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Mr. Right Next Door
Arlene James
He'sMyHeroA protector, a provider, a friend–he's every woman's hero….WANTED: ONE GOOD MANDenise Jenkins desperately needed her handsome neighbor's help with a most unusual situation. The sassy single woman had invented a boyfriend, and now her boss was demanding to meet Denise's darling. She knew of only one man who could possibly pull off the pretense….Morgan Holt was handsome, intelligent and too darned sexy–he could unruffle her high-buttoned blouse with a careless whisper. But how could she possibly ask Morgan to pose as her beloved without him believing she had romantic ulterior motives? Especially when Denise knew, deep in her heart, she'd found her real Mr. Right…right next door.
“I have everything I’ve ever wanted—except someone to share it with.” (#ue3528f24-311f-5a7b-8741-0ced1e19e712)Letter to Reader (#u6b2ceabb-ccdd-5e7c-a54a-a596dd19e468)Title Page (#u835daa82-3bab-594d-a292-ca3dec9045d6)ARLENE JAMES (#u8574a413-426b-57f3-9cc0-a3a874aba49c)Chapter One (#ufd2866e0-bcd3-5cb9-9740-e209e6f1cb5d)Chapter Two (#u412027a6-b323-5908-a80b-d03d6d950b4d)Chapter Three (#u951cf1be-54bb-5fc1-a306-fb4f93d52d9d)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“I have everything I’ve ever wanted—except someone to share it with.”
The yearning in Morgan’s eyes made her turn away. Denise felt a bit sorry that she had asked, a little panicked, even, because something seemed to flutter in her chest when he looked at her like that, something she was too mature to feel.
She had to remind herself this was business. They were only pretending to date. So what if in an unguarded moment he made her heart beat a little faster? So what if the night was dark and soft, and she felt cocooned in luxury and utterly feminine for the first time in so long, and the smile on Morgan’s face and the appreciation in his eyes caused a secret little thrill deep within her? So what?
So she was in trouble. That was what.
Dear Reader,
Happy Valentine’s Day! What better way to celebrate than with a Silhouette Romance novel? We’re sweeter than chocolate—and less damaging to the hips! This month is filled with special treats just for you. LOVING THE BOSS, our six-book series about office romances that lead to happily ever after, continues with The Night Before Baby by Karen Rose Smith. In this sparkling story, an unforgettable one-night stand—during the company Christmas party!—leads to an unexpected pregnancy and a must-read marriage of convenience.
Teresa Southwick crafts an emotional BUNDLES OF JOY title, in which the forbidden man of her dreams becomes a pregnant woman’s stand-in groom. Don’t miss A Vow, a Ring, a Baby Swing. When a devil-may-care bachelor discovers he’s a daddy, he offers the prim heroine a chance to hold a Baby in Her Arms, as Judy Christenberry’s LUCKY CHARM SISTERS trilogy resumes.
Award-winning author Marie Ferrarella proves it’s Never Too Late for Love as the bride’s mother and the groom’s widower father discover their children’s wedding was just the beginning in this charming continuation of LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER. Beloved author Arlene James lends a traditional touch to Silhouette Romance’s ongoing HE’S MY HERO promotion with Mr. Right Next Door. And FAMILY MATTERS spotlights new talent Elyssa Henry with her heartwarming debut, A Family for the Sheriff.
Treat yourself to each and every offering this month. And in future months, look for more of the stories you love...and the authors you cherish.
Enjoy!
Mary-Theresa Hussey
Senior Editor, Silhouette Romance
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
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Mr. Right Next Door
Arlene James
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ARLENE JAMES
grew up in Oklahoma and has lived all over the South. In 1976 she married “the most romantic man in the world.” The author enjoys traveling with her husband, but writing has always been her chief pastime.
Chapter One
The ball ricocheted off the wall with a satisfying thwack, hurtling to her left. It would take a twisting eight-foot lunge to return it, but she had no doubt that she could manage. It was a move she’d made before. She had already begun the motion when she remembered that the politic action would be to let that ball pass. Her arm was already extended, the racquet at the perfect angle, with only a split second to act. Too late to abort the movement. Too late to correct—or rather, corrupt—the angle. In desperation, she did the only thing she could. She simply let go. The racquet hit the floor at the same instant she did, bounced off the rubber grip on the handle, and clattered to a rest, while Denise herself slid across the floor to collide with the wall, sprawling in an inelegant heap of bare limbs, coffee brown ponytail and athletic shoes. Chuck’s triumphant laughter echoed around the court. Denise felt a flare of resentment quickly followed by the stinging of friction-burned skin and the cool, studied control that kept her sane.
Gingerly, she righted herself and sat up, back braced against the wall, chest heaving. Well, she told herself, she could take satisfaction in the fact that he’d never know that she’d let him win. She’d had him worried this time, too, made him suffer. That counted for something. She flexed one knee, balanced a forearm atop it and concentrated on getting air into her beleaguered body. Chuck, meanwhile, stood bent over with his hands on his thighs, gasping and huffing, his slightly jowly face almost purple, sweat rolling off of the top of his balding head to drip on the floor. Denise was back to normal and checking over her racquet for damage long before Chuck regained enough strength and breath to rub in her loss.
“And old Dennis bites the dust again!” he said, finally. It was the office joke, calling her Dennis. Chuck shook his racquet at her and added patronizingly, “But you’re definitely getting better, though. Definite improvement.”
Denise smiled mechanically. Little did the old goat know that she could take him anytime she wanted. Did being the boss blind you to such lowering conclusions? she wondered. She made a mental note never to fall victim to such ego-enhancing vision herself. When her turn came—and it would, she was determined about that-she’d be a far superior manager than Chuck Dayton and his cronies, but then a woman had to be better just to be considered par. She sighed and for a moment allowed herself to be weary of the whole ugly, convoluted struggle that was her life. Then she put away the self-pity, squared her shoulders, wiped the perspiration from her brow and reminded herself that she was a woman with goals, and that at thirty-five she could handily whip her overbearing boss’s fifty-year-old butt at racquetball any day of the week. Heck, she worked harder at letting him win than winning herself, and one day he’d know it.
Retrieving her towel and wiping her face, she listened with half an ear as Chuck berated her-under the guise of helpful camaraderie-for her “lack of control” for dropping her racquet. She made noises of protest and regret, but apparently she wasn’t humiliated enough to properly feed Chuck’s need for superiority, for he somehow evaded her finely honed senses of warning and moved close enough to get a hand on her bottom and whisper in her ear, “Bet you never drop the ball between the sheets, though.”
Before she could sling an elbow at him, he moved away, chuckling and no doubt congratulating himself on his cleverness. Denise contented herself with muttered threats and a stern reminder that she could take anything that Chuck Dayton could dish out—and one day, somehow, someway, she’d make him pay for every sexist, sleazy remark. Two months she’d worked for him, from the very day she’d gotten to town, and the list was growing longer every day. She’d been warned, of course. Chuck liked to chew up his subordinates and spit them out. Those who buckled were sent down to dead-end jobs on the backside of nowhere. Those who didn’t often found themselves on the fast track to corporate heaven. Denise meant not only to breach the pearly gates of said heaven but to take a blatantly superior cloud for her own. Within five years—by the age of forty—she intended to be the top female officer in the company. With that happy thought lightening her mood, she slipped out the door to the prep room and dropped onto a bench, where she zipped her racquet into its leather case and took off her shoes before padding lightly on stockinged feet toward the women’s lockers.
A man pushed away from the wall and stepped smack into her path. Denise literally recoiled, some sixth sense recognizing her handsome landlord even before her gaze focused in on his face. Every alarm bell in her system was clanging a warning, as it had from the moment she’d met this irritatingly persistent, if somewhat charming, man.
“Good game,” he said heartily. “Must be hard to lose when you’re so obviously the better player.”
Satisfaction stabbed through her, but she repressed it ruthlessly by taking the opposite tack, a technique that often worked for her. “Don’t be absurd. Chuck’s the big dog around here. But I almost got him this time. Next time for sure.”
