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  “You’re an artist?” Auburn eyebrows, a shade darker than her long red hair, lifted high.

  He stared back at her. He’d said the first thing that had come to mind. Now he was stuck. “I am.” He put emphasis on the words—he’d done his first business deal on just a bluff and his name. Now he was back to that again. And it felt good.

  “Which medium?”

  Dominic knew a trap when he heard one being set. “None at the moment, if I don’t get a move on.” She smiled a small smile, seemingly satisfied with the answer, but Dominic knew he needed to change the subject fast. “So, the loft…?” He left the question hanging. Was he now going to be stuck in a garret to go with his story about being an artist?

  “Yes. But we still have no staff here at the moment.”

  “No staff? Nonsense. I’m here.” A heavy-set older man came out from what looked to be the dining room, wiping his hands on a white bar towel.

  Paris gave him a warm smile—much warmer than the one she’d turned on Dominic. “We do have a barman. This is Michael.”

  The older man put out his hand. “A good barman is all you need. Pop down later for a drink?”

  “I will. Thanks.” Dominic looked back and was sure he caught Paris shaking her head at Michael. “So food and the like?”

  “We have a kitchen you’re welcome to use. We can add the cost of any food taken from the freezer or pantry to your bill.”

  Michael jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Or, I cook up a storm in my cabin, you’re welcome to eat with me. I make a mean hamburger,” Michael said.

  “Sounds better than poisoning myself.” Dominic turned to Paris. “Will you be joining us? Family style?” She shook her head. “What, not good enough to eat with a starving artist?”

  Paris frowned and her eyes glittered. “I generally don’t eat with the guests. And Michael is busy enough since we are short handed.”

  Michael gave a laugh and left them. Paris grabbed a keycard from behind the counter. “I’ll take you to the loft. You’ll need to carry your own case.”

  Dominic followed her, watching the sway of her hips under the baggy shirt. She looked way too young to own a place like this—she couldn’t be over twenty-five and this place was absolutely huge. There had to be a story here. And he had nothing but time on his hands.

  He was already regretting the impulse that had led him here. Zach had sworn the place was an oasis of quiet. But Dominic was thinking more about barren deserts right now. A backwater town down the road and this place. No staff, no service…and no…

  He cut off the thought. Wasn’t he here to get away from everything—women and wealth? And boy had he hit the mother lode on that. Hell, he wasn’t even getting cell signal here.

  Paris started up the stairs and Dominic got a better look at her long legs and shapely backside. The sway of her hips distracted him utterly and when she stopped, he bumped into her.

  Moving away, she glanced back at him. “Careful.”

  He held out a hand. “Hey, you might’ve warned me we were stopping.”

  “Right. Your room is here.” She waved to a door, unlocked it with the keycard and waved him in. He stepped past her, and caught a hint of her scent—which smelled a lot like lavender. The scent took him back decades. That had been his grandmother’s scent. He glanced at her, caught her watching him. She looked away fast and move to turn on a light. “This room is a little dark, but it does have a view.” She pulled open the curtains with a jerk.

  He glanced around the room. It seemed more like a small studio with a kitchenette, a small dining area, a comfortable-looking bed, a generous wood balcony, and a door which he assumed opened into the bathroom.

  He gave Paris a smile. “A guided tour from the beautiful owner. Do you give all your guests this great a service?”

  She met his stare, one eyebrow lifted. “Let’s settle a couple of things. I’m really not interested in flirting with the guests.”

  “And you don’t eat with them—got it. So what do you do?”

  She headed back to the door, but she stopped there and asked, “How will you be paying, Mr. Murphy? Cash or credit card?”

  He pulled out the bills he’d brought with him, counted out five and handed them over. Their fingers brushed as she took the cash from him. A small shock went through him. She must have felt it, too, for her cheeks pinked. He smiled and pocketed the rest of the bills. “That should get us off to a good start.”

  She glanced at the money in her hand and then at him. “You must do well as an artist?”

