It’s an exceptionally hot day, and I’m feeling hotter by the second just looking at him. It’s not entirely a physical sensation, but more a strange wave of well-being flowing from him to me, transmitted by his firm touch and the air between us.

Bizarre.

“And I’m Patrick,” he replies, courteously supporting me and helping me down onto the blanket. His eyes, which are blue as a crystal ocean, narrow like a blade when I flinch at a stray twinge of pain. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

Like grace personified, he settles beside me, his body as fluid and supple as my younger one once was.

“Are you in pain, Miranda?” It’s a question, but I have the weirdest feeling it’s not the flinch that made him ask it. Without knowing why, I suspect he just knows things. And when he takes my hand in both of his and cradles it with his fingertips against my wrist, I also know I’ll do anything he says.

“Yes, I am a bit…but it’s nothing. Just a twinge of arthritis, that’s all.” I try to smile again but it comes out as a nervous grimace. He’s so awesome up close that I feel star struck. “We get it early in my family.” I twitter on, making sure he knows I’m not quite a senior citizen yet, just the victim of unfortunate genetics. “The sun will do it good if I’m careful and don’t get burnt.”

A frown pleats his otherwise flawlessly smooth brow, and an expression of sympathy forms on his handsome face.

No! I don’t want pity. I already feel like forty kinds of fool for harboring the daft notion, even for a second, that you might fancy me.

“Yes, I believe it will.” A fascinating mix of emotions crosses his features. There’s understanding, something a bit like admiration, and an almost crafty but benign calculation. I’d swear he knows that sympathy is the very last thing I want from him.

A bit at a loss what to say, I look around and notice his books. And get a surprise. Patrick is reading romantic novels. Some of the books I loaned to Helen Johnson months ago. I’ve been meaning to ask for them back because they were mostly keepers I wouldn’t want to part with.

“Um…enjoying the books?”

“Yes, indeed.” His expression confounds me. Men don’t usually read romances and chick-lit, but he seems completely sincere. “I like stories of love. Especially against the odds.” He touches the cover of a particular favorite of mine, a heart-wrenching historical, and again his face displays a chiaroscuro of emotions. I could swear he really does understand the agony of the book’s hero and his tangle of love and loss.

“Er…good. Glad you like them. That’s one of my favorites too.”

“They’re your books?”

“Yes, I loaned them to Helen. She broke her ankle and she couldn’t get about, so I brought a bunch of them round to keep her occupied.”

“That was thoughtful of you.” His blue eyes narrow, as if assessing my motives. Then he beams at me, granting his approval.

“She’d do the same for me.” My voice comes out a bit prickly. Who is this guy to pass judgment on me? Helen probably wouldn’t have thought to bring me reading material. She certainly hasn’t bothered to return what I loaned her.

“Would you like them back now?” He starts to gather my little library, stacking them in a neat pile, handling them carefully. I can see that some of the spines are cracked, but my gut instinct tells me he didn’t do it.

“No, it’s okay. Please hang on to them as long as you like. I have lots of others too, when you’ve finished those. Just let me know.”

“I will.” Setting the books aside, he glances up at the sky, his blue eyes wide open, not squinting at the sun.