“Yeah, right. Want some real competition? I promise not to let you win.”
Morgan Holt smirked and folded his well-tanned arms, the hair on them glowing pale yellow, despite the chestnut brown waves that flowed back from a slightly peaked hairline, the temples streaked lightly with gray. She had noticed before, and couldn’t help thinking again, how those tiny streaks of gray brought out the pale blue of his eyes. There went those clanging bells again. She stepped to the side, ducking her head and saying, “I have to get home.”
“To whom?” he said cryptically. “Your cat?”
Anger surged through her. Blast him, why didn’t he take her hints and back off? Did he get some kind of charge out of dancing too close to the flame? Well, she could burn him if that’s what it would take. She mimicked his stance and his expression, folding her arms and flexing one knee, her smirk particularly acidic. “My cat’s far better company than anyone I know,” she said pointedly.
The wretch laughed. “But can it play a mean game of racquetball?”
Suddenly Denise was aching to slam that ball around the room or, preferably, right into his face. He was nothing and nobody to her. She wouldn’t have to hold back. She could give free rein to her competitiveness and just go for it. He was unlike Chuck Dayton in another way, though. Physically Chuck was maybe average in athletic conditioning and ability. Morgan was probably a decade younger in age and in far superior shape. Athletic ability seemed a given. Still, she had at least a few years on him, and, though at five foot five she was only of average height, she had a great deal more muscle mass, percentagewise, than most people. Plus, her reflexes were quick and sharp. She might not be able to beat him, but she could do to him what she’d done to Chuck. She could make him work for it far harder than he expected to.
“I just had a strenuous game,” she pointed out, hoping to create a little overconfidence in him.
He shrugged. “I just cut down that old tree behind your patio that you were so worried about, plus I corded and stacked the wood.”
Denise lifted a brow. She had to give him credit for being a good landlord. He maintained and serviced the small apartment building in which she lived with the same promptness and loving care that he lavished on his restored Victorian home, which was part of the same property. She had had reservations about living right behind her landlord, but Jasper, Arkansas, was a small town, and unless she wanted to make the daily thirty-plus-mile drive from and to Fayetteville, choices were limited. She’d figured that living within a few hundred yards of the office outweighed any negatives of having her landlord so close. As far as the apartment went, having Morgan Holt on the premises had proven far more convenient than she had anticipated. Personally, however, the arrangement was anything but comfortable. He’d made it plain almost from the beginning that he found her attractive, and she’d tried to make it equally as obvious that she wasn’t interested. So why was she standing here intending to accept his challenge? Because, she told herself, the opportunity for a little honest competition came all too rarely into her life. And because she had a good chance of waxing his butt, which just might have a dampening effect on his interest. She’d be nuts not to play him. Heavens, she might never again have such an opportunity!
“You’re on.”
He grinned, blue eyes sparkling. “Court three. Ten minutes.” Still grinning cheekily, he strolled away, worn court shoes dangling over one shoulder by the strings. He was showing an indecent amount of tanned skin with his faded black shorts and ragged gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut out and the sides slashed all the way to the band at the bottom. She shook her head, wondering if any other man of her acquaintance could look so good in such unfashionable garb. Most of the members here liked to keep up with the latest trends and styles, believing science ultimately drove the market in sports gear. A new thought struck. Members. Morgan Holt couldn’t be a member here. This was a company club reserved for employees and their immediate family members. She supposed that he could have a relative at Wholesale International, but he’d been specific about being single, so it couldn’t be a spouse. More likely he was someone’s guest, but whose?
Curious, she left her shoes on the end of a bench and walked briskly out to the sign-in desk. Someone had to have reserved court three. Glancing at the clock above it, she took the clipboard off the wall and flipped up the top sheet, trailing her gaze down the time column until she came to 6:15 p.m., then following it across to the proper court column. There, written in pencil, was her own name. She dropped her jaw. The goat had reserved the court in her name! How presumptuous! How audacious! How infuriatingly nervy! How opportunistic. She slammed the clipboard in its place and turned back the way she’d come, eyes narrowed with determination. Oh, man, she wasn’t just going to wax him, she was going to kill him, annihilate him, embarrass him. When she was through with him, he wouldn’t want to so much as show his cheeky face around here, let alone sneak in claiming her sponsorship! Oh, and she was going to enjoy it. She was going to enjoy it very much.
He knew three minutes after she entered the room that she was unbeatable. He recognized the determination, the utter ruthlessness beneath the fluidity of her stride and the implacable glitter of her exotically tilted, dark brown eyes. She’d come for his hide, and he rather expected that she’d get it. The thought made him grin, not that he would make it easy for her. Oh, no. Instinct told him that Denise Jenkins survived on challenge. She needed it on some emotional level that he hadn’t plumbed yet. Then again, she hadn’t given him much of a chance, nor was she likely to unless he could wiggle his way beneath that prickly exterior. A smitten man wasn’t much challenge, as it happened, so he had to find other ways to engage her interest He had the feeling he’d outdone himself this time. He could imagine the sore muscles that would greet him on the morrow. He bounced the ball against the floor and prepared himself for a grueling workout.
She didn’t disappoint. Not only was the pace manic, the game was almost brutally physical. She meant to win at any cost, and the collisions and jabs and tripping feet were just part of it. She drove him to the wall more times than he could count, and her racquet whiffed his ear close enough to burn. He left a yard of skin on the floor and ripped what was left of his shirt into pieces, so that he wound up tossing it into a pile in a corner and playing bare from the waist up. When the end came, it found him facedown on the floor spread-eagled in a vain attempt to save the point, while she jogged backward and prepared herself to bury the ball in the wall—or his back. He sighed with relief when she let it go, dropping her racquet and relaxing her stance. Recognizing the sounds of her approach, he forced himself to roll over, groaning with the effort. Just then breathing was about all he could manage. He tried to sit up, but lifting his head a few inches was about the limit of his body’s cooperation.
Denise Jenkins loomed over him from a height of maybe five and a half feet. Her hair had pulled free of her ponytail in dark, silky locks and hung limply around a face red with exertion, while her sleeveless tank top was plastered to her firm body with the same sweat that slid down her slender neck in droplets. Her fingers were locked around the handle of her racquet, the knuckles white as she gasped for air through an open mouth. He envied her the energy required to sink down onto her haunches and give him a smug smile. She was gorgeous.
“Don’t you...just hate...to be bested...by a woman?” she asked between puffs of breath.
He left his racquet on his chest and managed to stack his hands beneath his head. “Naw,” he said panting for air. “Not me.” He took another puff. “I love a woman who-” and another puff can hold her own.”
“Hold her own?” She finally released her grip on her racquet and used it for support as she pushed up to her full height. “I beat you...in case you weren’t counting.”
“I was counting,” he said, managing to push himself up onto his arms, the heels of his hands braced against the floor. “Next time I’ll be sure I’m fresh.”
“No next time,” she said flatly. “You had your shot. One’s all you get.”
Morgan came up to balance one forearm on a knee. “Afraid I’ll take you if we play again?”
She shook her head, catching the rubber band as her thick, shoulder-length hair slid free. “You aren’t listening. We won’t play again. And if I find out that you’ve used my name to get into the gym again, I’ll report you.”
He chuckled. “You do that. But it kind of begs the question, doesn’t it?”
“What question?”
“Was it skill and stamina or pure luck?”
She pointed a stern finger at him. “I beat you fair and square.”
“Agreed. But can you do it again?”
She went down on her haunches once more, her weight balanced easily on the balls of her feet this time. “You just don’t get it, do you? We’re not chums, you and I, bashing a ball around the court in a friendly game. We’re landlord and tenant and nothing more.”
“That’s easily corrected,” he said smoothly. “How about dinner?”
Her face went perfectly rigid before she pushed up to stand over him again. “No, thanks.”
“Aw, come on, Denise. What’s a guy got to do to get on with you?”