  He shrugged and took a step closer. She had a wide, generous mouth, one that quirked at the side when she seemed amused. She also had laugh lines around her eyes and the corners of her lips. “And how well do you do, Paris?”

  Heading to the door, she called back, “Have a good stay, Mr. Murphy.” She left, closing the door behind her.

  Dominic wandered over to the balcony and pulled open the sliding glass door. He let out a breath. The air smelled of pine—a little dry from summer still and warm even though it was late into fall. He’d come here to reconnect with himself—with the real world. Now he was starting to wonder if he’d just go nuts in about three days. No other guests. A starchy innkeeper. And a barkeep who looked like the kind of guy who liked to gossip.

  Dominic shook his head. He couldn’t see what anyone could see in an isolated place like this—except that it was far way from cameras. But he was stuck here for two weeks—maybe three. He’d told Zach to make sure everyone knew Dominic McCarthy was out of reach. He had enough cash to get by—barely. He was out on his own for the first time in over a decade with not much more than his wits.

  Mouth crooked, he unpacked his bag and took out his spare cash. This wasn’t going to last long, and he’d left his credit cards behind intentionally. Wouldn’t it be ironic if he had to get a job?

  A sharp rap sounded on the door. He opened it. Michael offered up a checked-towel covered platter. “Sorry. It’s stew tonight. You’ll have to wait ‘till tomorrow for the burgers.”

  Dominic took the platter from him. The smell of fresh bread, melting butter and rich meat drifted up. His stomach let out a growl. “This won’t be getting cold, I can assure you.” He waved Michael in.

  The man uncovered bowls and put them on the kitchenette table. “How you settling in? The quiet get to you yet?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  Michael smiled. “You have the look of the city stamped on you. You must miss the noise—the air pollution.”

  Dominic nodded. “The suit. I knew that was a mistake. Let’s say, this is an…an artistic experiment.”

  “Like man versus wild?” Michael let out a loud, raucous laugh. “We’re not all that wild. Though I’ve seen a bear or two digging around in the trash in the mornings.”

  Dominic stared at him. “You’re not joking are you?”

  “Oh, I never joke about bears. And we get the occasional mountain lion. If you hike, don’t go far on your own.”

  “Yeah, how about to the pool and back?”

  “Sorry—no pool. Had to close it. No one to keep it clean.”

  Dominic stared at him. “Hot tub?”

  “Oh, that’s open. A sauna, too. Paris put that in. Likes to go in after her whisky most nights.”

  “Whisky? Does she have the taste to drink it straight?”

  “That she does. If you want to impress the lady, show you know your way around a good whisky. Of course, she’ll probably know then that we’ve been talking about her.”

  Dominic smiled. He had nothing much else to do for the next couple of weeks, other than hang out and figure out just what kind of man he’d become. It would be good to reconnect back to nature—back to the old days when he’d had a few hundred in his pocket and not much more than sheer nerve.

  But Paris Dylan…well, she was intriguing. He wanted to know more about her. How long was it since he’d found a girl who didn’t immediately want to hang onto him?

>   He stretched and patted his stomach. It was going to be interesting to be plain old Dan Murphy, a guy without much going for him. And it was also going to be more than interesting to see if Dan Murphy could get a woman like Paris into his bed with nothing more going for him than sweet talk and charm.

  Chapter Three

  Dominic slept better than he thought he would. The quiet did bother him, but he still managed to fall asleep in front of the TV. He woke early and decided to spend the day poking around the hotel. There wasn’t much to see beyond the lobby, but the place had great views, ski lift access, and not a drop of snow. He didn’t see Paris or Michael most of the day but when he strolled into the lobby around dinner time he found Michael behind the bar.

  Michael waved him over and Dominic eased onto a wide, cushioned timber stool. Michael held up a short glass. “Whisky or something else?”

  “Macallan, if you have it.”

  “You sure? It’s a bit dear, and it’s only the thirty-nine.” Michael started polishing a glass.

  “I’ll live a little.”

  Michael nodded. “We’ve a special blend as well. The young lady doesn’t like me discussing her private business, but her dad has his own label.”

