Arlene James - Mr. Right Next Door

“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.”