She gave him a bored look and turned away, saying, “I’m not in a dating mode, if you must know. My job takes up most of my time.”
“I used to be like that,” he said cryptically, leaning back and crossing one ankle over the other. That piqued her interest enough to make her glance over one shoulder.
“Oh, really? What happened? You miss the big promotion?”
He just grinned at that. “Why don’t you come to dinner and find out?”
She rolled her eyes and moved toward the door. “I have enough to do just keeping up with my own career, thank you. Oh, and by the way—” she turned back to smile at him “—your dog has a habit of leaving large, smelly gifts on my front walk. See to it that he stops, will you?” With that she opened the door and strode through it, leaving him weak and disappointed. Worse yet, he was discouraged. He was fresh out of ideas how to get next to Denise Jenkins—ideas and, it seemed, opportunity.
Denise closed the door to Chuck’s office and took a deep breath, carefully keeping her facial expression stern. It wouldn’t do to show the staff that old Chuck had managed to get to her. Again. Man, she’d like to push a fist into that smug, jowly face.
Looking hot today, honey. The coolest ones in the boardroom are the hottest in the bedroom. Soften the blow and flash him a little something when you do it.
She closed her eyes momentarily, dreading what she had to do. Trust Chuck to make her his hatchet man and to insult her in the process. For five cents she’d file a sexual harassment suit against him. But then she could kiss goodbye any chance of advancement, and she’d worked too hard to lose out now. Squaring her shoulders, she strode smoothly through the secretarial pool and into one of several nondescript corridors that opened into cubicle after cubicle, each as cell-like and cramped as the last. When she reached the one she sought, she rapped lightly on the empty door frame and waited for the young man inside to look up and smile at her.
“Ms. Jenkins!”
“Ken, I need a word with you please.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
Denise would not allow herself to smile, though the impulse to soften the blow, even to derail it, was strong. “Not here. Meet me in my office. Five minutes all right?”
She watched the implications sink in and tried not to think that Ken Walters was a young married man with a baby. According to Chuck, that was the problem. Ken wasn’t giving it his all. He’d let family concerns get in the way of business. Never mind that the baby had been born prematurely with a heart ailment and this after Ken and his wife had already lost one stillborn child. It was true that Ken hadn’t exactly set sales records, but surely that was understandable given the circumstances. Sales were all that counted in this business, but had it been her call to make, she’d have transferred Ken to a less stressful job until he felt able to give it his all again. Unfortunately, it wasn’t her call-just her task. She strode back to her office, viciously determined to do what she could for Walters.
He barely gave her time to get off the phone. She was just hanging up the receiver when he opened the door and walked in, not bothering to have himself announced by her secretary and, thereby, letting her know that he was well aware what was coming. She didn’t beat around the bush. He obviously didn’t want that.
“I’m sorry, Ken. I know it’s unfair, but I have to let you go.”
He paled and ducked his head, balled hands going into his trouser pockets. “Damn it!”
She hit the button on the intercom. “Betty, bring in that letter the moment it’s ready.” She turned back to Ken Walters. “Sit down. I’m having my secretary prepare a letter of recommendation, and I’ve taken the liberty of making an appointment for you with a business acquaintance in Rogers.” She smiled lamely. “Didn’t think you’d mind.” She pushed at him a piece of paper on which she’d written the details, trying to ignore the look of amazement on his face as he gingerly lowered himself into the indicated chair and pulled the paper toward him. It seemed to take forever for him to read the few words written there.
Denise cleared her throat and went on briskly. “I know insurance will be a problem because of your baby’s preexisting health problems, but I’ve taken that into account. I happen to know that both companies use the same insurer, and I’ll do what I can—quietly—to see that you’re fully covered.” For the first time, she let herself smile. “Just don’t blow the interview. I’ve opened the door but getting inside is still up to you. Understood?”
Ken Walters carefully folded the paper and slipped it into his coat pocket before looking up, eyes beaming gratitude. “It’s a shame,” he said quietly, “that no one around here knows what a nice person you are. You must have to work very hard at keeping it hidden.”
She gulped, surprised by the lump that rose in her throat, and said, “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention this to anyone.”
Nodding, he got to his feet. “Don’t worry. I won’t blow your cover.”
She smiled indulgently at that, fingers templed against her lips. “If you hurry, you’ll just have time to clear out your office and make it to the interview.”
He nodded. “I don’t know how to thank you. God knows I’d rather go home to my wife with the news that I’ve changed jobs unexpectedly instead of, �I’ve been canned!”’
Denise held up a cautioning hand. “It’s not a done deal. You could blow this if you go in there with the wrong attitude.”
He chuckled. “Not a chance. I’m a salesman, and my top product’s me. It’s been a rough few months, but I’m ready to be on top of the heap again. In fact, I haven’t been this raring to go since I got out of college. Maybe this chance is just what I need.” He patted his pocket before saying, “I’ll just pick up that letter on my way out.”
Denise got up and extended her hand. Ken took it in both of his, held it, and said meaningfully. “Thank you. I won’t forget this.” And then he walked out of her office, his step decidedly more spry than when he’d come in. As the door closed behind him, Denise felt an overwhelming sense of loss.
It didn’t make much sense. Ken Walters had never been a buddy. She was his superior. He had only this moment begun to think of her as even human, and that had been completely by her own design, so then why should she feel lonely now that he was gone? Nothing had really changed. Nothing would. She had her career, and that was all she needed. Wasn’t it?
Denise watched out her window as Morgan whizzed the Frisbee through the air, laughing as his big dog Reiver launched his ninety-pound body into flight and snatched it in his powerful jaws, white teeth flashing against his brown-and-black muzzle. The dog landed lightly on all fours and loped toward him, ears flopping. Morgan opened his arms and bent forward in offer of reward. Reiver leaped at him, knocking him flat on his back and depositing the disk on his chest before lapping his face with a long, pink tongue. Morgan howled, trying to fend off the dog and hug him at the same time, too weak with laughter to do anything but endure. Then he turned his head and saw her, and the laughter died. Denise felt a twinge of guilt for having ruined his mood. He pushed the dog off and sat up, staring at her window. She tried not to let on that she had been watching, sipping from a coffee cup and petting her cat with one hand. Obviously he couldn’t stand the sight of her now. He got up and went into the house.
Denise turned away from the window with a sigh. She should be glad. She hadn’t wanted his attentions or any man’s, so what was wrong with her? It wasn’t like her to feel so...bereft. Well, not in a long time, not since she’d so painstakingly rebuilt her life, not since... She got up from the armchair, unceremoniously dumping the cat from her lap, and wandered over to the bookshelf, torn between taking down the photograph album and passing it by. She took it down, set aside her cup and opened the cover.
Jeremy smiled up at her, a little blob of baby fat in a blue one-piece shorty, that little eyebrow quirked just so. She turned the page. Jeremy pushed his walker around the room clad only in his diaper, his little face utterly gleeful. She couldn’t bear any more. She closed the book and briefly hugged it to her before sliding it back into place on the shelf. She couldn’t bear to see again how he’d grown and changed and matured, how the baby fat had gradually become thin, hard little muscles, how his face beamed with secret knowledge and avid intelligence. She couldn’t bear, especially, that the pictures would stop there, frozen in time forever. At eight. There would never be a picture of Jeremy at ten or twelve or twenty-one. There would never be another picture of Jeremy ever. She closed her eyes against the searing pain, no longer expecting it to soften or lessen. The years had shown her that losing one’s child never got easier or better.
A knock at her door provided welcome distraction. She left her cup where it was, wrapped her sweater tightly about her and walked into the tiny foyer to answer it. Morgan Holt smiled down at her, a casserole balanced on one palm.
“Got a minute?”
A minute? she thought wryly, pathetically grateful that she had misjudged him. Old habits died hard, however, and she heard herself saying, “Just. I have some paperwork to go over tonight and—” The cat made a bid for the door, slinking between her ankles and elongating its stride. “Smithson, get back here!” She caught at the regal bluegray tail. Morgan quickly stepped inside and pulled the door closed.
