A Year With the Millionaire Next Door Read online

  One year in England...

  A lifetime in love?

  Stella Russo fled across the Atlantic for a distraction-free escape from her high-pressure finance job. Mission accomplished. But it’s somewhat complicated when she spies the dreamboat next door... Wealthy scientist Linus Collier’s also on a self-imposed hiatus from the opposite sex, so Stella’s his own unwelcome but oh-so-delightful distraction... Their mutual temptation might begin from a distance, but soon they can’t resist acting on it...up close and personal!

  BARBARA WALLACE can’t remember when she wasn’t dreaming up love stories in her head, so writing romances for Mills & Boon is a dream come true. Happily married to her own Prince Charming, she lives in New England, with a house full of empty-nest animals. Occasionally her son comes home as well! To stay up to date on Barbara’s news and releases, sign up for her newsletter at barbarawallace.com.

  Also by Barbara Wallace

  Saved by the CEO

  Christmas with Her Millionaire Boss

  Their Christmas Miracle

  One Night in Provence

  Her Convenient Christmas Date

  In Love with the Boss miniseries

  A Millionaire for Cinderella

  Beauty & Her Billionaire Boss

  Royal House of Corinthia miniseries

  Christmas Baby for the Princess

  Winter Wedding for the Prince

  Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

  A Year with the Millionaire Next Door

  Barbara Wallace

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  ISBN: 978-0-008-90371-8

  A YEAR WITH THE MILLIONAIRE NEXT DOOR

  © 2020 Barbara Wallace

  Published in Great Britain 2020

  by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

  By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

  ® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

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  Contents

  Cover

  Back Cover Text

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Extract

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  Actress Leaves Fortune to Pet!

  Dame Agnes Moreland, who passed away last month, left her entire estate, solicitors have revealed, to Etonia Toffee Pudding—a ten-year-old pedigreed Turkish Angora.

  The cat was listed as the sole recipient of Ms. Moreland’s £11.2 million fortune. The funds are to be placed in an independently managed trust for the feline’s care.

  According to the terms of her will, Ms. Moreland’s only living relative, her nephew, Theodore Moreland, of London, England, will inherit the remainder of the estate upon the cat’s death.

  Considered by many to be a grand dame of English theater, Agnes Moreland first gained recognition for her performance as Adelaide in Come the Night in 1951.

  During her career she received countless honors and awards, leading to her receiving a DBE in 2012. In her later years she was known for her eccentricity, which included traveling with her pet.

  An outside estate manager has been hired to care for the cat and manage the property.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Summer

  STELLA STOOD ON the rooftop terrace and breathed in the warm summer air. Before her lay Belgravia, the London neighborhood whose stucco mansions and crescent-shaped streets once played home to Neville Chamberlain and Ian Fleming. Now she would walk in their footsteps.

  She allowed herself a satisfied sigh. “Congratulations, Stella. You finally made it to the penthouse.” And it only took a nervous breakdown to make it happen.

  Her parents would say she was being overly dramatic. They preferred the term burnout, or better yet, no term at all, as if her freezing in midtown traffic had never happened.

  Whatever the term—or lack thereof—she was here, in London, living in a luxury penthouse for the next twelve months. A pretty decent perk if she said so herself.

  “What do you say, boss? Should we continue unpacking?” she asked.

  Etonia Toffee Pudding lay across the top of a bespoke velvet sofa as if she owned it—which she did. Until this morning, the Angora had been bunking with Peter Singh, the estate’s attorney, and upon returning home, she had wasted no time reclaiming her space. She blanked her mismatched eyes in response to Stella’s question.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Stella adjusted the band that was keeping her hair out of her face. The chin-length bob was supposed to be low maintenance. Unfortunately, no one told her bangs were not.

  Across the room, a portrait of Dame Agnes Moreland looked down from over the mantel, a sleepy-eyed smile playing on the late actress’s lips as though she was laughing at a bunch of humans kowtowing to her pet.

  “I may talk to her, but if you think I’m going to start carrying the animal around like you did, you’re crazy,” Stella said. Taking care of the cat was part of the job, same as managing the estate’s property and investments. The cat wasn’t a pet. “Right, kitty?”