  “Paris is from a whisky empire?”

  Michael poured and placed drink in front of Dominic. “I wouldn’t call it an empire. But her father does well enough.” Michael picked up another glass to polish.

  Dominic sipped the Macallan. It went down smooth with a delicate after burn. He heard the click of heels in the lobby and turned.

  Paris strode into the bar, her burning-ember-red hair flowing out behind her. Skinny jeans and a polo sweater outlined her curves. Dominic wished he had another drink to swallow down—she left his mouth dry and his heart thudding hard. She smiled at him and his stomach actually turned over.

  She gave him a wary smile and turned to Michael. “I got the supplies you wanted from town. They’re in the kitchen.”

  Dominic waved at the bar. “Can I buy you a whisky? Or don’t you drink with guests?”

  She cocked one hip. Michael didn’t wait, but poured her a glass. “You can’t let a man drink alone. Besides, if you’re just back from town on the short cut, you’ll be needing this.”

  Relaxing, she leaned on the bar. “Okay, just the one drink.” She raised the glass to her lips. Dominic was mesmerized by the sight of her smelling and sipping the drink. She closed her eyes when she took a sip, her tongue flicking out to catch the last drops. He glanced away and asked, “And why would a visit to town require a drink?”

  Eyes opening, she studied him. “Not the town—the back road. It’s impassible in winter, and an unpaved adventure the rest of the year. But I only scared off two deer and managed to miss most of the pot holes.” Perching on a bar stool, she lifted her glass. “You have good taste in whisky, Mr. Murphy. Thank you. The artists I know usually buy cheap wine for home and drink water when they go out.”

  Dominic smiled. He had no idea what to answer. Business didn’t bring him into contact with many artists. Michael came to his rescue, asking, “What do you think of the place so far?”

  Waving at the room, he said, “It’s big. I’m surprised you’re not booked year round.”

  Paris pulled a face. “We’re working on that. Depending on skiers is just too risky—one bad snow year and we end up in debt. And…well, the rich are pretty picky. You have to be in but not too in to pull them as visitors. I’d rather broaden our appeal. But we need some alterations to be able to pull in people who want peace and quiet.”

  Dominic studied her. “Is there really that much of a market for that? Peace and quiet, that is.”

  She frowned. “I’m tired of catering to those looking for the highest price tag on their ski holiday. This place should do more good for people. It should give them a getaway—a retreat from the world. I’m thinking of even making it an affordable phone-free and tech-free resort.”

  Dominic smiled. “You’ve got the cell-free part down. I’d have to climb a mountain to get signal.” He turned to the bartender. “What about you, Michael? Why aren’t you gone with the rest of the staff?”

  “Because my wife indulges my foolish old dreams.” Michael leaned on the bar. “I’m working on a solar-powered snow machine.”

  Paris punched the older man’s arm. “Actually, Michael refuses to leave me here on my own. He’s my stand-in grandfather.”

  Michael straightened. “I’m not that old.”

  She grinned. “Okay—my stand-in great uncle.”

  “That does it. I’m off to put away those supplies. I’ll have burgers done in half an hour if you’re hungry, and then I’m going to get my beauty sleep.”

  Paris stood up. “I should catch up on the books.”

  Waving her to stay put, Michael slipped out from behind the bar. “Don’t be silly. Relax until the burgers are done.” He left the half-full bottle of Macallan on the bar.

  Dominic sipped his drink and watched Paris. Would she find some excuse to run away? Or would she stay? He liked the rosy sheen the whisky was putting on her cheeks.

  She smiled and left her half-finished drink on the bar. “Uhm…would you excuse me? The bathroom calls. Pour another drink, and I’ll buy this round.” She left him sitting there—he enjoyed the view of her striding off to the bathroom. And he wondered if she’d come back, or find some other reason not to hang out with him. Was that a personal preference? Or maybe she wasn’t looking for a starving artist in her life?

  He smiled at the idea.