The cat immediately twined itself around his ankles, meowing. “Russian blue?” Morgan asked, maneuvering the casserole in order to look down at the cat.
“Somewhere along the way, I imagine,” Denise said, leaning down and plucking up the cat. He was a big, arrogant male, completely unconcerned that he’d been declawed and fixed. At a sleek fourteen pounds, he considered himself emperor of the world even though he seldom left the apartment and only then in a locked carrier. He ducked his head and turned away as Denise attempted to stroke between his ears. To further indicate his disdain, he hooked his only remaining claws, those of his back paws, into her abdomen and pushed away, leaping to the floor and wrapping his long body around Morgan’s ankles in another examination of the door.
Morgan laughed. “What’d you say his name was?”
“Smithson.”
“Smithson?”
“Yeah, as in �son of Smith.”’
“Ah, so his father’s name was Smith.”
Denise lifted both brows in a gesture of surprise. “Very good. Most people don’t get it.”
“That you had a cat named Smith,” Morgan clarified, “and now have raised one of his kittens.”
“Exactly.”
He smiled. “There, see, we have more in common than racquetball and residence.”
“And that would be?”
“Obviously we’re both animal lovers.”
Denise made a doubtful face. “I imagine we’re about as compatible as cats and dogs.”
He laughed. “You never know.”
But she did. She felt certain that she did, and instinctively she began turning away.
“Uh, about this,” he said, holding aloft the steaming ceramic dish. “It’s an apology. I shouldn’t have used your name to get into the gym without your permission. I’m sorry. Sort of.”
She couldn’t help smiling. Sorry, sort of? What kind of apology was that? She said, “Funny, it doesn’t seem much like an apology. Actually, it looks and smells like a casserole.”
He laughed. “An apology casserole. I thought...I hoped... Well, let’s just say I’m reconciled to being friends. Casual friends.”
Denise was unprepared for the disappointment that arrowed through her, but she instantly dismissed it, seizing instead on the peace offering. Friends, even casual friends, was something of a compromise, but she wouldn’t let herself think of that, not tonight. She peered down into the casserole dish. “What is it?”
“Chicken,” he said, “all white meat, cheese, rice, broccoli and cauliflower. Very low fat.”
It smelled wonderful, but she lifted an eyebrow at the low-fat part. “Low-fat cheese?”
He sketched a cross over his heart. “And skim milk. Scout’s honor.”
She eyed him warily. He didn’t look much like he needed to worry about things like fat in his diet. She remembered the hard, well-defined muscles of his bare chest and thighs, and for some reason the memory made her uncomfortable. She motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen, saying, “Am I suppose to believe that you eat so sensibly all the time?”
He slid the casserole and the hot pad on which he carried it onto the countertop, slapping his flat middle. “Hey, keeping in shape at forty-five isn’t as easy as you might think. You’ll find out one of these days.”
Forty-five. She blurted, “You’re older than I thought.”
He grinned. “Thanks.”
She quickly washed her hands before pulling a plate out of the cupboard, then she reached up and pulled out another. What the heck. Even casual friendship required some reciprocation. She took out glasses, flatware, and napkins and set the table in silence. When she looked up, he said, “Am I being invited to dinner?”
“Friends do that, don’t they? On occasion.”
He chuckled. “On occasion. But what about the paperwork?”
She halted, ashamed suddenly of the lie, and stammered, “Uh, i-it c-can wait.”
He shrugged and clapped his hands together, rubbing them briskly. “Okay, so, got any bread? A little salad maybe?”
She pointed to a cabinet door, then opened the refrigerator and looked inside. “I’ve got some greens, but there doesn’t seem to be any dressing.”
He took a bottle of red wine from the cabinet along with the bread, hefted it in one hand lightly and said, “I think I can take care of that. May I?” He indicated her pantry with a jerk of his head.
She took out the salad and set it on the counter, saying, “Knock yourself out.”
He went to work, and it became quickly obvious that he knew very well what he was doing and enjoyed it. To her, cooking was a chore that she often chose not to perform. Morgan not only enjoyed it but reveled in it, and the results reflected that. Sitting at the table with seasoned toast, salad dressed with red wine and spices, and a cheesy chicken casserole, Denise found herself smiling for the first time in days. Her smile turned into a hum of pleasure as she forked casserole into her mouth.
Morgan smiled knowingly and said, “Good isn’t it? Want the recipe?”
She shook her head then said, “Yes, it’s good. No, I don’t want the recipe.”
“Don’t like to cook, huh?”
She shrugged. “Don’t have the time.”
He ate thoughtfully for a few seconds, then laid aside his fork and said, “I know what you mean. I always enjoyed cooking, but then I got so caught up in that whole corporate career thing that cooking-and just about everything else I enjoyed—fell by the wayside.”
“Well, but if you enjoyed your career—”
“I didn’t. Oh, it had its moments. I got addicted in a way to the thrill of the deal, you know, the one-upmanship, the winning. Then one day it occurred to me that if I, quote, won, unquote, someone else had to lose, and in so many cases it just wasn’t necessary. I started wondering why it couldn’t be a win-win situation at least some of the time, and I was told in no uncertain terms that I had lost my edge, that business always was and always would be about, and again I quote, going in for the kill.”
He went back to eating, but she couldn’t help feeling that he’d left the story unfinished. “So what happened?” she prodded, irritated when he took his time chewing and swallowing.
“What happened was, my wife insisted I go in for counseling. She couldn’t understand why I was unhappy, and she was convinced that the problem was all in my head.”
“And?”
“And the counselor possessed a very open mind. It only took a few sessions for both of us to understand that I’d been trying for years to fit a mold fashioned for me by someone else.”
Denise couldn’t help a spurt of resentment. She flattened her lips. “So it was all the wife’s fault, I suppose?”
He shook his head. “No, it was all my fault. I should have stood on my own values and principles from the beginning, but I wanted to make her happy. I didn’t see that mutual love, real love, accepts. Eventually we both realized that we didn’t really love each other. I was dazzled by her sophistication in the beginning, and what attracted her to me was my willingness to let her mold me into what she thought she ought to have in a husband. When I was no longer dazzled and no longer willing...”
Denise finished for him, “The marriage fell apart.”
He nodded, leaned both elbows on the table and linked his hands over his plate. “What about you?”
Denise immediately felt the old wariness rise. “Me?”
“Umm-hmm, you ever been married?”
She briefly considered several replies, from an outright lie to flatly telling him it was none of his business, but then, she’d just elicited his story from him, so that hardly seemed fair. She kept her eyes on her plate and her fork busy as she said, “I was married.”
“Divorced?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“I guess you don’t want to tell me why,” he said after a moment, and she knew that the disappointment in his tone had less to do with curiosity than the fact that their so-called friendship was not turning out to be exactly reciprocal.
She took a deep breath. “I got pregnant.”
It took several moments for that to sink in. Once it did, he dropped his hands to his lap and said, “I thought getting pregnant was a reason to get married, not divorced.”
The old bitterness filled her and she vented it with sarcasm. “That’s usually how it works, yeah, but not with my ex.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand that,” Morgan said softly.
She gave up the pretense of eating and sat back in her chair, lifting her gaze to his. “We got married right out of college, top of our class, roaring to go. We were going to set the business world on its ear. No mention was ever made of children. I suppose I thought we’d conquer the business world and then move on to parenthood. Then I got a terrible sinus infection, and the doctor failed to tell me that the antibiotic I was on could affect the birth control pills I was taking. At first I just couldn’t believe I’d gotten pregnant. Then when the shock wore off I couldn’t help thinking like a mother, you know?”
“I know. I have a son of my own.”
She managed to smile at that. “I’m glad. I wish... Well, not anymore, but at the time I thought that if only Derek would be glad, everything would be wonderful.”
“But Derek wasn’t glad,” Morgan stated gently.
She marshaled the words in her head, still not quite able to reconcile them. “Derek gave me the option of abortion or divorce.”