  A knock on the door interrupted the conversation. Sharp, loud raps that made Stella jump
. “What the...?” The apartment occupied one half of the top floor and was accessible only by private elevator. The only other person up here would be her neighbor from across the hall.

  The knocking continued. Etonia Toffee Pudding disappeared under the sofa fringe.

  “I’m coming!” Stella called. If this was how the person planned to introduce themselves, it was going to be a long year.

  Looking through the peephole, she saw a man in a tweed jacket. He had thinning gray hair and blotchy skin, the kind of complexion that came from spending too much time indoors. He didn’t look like the kind of neighbor who popped in for a cup of coffee. If he even was her neighbor. To play things safe, she slid the door chain in place before opening it.

  The man’s eyes looked her up and down through the opening, clearly unimpressed with her cutoff shorts and Big Apple T-shirt. “My name is Theodore Moreland,” he announced, the words reaching Stella on a waft of pungent mint. “Is the estate manager available?”

  So, not the neighbor, but Dame Agnes’s nephew. Peter had warned her about him.

  “I’m the estate manager,” she answered. “Stella Russo.”

  Moreland scowled. Stella tamped down the flutter of insecurity that always bothered her when facing disapproval.

  His opinion doesn’t mean anything, Stella. You’re the one in charge.

  Lessons from her childhood kicked in—when in doubt, act as if you don’t care—and she lifted her chin. “What can I do for you, Mr. Moreland?”

  “To begin, you can open the door and let me inside,” he said.

  No, Stella didn’t think so. At least not until she talked to Peter Singh. According to all accounts, Theodore Moreland had taken the terms of his aunt’s will very poorly and was actively working to have the will declared invalid. Letting him inside would only invite disaster.

  “I’m not really prepared to receive guests today,” she told him. “I’m still unpacking and getting acquainted with my new boss.”

  “Are you refusing to let me enter my aunt’s home?”

  “You mean Etonia Toffee Pudding’s home,” she said, “and yes, I am.”

  Moreland’s jowls flapped as he worked his jaw up and down. “How dare you. You have no right—”

  “Actually, as the estate manager, I do. I’m in charge of all comings and goings, in fact.” She made a mental note to talk to the downstairs security guard about calling before sending visitors upstairs. “Perhaps in a day or two, when I’m settled in, you and Peter can come by and we can talk.”

  Stella had never actually heard a man harrumph before. His mottled skin turned cranberry, calling attention to the veins crisscrossing his nose. The color reminded Stella of the drunks that used to sleep on the benches in central London. For that matter, so did the sheen in his eyes.

  “Well, I never,” he said in a minty huff. “I insist you let me in in this instance.”

  “I’ve already said no. You’re going to have to come back next week.” No longer feeling polite, she went to shut the door in his face, only to have him jam his foot between the door and frame.

  Shoot.

  “Is there a problem?” a voice asked.

  “No,” she and Moreland replied together.

  A face appeared behind Moreland’s shoulder. This one was far more attractive, with eyes the color of the Atlantic Ocean. The newcomer looked back and forth between them. “Causing trouble, Teddy?”

  “This is none of your concern, Collier,” Moreland replied.

  “Mr. Moreland was just leaving,” Stella added. “Weren’t you, Mr. Moreland?”

  “Is that why his foot’s in the door?” the stranger asked.

  “Agnes Moreland was my aunt. As her only living relative, it’s my responsibility to make sure her property is managed soundly.”

  “Funny. I thought she asked that an estate manager be hired for that job. In fact, I distinctly remember that you weren’t named caretaker.”

  Moreland’s face grew redder. “This is none of your business.”

  “Au contraire, Teddy. I own half of this floor, which means you’re causing a row on my property. That makes it very much my business. Now, Ms....?”

  Stella smiled. “Russo. Stella Russo.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Russo. Would you like Teddy, I mean, Mr. Moreland, to leave?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “There you have it, then. We would both like you to leave. Hopefully you will do so without further fuss. Otherwise, I might have to call security, and I don’t think any of us want the unnecessary attention. Do we, Teddy?”

  Moreland’s caterpillar eyebrows merged together as he glared at the two of them. For a moment, Stella thought he might argue. In the end, however, common sense won out. “I’ll be back,” he said.

  Stella couldn’t wait.

