Mr. Right Next Door Read online

  “I have everything I’ve ever wanted—except someone to share it with.”

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Books by Arlene James

  ARLENE JAMES

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright

  “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

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont L2A 5X3

  Arlene James

  MR. RIGHT NEXT DOOR

  Books by Arlene James

  Silhouette Romance

  City Girl #141

  No Easy Conquest #235

  Two of a Kind #253

  A Meeting of Hearts #327

  An Obvious Virtue #384

  Now or Never #404

  Reason Enough #421

  The Right Moves #446

  Strange Bedfellows #471

  The Private Garden #495

  The Boy Next Door #518

  Under a Desert Sky #559

  A Delicate Balance #578

  The Discerning Heart #614

  Dream of a Lifetime #661

  Finally Home #687

  A Perfect Gentleman #705

  Family Man #728

  A Man of His Word #770

  Tough Guy #806

  Gold Digger #830

  Palace City Prince #866

  *The Perfect Wedding #962

  *An Old-Fashioned Love #968

  *A Wife Worth Waiting For #974

  Mail-Order Brood #1024

  *The Rogue Who Came To Stay #1061

  *Most Wanted Dad #1144

  Desperately Seeking Daddy #1186

  *Falling for a Father of Four #1295

  A Bride To Honor # 1330

  Mr. Right Next Door #1352

  Silhouette Special Edition

  A Rumor of Love #664

  Husband in the Making #776

  With Baby in Mind #869

  Child of Her Heart #964

  The Knight, the Waitress and the Toddler #1131

  Every Cowgirl’s Dream #1195

  Silhouette Books

  Fortune’s Children

  Single with Children

  *This Side of Heaven

  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 ha
rder 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.