“And you chose divorce.”
“I chose to have my baby, even if it meant having him alone.”
“Him? You have a son, too?”
She forced her tongue to form the single word. “Had.”
A heartbeat later, Morgan Holt did what no one else had ever done. He got up from his seat and walked around the table, where he knelt beside her, took her hands in his and gently said, “I’m so sorry. Would you like to tell me about him?”
Chapter Two
Denise took up the pen and began writing her name on the appropriate line, and right in the middle of Jenkins, she completely forgot what she was doing. Her mind flashed on that moment when he had knelt by her chair and taken her hands in his. Her memory played for her a vision of blue, blue eyes so misty with understanding, so warm, that looking into them had seemed to melt something hard and icy deep within her. She couldn’t quite believe that, with tears rolling down her face, she had begun telling Morgan about the hit-and-run, even how she had resented that the other boys, three in all, had managed to escape with various degrees of injury, while her own son had died instantly. She had never told another soul that, and over the years she had felt genuine shame for her private reaction to the survival of those other boys. Now she was left wondering if anyone other than Morgan Holt would have accepted that confession with the same equanimity and nonjudgmental compassion as he had shown her that night, and the idea that he might be unique in even that one way somehow terrified her so badly that her hands shook.
“Ms. Jenkins?”
Her secretary’s concerned voice jerked her back to the present. Denise started and dropped the pen.
“Are you all right?”
Embarrassment started a burning sensation at the base of her throat, but Denise ignored the color threatening to climb to her face and picked up the pen again, murmuring, “Just a cramp in my hand.” She quickly finished her signature and pushed away the papers. “Anything else, Betty?”
“Just your meeting with Mr. Dayton.”
Denise glanced at her wristwatch and got up from her desk, briskly but not quite successfully suppressing her dread. “I expect the meeting will flow over into lunch,” she said absently, “so you might as well go ahead and take your break now. I know you must want to check on your granddaughter.”
Betty had been gathering up the papers strewn over the top of Denise’s desk. It was the sudden cessation of her quick, efficient movements that alerted Denise. She looked up, catching Betty’s expression of surprise just before the older woman masked it. Irritation made Denise snap, “Well, she is having her tonsils out, isn’t she?”
“Yes, ma’am. I just... That is, thank you. Thank you very much.”
Denise waved her away with a frown, uncertain what irritated her most, that her secretary had thought she ignored the talk going around the office or her surprise at what was ultimately a meaningless bit of compassion. It cost Denise nothing, after all, if her secretary left the office a few minutes early when the woman was both efficient to the point of amazement and, at present, unneeded. Yet, Denise was embarrassingly aware herself that it was unlike her to make unnecessary comments. Normally she would have stopped with merely telling Betty to take an early lunch, making no comment about her young granddaughter’s minor surgery. She couldn’t think what had changed inside her that would allow, even compel, her to comment about something as private as her secretary’s granddaughter. Knowing that Betty’s thoughts must be somewhere along the same line as hers, she swept out of the office without so much as a glance over her shoulder.
By the time she reached Chuck’s impressively swank office suite her dread had coalesced into potent distaste, and again she had no adequate explanation for her own reactions. She had never liked Chuck, but personal pref erence had never played a part in her career. She had always been able to keep personality out of professional dealings. What difference did it make if the boss or even a subordinate was a jerk and a bore? Or even if he was a prince and a sweetheart? All that mattered professionally, the bottom line, was performance. Period. So why suddenly should her skin crawl at the idea of walking into a room with Chuck Dayton?
She knew that Chuck was about due for a hit on her. She’d recognized the signs that announced he was working up to it. His wouldn’t be the first pass she’d had to field, nor would it be the last. Denise considered such unpleasantness merely part of the job. It came with the territory, so to speak, with being a woman in a man’s world. It was just one more thing that she would not let get in her way. Reminding herself of that seemed to help, so mentally she squared her shoulders, nodded at Chuck’s young, nubile secretary, and marched into the lion’s den.
The “lion” looked up and boomed a hearty welcome. “Hey, Dennis, come on in!”
She reminded herself that he called her Dennis because she dared to compete with the men on their own level, and it wasn’t just the racquetball.
Resisting the urge to lift a hand to smooth the sleek roll of dark hair twisted against the back of her head, she instead kept her hands free and her movements fluid as she approached the desk. No chair had ever been drawn up in front of that desk. In Chuck’s mind, no subordinate rated a chair at his desk, while superiors rated five-star treatment in the comfortable seating area arranged artfully before the picture window with its lovely view of the Ozarks. Chuck and only Chuck sat at that desk. Denise came to a halt in front of it and folded her arms.
“You wanted to see me?”
He shot her a knowing smirk and turned his attention back to the papers in front of him, just showing her who was boss. When he’d felt that he’d kept her waiting long enough, he looked up and smiled.
“Looking good today.”
She let the compliment pass without comment. He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying his comfort at her expense.
“You know, you really have to loosen up. That ice queen stuffs good for the grunts. Keeps them in their place. But the higher-ups are used to living in the sun. We like a little warmth every now and again, even some real heat once in a while. I’m sure you catch my drift.”
She ignored his “drift” and went straight to business. “What was it you wanted to see me about?”
Chuck frowned, then sat forward again and briskly began giving her the details. “It’s about the new retailer coming on-line. I’ve invited the rep to dinner on Friday night at the Ozark Springs Inn. Have you been there yet?”
“Ozark Springs Inn? No, I haven’t.”
“Well, here’s your chance to enjoy the amenities at company’s expense. I think we can swing an overnight stay—for both of us.”
Denise’s stomach turned sour. “Your wife ought to enjoy that,” she said as offhandedly as she could manage.
“My wife is used to my, uh, work keeping me out overnight.” Chuck smiled and waggled his eyebrows.
It was all Denise could do to keep from gagging. Instead, she made herself smile and pass a limp hand over her forehead. “Gee, I wish you’d given me a bit more notice,” she said, thinking furiously. “Friday is...day after tomorrow, and I’ve, ah, already made plans.”
The smile turned upside down. “What kind of plans?” “Well, p-personal plans.”
He screwed up his face. “A date? You’re telling me you have a boyfriend?”
He made it sound like a disease, and suddenly she knew why. A boyfriend would mess up all the plans he’d been neatly laying, plans designed to get her off by herself, plans to seduce her. No, Chuck wouldn’t go to all the trouble of being sure that she was willing. More likely, what he had in mind was something along the lines of compromise, if not outright demands- Yes, a boyfriend was definitely in order. She folded her arms again.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I do have a boyfriend.”
Chuck knocked his index finger against the edge of his desk. “Well, work will just have to take precedence. If he doesn’t know that already, he’ll just have to learn.”
“Agreed.”
“Then you’ll cancel your plans.”
“Ah, no.”
“Jenkins,” he said sternly, “this is your job. I want you at that dinner Friday night!”
She grabbed at the proverbial straw. “Dinner! Well, dinner, yes, I can probably swing that. I’ll just, uh...”
Chuck’s eyes narrowed, lending him the air of a truculent pig, but Denise was well aware that it would be unwise to underestimate him. “Bring him along?” he suggested smoothly, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up.
She had not the faintest idea what he was planning, but no doubt he had something up his sleeve. The Chuck she knew didn’t take kindly to being thwarted in anything. She gulped, trying to cudgel her reluctant brain into giving her a solution, while Chuck warmed to his own scheme.
“By all means, bring him along! It’ll be a pleasure to meet him. I insist. Really.”
She felt like a rat trapped on a sinking ship, but if she had to choose, she’d just as soon go down with the ship as have to put herself into Chuck’s hands in order to escape it. Coolly, she inclined her head in acceptance of his “invitation.” It was only after she’d left his office some minutes later that-she realized her little plan had one glaring flaw.
She didn’t have a date on Friday, let alone a boyfriend.
