Mr. Right Next Door. Arlene James
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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