  His mother had adored art—that much he could remember about her. That and her perfume. He didn’t know if she’d ever had any talent, but she had supported the arts. His father had shut down most of her charities, however, after she’d died. He could remember that—and the arguments with his dad that started up as soon as Dominic got older. Hell, maybe he should have become an artist. That would certainly have pissed off the old man.

  Dominic shook his head. He held up his glass and stared into the amber liquid before he emptied it. Was it the warmth of the whisky bringing up memories? Or the quiet of this place? But hadn’t he come here to sort that out? To face his past and himself. He could remember his father as a hard man—always wanting to know about the bottom line and not much more. Dominic had grown up feeling more like an investment that needed to provide a return instead of a son—and that had led to the final argument where the old man had kicked him out.

  All because he’d refused his father’s plans for him. He was damn sure his father had expected him to last six months on his own and come back, begging for his place. Instead, he’d gone his own path—and made his own fortune. And now what?

  Dominic poured a second round of whisky. He shouldn’t be drinking the stuff. It was making him soppy.

  He’d just sat the bottle on the bar when a loud crack split the air—the sound a bullet might make slapping into wood. Instinctively, he ducked, the air rushing from him in a sharp breath.

  Chapter Four

  Paris stared at Mr. Murphy. What was wrong with the guy? He’d just ducked like someone had shot at him. Reaching down, she picked up the wooden pole she’d bumped into. She’d been cleaning the beams this morning with it and a cloth attached to the end. As she’d come out of the bathroom, she’d kicked it and sent it crashing down. And Murphy had gone down like he was in a battle zone.

  Heading over to him, she said, “Sorry for the noise. Are you okay?” She started to wonder if maybe he’d done a stint in the army. That reaction was more like he’d thought someone was shooting at him. But he didn’t look army to her. And an artist in the army—how was that a good mix?

  He straightened and glanced around. “What the hell?”

  “Just a pole. It fell over.”

  He glanced at her, his eyes sharp and bright. “A damn pole? That was all? It sounded like…” He let the words trail off.

  She finished them for him. “A gunshot?”

  His mouth crooked. “No
. More like a pole hitting the floor.”

  Perching on the barstool, she picked up her drink. “I’m not usually that clumsy. Must be the long day. That back road would take it out of anyone.”

  Dominic swallowed his drink, let it burn, and shook his head. “I have a confession to make. If I buy any more of that Macallan tonight, I’m not sure I’ll be able to afford my stay here.”

  “Ah…so you really are that starving artist we hear about. But if that’s the case, what’s an artist like you doing with a suit like the one you showed up in?” He grinned and shook his head. Smiling, she pointed a finger at him. “Okay, I get it. You’re pretending you’re successful? No…no, you’re not really an artist. I mean, you’re commercial right? Sold out to Madison Avenue marketing bucks, but now you’re trying to reconnect with real art and real passion?”

  “You’ve got the reconnect-with-real right.”

  “Well, since I win the guessing game, you get to taste my father’s blend. On the house. And don’t mind the whole panic attack thing.”

  “That wasn’t panic.”

  She waved off his explanation. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. My mom—now, she had it bad. Got to the point she couldn’t walk outside her own door. So I get it.” Paris poured a good slug of dark whisky into their empty glasses.

  Dominic sniffed. “This smells like turpentine.”

  “Yeah. It’ll go down about the same. My dad makes the worst whisky in the country…or perhaps the world. But he’s my dad. If I don’t drink it, he looks at me and reminds me how I’m depriving him of grandchildren.” She pushed his glass over to him. “To art.”

  “How about to connections—new and old.” He took a good swallow of the drink and his eyes went wide. He gave a hard cough. “Little bit of an edge.”

  Paris laughed. “Yeah, like an ax.” She took a swallow and gasped for breath. “This sorts the men from the boys.”

  “And the girl’s from the women? I’m guessing your father’s isn’t a bit related to the Macallans.”

  The burn of the strong liquor warmed her blood. She leaned an elbow on the bar. “What did Michael say to you? I should warn you, he never lets the truth get in the way of a good story.”