It was, of course, the obvious solution, not so much because they were friends but because, more pointedly, he was the only single man she knew in the whole area! Moreover, something told her that he would not let her down. She could count on Morgan Holt to come to the rescue, but could she count on him not to take advantage or misconstrue? That was another question entirely. Yet she effectively had no choice. She needed a date for Friday night, a pretend boyfriend, and Morgan Holt was the only candidate. Quaking inwardly, she cleared her throat, inhaled deeply through her nose and shook her limbs, much as if she were preparing for a big match or an especially unnerving sales presentation. The small ritual behind her, she lifted her hand and knocked on the door.
A male voice called faintly from a distance through the door that he was coming. Denise folded her arms and stepped back, looking around the wide porch with its gingerbread trimming and fresh white paint contrasting with the pale sky blue of the house itself. It was really a lovely old home, not at all what she’d have picked out for herself but very much Morgan Holt. Somehow she sensed the love and pride that had gone into every brush stroke and swing of the hammer. He must have worked for years to refurbish the place. The elegant mahogany door with its large oval of beveled glass swung inward, and Denise jerked around, pasting a smile on her face.
“Hey! Good to see you. Come on in!” Morgan backed away from the door and allowed her to step past. “Man, it’s beautiful out there, isn’t it?” He inhaled deeply as he pushed the door closed. “I love this time of year. The leaves will start turning soon. Meanwhile the days are perfect and the nights are cool enough for a fire. What more could you want?”
“Nothing!” She tossed up her hands in a frivolous gesture so unlike her that she immediately regretted it. Morgan composed his squarely chiseled face and lifted a hand to indicate the first room immediately off the hall.
“Let’s sit down, and you can tell me what’s wrong.”
Denise closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again and nodded at the same time as she looked around her. The hall was all polished wood and brass and sweeping stairs with marble treads and banisters. A large mirror, framed in heavy, ornately carved wood, hung on one wall, an old-fashioned hall tree stood opposite it. Between them a small, graceful chandelier hung from the ceiling, its brass inlaid with delicate cameos.
She followed Morgan into the living room. He put her on the couch and sat down opposite her on a wing chair, pulling it close and leaning forward with forearms braced against his knees. She crossed her ankles demurely and folded her hands in her lap, her heart beating a heavy rhythm.
“Okay,” he said, “now what’s wrong?”
She put on a smile, her voice falsely bright. “Nothing’s wrong. I just thought you might like to join me and some, uh, other people for dinner...Friday night.”
“Friday night,” he echoed thoughtfully.
“At the Ozark Springs Inn,” she added hurriedly. “I know it’s late notice, but I promised I’d bring an, er, a friend. Honestly, Morgan, I’d be so appreciative if you could manage—”
“Okay,” he said. “Now what’s the rest of it?”
She was still hung on the okay. Breathless with relief, she sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate—”
“Just tell me what’s going on.”
She sat upright again, suddenly believing that it was going to be all right, after all. “Actually,” she said, almost laughing in her relief, “I don’t need a date so much as I need a boyfriend. Oh, not that I want one, you understand! It’s just that, well, my boss is a throwback to a less enlightened age, to put it politely. In fact, if I was willing to give up my career, I could nail him on sexual harassment charges. But I figure the best justice would be to get promoted despite him, maybe over him, and then don’t think I wouldn’t can his—Well, you get my meaning, I’m sure.”
She chuckled, expecting him to join her. He didn’t. Instead he said, “I take it your boss will be joining us for dinner.”
“Yes, and thank God that’s all! He had the brass to try to pull off an overnight stay at the inn, which is why I told him that I already had plans.”
“Uh-huh, and whose idea was the boyfriend?”
“His, actually. He just sort of jumped to that conclusion, and I let him think I had one in hopes it would make him think twice about planning any more overnight jaunts. Then he insisted that I bring you along for dinner. I mean, the boyfriend, not you necessarily. It’s just that I don’t know anyone else around here that I could ask to pretend with me. You do understand?”
He smiled then, but rather perfunctorily. “Sure. No problem.”
She sighed, a hand pressed to her chest. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Hey, it’s no biggie. I like the Ozark Springs Inn.”
“Oh, good. I’ve never been myself, but now I can look forward to it. Oh, I should tell you that it’s primarily a business dinner. We’ve brought on a new retailer, and the company rep will be there with us.”
Morgan nodded thoughtfully. “That’s fine. Is it just the four of us then?”
She pulled a face. “Chuck apparently doesn’t bring his wife along to these things. Uh, Chuck, that’s my boss.”
Morgan nodded again. “Makes sense. No doubt having the little wife along would cramp his style.”
“No doubt,” Denise agreed drily. “One more thing. I think Chuck’s planning something. When he insisted I bring along this fictitious boyfriend, he had a certain gleam in his eye, like he’s got an ace up his sleeve. Don’t be surprised if he does or says something outrageous.”
“Something that would make a real boyfriend walk out maybe?” Morgan asked thoughtfully.
Denise nodded with satisfaction. “That would be my best guess.”
Morgan shrugged. “No problem.”
“You’re sure?”
“I understand sharks like Chuck. Trust me.”
Oddly, she did. “I can’t thank you enough for this. I’ll be eternally grateful.”
“Hey, what are friends for?” Straightening, he rubbed his hands together in that exuberant way of his. “Now, can I get you a drink?”
“Oh, no, thank you. I don’t drink much beyond a glass of wine with my dinner. It just seems to go straight to my head.”
“Ah, you’re wise to avoid it then.”
“Yes, well, I’d better go,” she said, growing uncomfortable again. “Smithson will be wanting his dinner.”
“Speaking of dinner,” he said, coming to his feet at the same instant she did, “what time Friday should I be ready?”
“I don’t really know. The reservations are for seventhirty, but as I’ve never been to the inn, I can’t say how long it will take us to get there.”
“It’s quite a drive,” he said, “about forty minutes. How about if I pick you up around a quarter to seven?”
“Oh, you don’t have to pick me up.”
“Nonsense. I’m your date, remember. How would it look if your boyfriend just met you there?”
“Yes, I guess that wouldn’t make quite the right impression. We can take my car, if you like.”
“Nah, I’ll just back the old Mercedes out of the garage. It doesn’t get much use anymore. The drive will do it good.”
“All right, if you’re sure.”
“My pleasure.”
She turned and walked into the entry hall, saying, “You’ve been out to the Inn. What should I wear? Would a cocktail dress be too much?”
“No, I don’t think so. I assume half the purpose of this dinner is to impress the new client, so to speak.”
“Right. Well, then, I’ll see you Friday.”
“Friday,” he said, opening the door for her.
She strolled out onto the porch. Dusk was already deepening into night. The smell of wood smoke permeated the chill. “Your home is lovely,” she told him in parting.
“Thanks.” He leaned a shoulder against the door frame and slid his hands into his pockets watching her as she descended the stairs to the walkway.
She sent him a last smile and hurried toward her apartment, wondering why her heart was again beating with such quick intensity. But this was not dread. This was... Dare she call it anticipation? And why not? Something told her that she’d just checkmated old Chuck, and come Friday, he’d know it. She was humming when she let herself into the apartment. She hummed all the way to Friday.
She opened the door to a kind of casual elegance she’d seldom seen in a man, and for a moment it held her spellbound. Perhaps it was the simplicity of a pale gray crewneck sweater worn beneath a gray silk jacket above classic black, pleated trousers. Or perhaps what held her spellbound was the way the grays shamelessly brought out the silver at his temples and the electric blue of his eyes; or maybe it was the slightly tousled look of his hair, worn short and sleek and sharply tailored, except in the very front, where it parted uncertainly in the middle and fell in two curving locks to his eyebrows. He looked relaxed and, at the same time, groomed within an inch of his life and utterly, totally male.
She didn’t know how long she might have stood there and stared if he hadn’t done a slow once-over, taken a step back and exclaimed, “Wow!”