  Linus pretended to fiddle with his keys until Moreland stepped on the elevator. He would be back soon enough, asserting his rights as Agnes’s nephew. “My nephew is nothing if not predictable,” Dame Agnes used to say. That poor estate manager was going to have her hands full.

  When the news first reported that she’d left her money to her cat, Linus was probably the only person in all of London who wasn’t surprised. Dame Agnes spent her life being strong willed and eccentric. Why would anyone expect her to be different in death? When it came to finding someone to actually carry out Agnes’s wishes, Linus assumed the law firm would hire some kind of professional cat lady. Someone older, who wore cardigan sweaters and pearls.

  Shame on him, because from what he could see of his new neighbor, she wasn’t old, and she definitely didn’t wear cardigans. She had better legs than he’d imagined, too. He caught a glimpse of them—all right, he took a good look—before she shut the door. Those cutoff shorts were splendidly short. God bless current fashion.

  Toeing his shoes off by the front door—Mrs. Paracha hated it when he walked on her clean floors in his dirty shoes—he picked them up and headed to his bedroom. He was halfway up the stairs when his phone began to chirp like a cricket.

  He let it ring several times before answering. “Linus Collier speaking.”

  From the other end of the line came a loud sigh. “Why do you insist on doing that?” his sister, Susan, asked.

  “Doing what?”

  “Answering so formally. We both know I’m the only person you have programmed to ring as a bloody cricket.”

  “Because.” You could fill in the blank with a number of answers. Because it annoyed her. Because that was what big brothers did. Because he was supposed to be the quirky middle child and so it was expected. “Why are you calling me on a Friday night? Shouldn’t you be out with your boyfriend?” he asked.

  His sister was dating Lewis Montoya, the ex-footballer. The two of them made a rather odd couple, his prickly baby sister and the reformed Casanova, but they seemed to be making it work. Lewis’s turnaround gave him hope that zebras could change their stripes.

  “Movie night,” Susan replied. “We’re going to watch that rock-’n’-roll documentary everyone’s talking about. Interested in joining us?”

  A romantic Friday night playing third wheel? Sounded peachy.

  Walking into his bedroom, he loosened his tie before lying down on the bed. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got plans.”

  “Really? What?”

  Anything else, he almost answered.

  “Nothing fancy. Dinner. Paperwork. A couple of pints.”

  “In other words, nothing.”

  And what was wrong with that? “I’ll have you know Mrs. Paracha made her lamb stew. One doesn’t walk away from such culinary perfection.”

  Another sigh. “Linus...”

  “Susan...”

  “I’m serious. What is going on?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

&nb
sp; “Yes, you do. You’ve been preoccupied and living like a monk for months. It’s not like you.”

  Ah, but that was precisely the point. He was an outrageous flirt who hurt people without thinking. He wanted to be someone different. Someone better. “Maybe I’m on a journey of self-discovery,” he told her.

  “Are you? Or are you punishing yourself?”

  “Must you attempt to ascribe a motive to everything?” He wasn’t in the mood for her armchair psychology, especially when it cut close to the truth. “Maybe I’ve had a long day and feel like staying in. Is that so unbelievable a concept?”

  Her silence spoke volumes.

  “By the way, I met the new neighbor today,” he said, changing the subject.

  “The million-pound pet sitter? What are they like?”

  “Antisocial. Teddy Moreland was on her doorstep.”

  “I’d be antisocial, too, under those circumstances. Did you see her? You did say she was female.”

  “Yes, she’s female. American, from the sound of her accent.”

  “Huh,” his sister said. “I wonder what would make someone cross the Atlantic to become a pet sitter.”

  “Giving a guess, I’d say it was because she likes cats and wants to live in London. There are worse ways to make a living.”

  Rather than answer, his sister let out an uncharacteristic half giggle, half squeal that left him rolling his eyes. Only one person made his sister giggle, and that was her boyfriend.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Lewis surprised me coming out of the shower.”

  “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” In the background he could hear mumbling, followed by another giggle.

  And they wondered why he didn’t want to join them for movie night.

  Seizing the opportunity, he wished his sister a good time and ended the call.

  It was nice, he thought, as he stared at the ceiling, to see his siblings find happiness. Both Susan and their brother, Thomas, deserved it.