She felt her own perusal turned back at her and literally blushed. She really didn’t want him to know how much time she had spent getting ready for this make-believe event, and yet she was glad that she hadn’t played down her appearance. The little red crepe slip dress with its gently flared skirt that swirled softly several inches above her knees was simple but classic. With spaghetti straps, it was a little light for a cool autumn evening, but she had augmented it with a long, clingy wrap of red organza, which at the moment was draped loosely about her shoulders and arms, hanging down almost to the tops of her red velvet heels and calling attention, she hoped, to slender ankles encased in the sheerest of black stockings. She hadn’t known quite what to do with her hair, whether to wear it down or rolled into a classic French twist. In the end, she’d settled for something in between, a loose chignon pinned at the crown of her head with lots of long tendrils floating down around her face and shoulders. Her only jewelry consisted of pearl drops at her earlobes, a teensy gold chain about her throat and a pearl and rhinestone brooch that she wore pinned in her hair.
Apparently she had done well. Perhaps she had even overdone it. Morgan certainly seemed to find her appearance more than merely acceptable, and, for some reason, that sent a thrill down the back of her neck all the way to her toes. At least she hadn’t outdone him, and to let him know that she fully appreciated that fact, she said to him, “You look wonderful!” at the same exact moment that he said it to her. Then they both laughed and said, “Thank you.”
More laughter followed, and then he said, “Frankly, I was afraid you’d look all buttoned down the way you do when you leave for work in the mornings, not that you don’t look good then, too, but, well, it wouldn’t aid the illusion, so to speak.”
“The illusion?”
“Of a woman in love,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You have a boyfriend, remember, not just a racquetball buddy—speaking of which, I think I deserve a rematch. I gave you a dam good game, if you’ll recall.” She smiled, glad to have a “friendly” topic to discuss. “So you did. Give me another one tonight, and you’re on.”
“It’s a done deal,” he assured her as she gathered up her tiny, red velvet handbag. Stepping aside, he allowed her to move past him and out into the cool night. While she adjusted her wrap, covering her head and looping the ends just so about her shoulders, he locked the door and pushed it closed. Smithson jumped up into the window as they walked past, yowling as if he thought it was expected of him, then settling down to groom himself with leisurely strokes of his tongue. Likewise, Reiver woofed from his station on the porch.
“That’s his protective post,” Morgan informed her. “He always stations himself there when I’m gone.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Denise told him, and then wondered if she should have, but he seemed to find nothing remarkable about her taking note of his comings and goings. He talked on about the dog.
“It’s part of his nature,” Morgan said. “He’ll stay right there until I get home and let him into the house for the night.”
“He sleeps in your house?”
“Right in front of my son’s bedroom door. It’s as if he knows instinctively what means most to me and seeks to protect that.”
“I’ve never seen your son. Does he get to visit often.”
“Radley’s up here all the time. You just probably didn’t realize who he was.”
“He lives close then?”
“He’s a sophomore at the University of Arkansas in Fayetteville. Still.”
“Still?”
Morgan chuckled. “Rad’s not real serious about his course work. He’s twenty already, and his mother thinks he’s studying to be a burn just because he doesn’t know yet what he wants to do. Hell, I didn’t know what I wanted to do until I was thirty-eight.”
They had reached the polished black automobile sitting in front of the old carriage house at the edge of the property. “And just what is it exactly that you are doing?” she asked as he opened the passenger door for her.
He laughed again, easily, lightly. “Whatever I damned well please. Currently that means remodeling an old house up on Hanson Creek for resale.”
“Ah.”
He handed her into the car, then bent over her, hands braced on the door frame and the door itself. “It doesn’t compute for you, does it? I’ll bet you made a five-year plan and stuck to it every step of the way.”
She didn’t quite know what to say to that, for he was right, of course. Finally she asked, “Is that bad?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Unless you think it’s the only way to live and expect everyone else to think so, too.”
She digested that while he came around and got in behind the steering wheel. Okay, maybe she had been pretty sure that it was the only way she could get what she wanted, and it had worked, so far as it went. So maybe she didn’t quite understand why everyone else didn’t do it, and maybe she had assumed that everyone just naturally wanted what she did. Was something wrong with that? Had she closed her mind to everything else? Her sister surely thought so. And perhaps her parents, now that she thought about it. But she was well into the second five-year plan, and everything was going along according to schedule, so why should she abandon her goals now? Of course she shouldn’t.
On the other hand, when was the last time she’d really enjoyed herself? When had she last been happy? The answer to that lay buried back home in Kansas City, which meant, she reminded herself, that real happiness was forever out of her reach. What, after all, did she have left but her career? The answer was obvious, and yet it did not seem to have quite the bleakness about it that it usually did.
She didn’t know whether to be alarmed or encouraged by that. She could never, would never, forget her son or the loss of him. So how could the knowledge that he was gone be any less shocking or sharp today than it had been yesterday? With that worrisome enigma on her mind, she almost missed the sight of Fayetteville spread like a swatch of stars in the Ozark foothills, down one eastern slope and into the flat valley below then north in a milky flow to Springdale and Rogers and the cuts and gullies beyond. Thankfully, Morgan didn’t let her miss it.
“This is one of my favorite sights,” he said, jolting her from her reverie. “When I was a kid, I used to lie on my belly and look out the window of my attic room at the valley below and imagine what everyone in town was up to. It seemed another world even though we bused down every day to school.”
“We?”
“My sister and I.”
“I have a sister.”
“Older or younger?”
“Younger.”
“Me, too.”
Something else they had in common. “I have a brother, too,” she said, and felt a spurt of relief when he shook his head.
“I always wanted one, though.”
Denise sighed as they turned back into the foothills and left Fayetteville behind. “So you lived up here, hmm?”
He nodded. “My dad’s still up there. Delia—that’s my sister—thinks he ought to move down to Little Rock with her, but he says he’ll never leave my mom. She’s buried up there near the house.”
“Is it safe for him, so far from everything?”
He shrugged. “He says it is. Personally, I lived without indoor plumbing and electricity until I walked out of high school and into the University of Arkansas, and I didn’t find anything particularly ennobling about it. But Dad says that life is best at its simplest, and frankly I see no reason for him to change his life now just because he’s into his mid-seventies. He wouldn’t be happy anywhere else.”
“You must worry about him, though.”
He inclined his head at that, saying, “I don’t worry about much, frankly. If I see a problem and I can fix it, I do, but worrying never solved anything so far as I can tell. Actually, as far as Dad goes, I admire him, and I always did, even when I was lost and so miserably unhappy I didn’t know which way to turn.”
“And when was that?” she heard herself asking.
He considered a moment. “Oh, about ten years ago. That was the worst of it, anyway, though it had been building for a long, long time.”
“And now?”
“Now I love my life,” he said, grinning broadly. “I have everything I’ve ever wanted except...”
“Except,” she prodded, and he turned his head to settle a look on her that was clearly meant to remind her that she had asked.
“Except someone to share it with,” he said softly, and the yearning in his eyes made her turn away. She felt a bit sorry that she had asked, a little panicked, even, because something seemed to flutter in her chest when he looked at her like that, something she was too mature and too battered to feel, something that didn’t belong in her second five-year plan, something that made her wonder if she had left out an important element. She pushed away the thought, fixing her mind on business, and she remembered what she had meant to tell him about Chuck, the warnings she ought to issue, the instructions she felt he needed to make this little charade work.
She spent the remainder of the drive doing just that, briefing him much as she would have a team going out on a major sales push. If he looked at her occasionally as if she secretly amused him, she let it pass without comment. After all, he was a friend doing her a favor, and a huge favor at that, not a subordinate questioning her judgment or instructions. He seemed to understand all that she had to tell him, commenting once that he knew Chuck’s type all too well and another time that she shouldn’t worry about the primary reason for the meeting-that being business-falling victim to the secondary reason, which he referred to as “nipping Chuck’s extracurricular proclivities in the bud.”
“I’ll leave the former to you,” he said. “Just you leave the latter to me.”
She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that, but he reminded her of what she wanted to forget, specifically, that they were supposed to be in love or very close to it. He was right, of course. A casual date would do nothing to short-circuit Chuck’s disgustingly sexual approach to her. A lover would—hopefully. The possibility existed that this would all be for nought. Chuck could be vicious enough to demand sexual concessions no matter what her personal situation, but her read on the situation was that he considered her fair game because she was unattached, so the obvious solution was to attach herself quickly to someone. And who else was there besides Morgan Holt? She was new to town, after all, and he had expressed an interest, but that was before he’d understood that she had no interest in anything more than friendship. Now that they understood each other, he’d proven a true friend, and that alone made him the appropriate candidate for this kind of date, not that this was a real date or anything. Certainly not. But it did feel oddly datelike even... She sat up a little straighter. Romantic? No, of course not! What could be romantic about pretending, about campaigning toward a goal? This was just another end run around the next fellow in her way. This was business. So what if the man with whom she’d chosen to align herself looked good enough to eat? So what if in an unguarded moment he made her heart beat a little faster? So what if the night was dark and soft and she felt cocooned in luxury and utterly feminine for the first time in so long that she couldn’t remember ever feeling so, and the smile on his face and the appreciation in his eyes somehow caused a secret little thrill deep within her? So what?
So she was in trouble. That was what.
And, by golly, someone was going to pay. She narrowed her eyes, smiling when she imagined good old Chuck comparing himself to Morgan Holt and falling far, far short. Oh, yes, he was going to pay.
Chapter Three
Morgan pulled the Mercedes beneath the covered drive of the sprawling, rustic inn and rolled down the window. A white-jacketed valet wearing a small headphone bent forward and looked into the car. Morgan smiled. The Mercedes was eight years old, but the odometer had less than forty thousand miles on it, and the condition of the car was absolutely pristine. Morgan felt not the least desire to “trade up” to a newer model and wasn’t sure that he ever would. The young valet returned his smile and swiveled down the tiny microphone suspended in front of his mouth.
“Do you have a reservation, sir?”
“We’re meeting another party,” Morgan said, deferring to Denise.
She leaned forward and looked at the valet. “A Mr. Charles Dayton.”
The valet maneuvered the microphone back into position and spoke softly into it. “Mr. Charles Dayton.” He pressed a fingertip to the speaker nestled inside his ear and his smiled broadened and warmed. He nodded to Morgan and Denise. “Mr. Dayton has arrived. Your names please.” They told him, and he relayed the message to whoever was on the other end of that microphone, then signaled to another valet, who quickly stepped up and opened the door for Denise, while the fellow with the mike did the same for Morgan.
Morgan strode around the car and caught up to Denise, who had already started up the steps. He slid his hand against the small of her back, pleased with the light, taut feel of her body, and leaned close to whisper into her ear. “Slow down. This is one battle that must be fought leisurely.”
She slowed her stride, bowed her head slightly and nodded, slanting him a sly, grateful look that made his breath catch. If only she knew how loverlike he felt and how delighted he was that she’d given him this opening. Oh, his offer of friendship had been genuine enough, but only because he hadn’t seen what else he could do. Even at that, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d closed the door on him and his casserole. Instead, she’d let him inside and all but handed him the key to unlocking her so tightly buttoned-up self. He knew now that she had suffered great loss and hurt and because of it had closed off her emotional self, focusing all her energies on her career. Morgan knew from experience that a career could make a very poor partner with which to share a life, and he, for one, was more than ready to share his life with someone special. It was time for him. The question was, was it time for Denise? He knew that he was not going to look elsewhere until he found out. She drew him, this sleek, contained woman, and had done so since he’d first laid eyes on her.
The thickly timbered door of the lobby opened of its own volition as they approached, and another white-jacketed servant bowed them through, pointing as he did so toward a broad hallway on the right. Denise looked around her as they walked side by side through the expansive lobby with its warm aura of rusticity, taking in the massive beams, unglazed brick floors, and gargantuan, freestanding fireplace built of native rock and currently roaring with a small bonfire. The inn was famous for its homey luxury, mud baths and excellent food. It was perhaps infamous for its almost fanatically insured privacy, making it a favorite trysting place for well-heeled cheaters and the very, very discreet. Chuck had chosen his spot well. Fortunately Denise was too smart—and too upright—to be so easily caught in his web. Morgan knew that he was going to enjoy putting old Chuckles in his place, just as he enjoyed the knowledge that Denise was not nearly cynical enough or lost enough to sleep her way to the top. This was a woman of real substance.
Not for the first time, Morgan wondered what kind of idiot would toss such a woman aside, as her ex obviously had done-her and their child. The thought boggled the mind. How had a woman like Denise, who was obviously extremely sensitive, even gotten involved with a man like that? But then who was he to ask such a question? He, too, had loved the wrong person. He, too, had paid a heavy price. Ah, but life was good now. Still, it could be better. He thought of the nights he went to bed alone and of the mornings when only the company of his dog kept every day from beginning in a gray funk. His hand warmed against her back as he pictured Denise in his bed, tousled and soft, a smile spreading across her luscious mouth as she opened her eyes to find him there. Oh, yes, he was going to enjoy playing his part tonight—and hope that it inspired her to allow him to turn pretense into reality.
They strolled past various small, trendy shops and arrived at the entrance to the restaurant. They were greeted at once and led out into the maze of snowy white tablecloths and deep, comfortable chairs. Halfway across the room, Morgan slid his hand up to Denise’s shoulder, feeling the satiny warmth of her bare skin beneath the filmy fabric of her wrap. “Denise.”
She did just what he wanted her to do. She checked her graceful stride and craned her head back over her shoulder to look at him. He bent his head to hers and gave her a quick wink, whispering, “I just wanted to tell you again how very beautiful you are. Now smile. Just as though I really were your boyfriend.”
She did so, blindingly, and it took no effort at all to put the appropriate amount of heat in his gaze as he smiled back. He settled his arm about her waist and urged her forward again. She was practically glued to his side when they reached Dayton’s table. Both men immediately came to their feet. He knew which one was Chuck Dayton instantly. His smugness and not-quite-hidden irritation would have tipped Morgan off at any rate, but the covetous manner in which his gaze raked over Denise cinched it Gerald Baker, in comparison, was a forthright, plainspoken gentleman.
“What a lovely young woman,” he said baldly, “and bright as sunlight, too, I’m told. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Jenkins.”
“Why, thank you,” Denise replied smoothly, then insisted that he call her by her given name as she lowered herself regally into the chair that Morgan held for her. She smiled up at him as she settled into place, and he let his gaze target her mouth, communicating his very real desire to kiss her, as much for her benefit as for Dayton’s.
With the introductions made and the ice thoroughly broken, Morgan took his place at her side and immediately possessed himself of her hand, holding it lightly against his thigh. The small gesture did not escape Chuck Dayton, who had placed himself on Denise’s other side at the small round table. Talk was trivial and sporadic as drink orders were taken and menus were presented. Then, as they waited for the appetizer to arrive, Chuck knocked back two bourbons and firmly steered the conversation to business matters.
Baker’s company wanted to upgrade their merchandise as well as their image. He wanted recommendations concerning what brands should be dropped and which should be sought as replacements, as well as detailed cost analyses for each change, and he wanted Denise to handle the job personally. She quickly nailed down exactly what information he sought and in what format he preferred it and gave him a delivery date that seemed not only to please him but to surprise him, as well. Then she went on to tell him exactly what figures and reports she would need from him before she could start. He promised to fax her everything that she required first thing Monday morning. They quickly negotiated a consultation fee to be appended to the contract he had recently negotiated with another of Chuck’s subordinates, and then Denise very coolly and very smoothly suggested that the fee might be waived if the contract, with its lucrative guarantee of minimum-order dollars, was extended to three years instead of one. It was obvious that the same idea had not occurred to Chuck and that it found great favor with both men. The deal was struck, and the business to which Chuck had wanted her to dedicate an entire night was concluded satisfactorily before the main course arrived.
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