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  “Neither.”

  “What? How do you keep in shape? You must do something to…to…” She stuttered over the words. The guy looked great. Strong, lean build. She’d glimpsed hard abs under his baggy sweatshirt today in the office when he’d stood up and started to organize her files. Her cheeks heated.

  “To what?” He grinned. “Are you saying I’m in good shape?”

  “Round is a shape, too. Are you saying you just sit around all the time?”

  “I like walking.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who looked so athletic and had no regular regime. You really should come visit during ski season. We’ve got some killer slopes.”

  “I hope not literally.” He glanced into the bowl of lettuce. “Is that enough?”

  She shook her head. “Keep tearing. Well, if you don’t ski, and you don’t do anything else, what are we going to talk about?”

  “Uh…art?”

  She grinned at him. “What I know about art you could fit onto one of those lettuce leaves. I know more about accounting.”

  He winced. “Ouch. Meaning less than nothing. We’ll there’s got to be something.”

  “Movies?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Waste of time.”

  She stared at him. “How can you say that? There are few things better than movies and buttered popcorn. Okay, that’s it, after dinner, we’re breaking out my video collection.”

  He gave a groan, but she was pretty sure it was a mock one. She finished the tomatoes and started to peel a cucumber. “Okay, what did you do as a kid? You couldn’t have been some math-art genius who had no time for anything else.”

  He seemed to withdraw. His smile vanished and his hands stilled. He held up the bowl. “Lettuce is ripped as requested. What’s next, chef?”

  She let his evasion stand. Either he hadn’t had much of a childhood, or there was something else in his past that he preferred not to talk about. She could understand that. There’d be some times with Jack she’d just as soon forget. Gesturing to the fridge, she told him, “Grab some mayo. I’m going to make a salad dressing.”

  She turned to check the grill. When she turned back, he’d moved closer and she smacked into him. He caught her arm with one hand. The attraction she’d felt earlier flared higher—a sharp pull that tugged on her chest. She stared up into his eyes. Such a vivid blue, made all the more so by a band of black around the iris. Behind her the grill hissed. Her chest tightened. Her pulse jumped and her breath lodged in her chest.

  For a moment, she thought he’d simply let her go and step back. But he stood there, staring at her, a hungry yearning in his eyes. That look undid her. And she gave into the crazy urge—hadn’t she said that she always dove first and then figured things out. Well, she was diving again.

  She wrapped her arm around his neck and pulled him down to her lips.

  Chapter Seven

  She kissed him. Sweetly at first, then with a growing intensity that left Dominic unable to move. Her tongue darted out, licked over his lips, and he let out a groan. Somehow he held onto the mayo with one hand and her with the other. He shifted her so he wouldn’t back her into the hot grill—that was about all the thought he could manage.

  She tasted of something sweet tonight—all he could think of was honey. She has a mouth like warm honey. He couldn’t get enough of her. He deepened the kiss. She gave a small moan and the sound went straight to his cock. Dizzy and swaying now, he had to come up for air.

  Paris stared up at him, her eyes bright and glittering. “We’re not going to get to dinner if we keep this up.” Her voice sounded thick, and just the slightest shade unsteady.

  “Who said anything about wanting food?” He put the mayo on the counter and both his hands on her waist. She had a slim waist and hips that flared out in deadly curves. He wanted to peel her clothes off right here and hoist her up onto the kitchen counter, bare her skin and dine on every inch of her.

  “Paris?” The shout came from the lobby. Michael’s voice.

  Licking her lips, Paris stood on tiptoe. She brushed a kiss over his cheek and said, “Michael’s hungry.” Slipping away, she headed back to the grill.

  Dominic knew he’d better get out of there. Bailing, he headed for the lobby, calling out to Michael, “She’s in the kitchen. Hey, pour me a drink while we wait for dinner, will you?”

  Dinner proved easier than Dominic had thought it would. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Paris, but he managed to keep his hands to himself. But he didn’t do justice to the steak she’d cooked. She ended up splitting what he left with Michael. The two of them swapped ski stories.

  “First time on skis, each leg wanted to go in different directions,” Paris said, gesturing with her hands.

  Dominic smiled. “What where you—ten?”

  “Try three. Soon as I could walk, Dad figured I could ski. But when snowboards came along—man, I was in heaven.” Her face lit up as she talked.

  Dominic suddenly wanted to see her on a slope, heading downhill fast, all that beautiful red hair free and streaming.

  She put down her fork and asked, “What did you do as a child? Did you only ever do art?”

  Dominic clenched his back teeth. This artist thing kept coming back and biting him. “Usual kid stuff, I guess. I had a bike. Damn thing nearly killed me.”

  Paris laughed. And Michael launched into a story of himself and his first motorcycle. Dominic leaned back in his chair. When was the last time he’d spent an evening like this? He couldn’t remember. He did business-meeting dinners, or grabbed quick meals on the run between deals. He ordered from and ate at some of the best restaurants in the world—but this…this was more about the company than the food.

  Michael lifted his glass. “To good food and good friends.” Dominic clinked his glass against Michael’s and then against Paris’. He drank. Michael got up, and Paris started to stand. Michael waved her down. “You cooked. I’ll clean. Tomorrow, I want you up early. I’m going to test my snow machine.”

  Glancing down, Paris pressed her lips tight. Dominic wondered about that. Was she trying not to laugh? He glanced from her to Michael, and when Michael had left the room he asked, “Isn’t it going to work?”

  She lifted one shoulder. “I hope. Last time his machine spit out about a dozen flakes that melted before they hit the ground. The time before it was pellet-hard hail that burned like stink when they peppered you.” Paris let out a breath and smiled. “He’s got some great ideas. And I wish I had one ounce of his mechanical skill, but sometimes—”

  “You think he’s taking on too much?”

  She grinned. A blazing flash of teeth that lit her face.. Her eyes glowed and her lips parted to show a hint of teeth. “Life’s not fun unless you’re taking on something.”

  Chest tight, Dominic stared at her, breath caught in his throat and heart stuttering like he was twelve and the first time he’d seen Susie Dorman in school. It couldn’t be happening. But it was. He’d never thought it possible, but in that instant, he knew he was falling in love—with a stranger he barely knew, with a woman who only knew him as a fraud, with someone who’d think him a rich idiot who was far too much like her late husband.

  He stared at her. And he kept thinking, damn, damn, damn.

  Chapter Eight

  Thoughts of Paris kept him up way too late, and then erotic dreams of her naked in the snow, wearing only furry boots woke him early. He brought himself off with his own hand and took a cold shower—and knew this wasn’t love so much as the worst case of lust ever. That had to be it. It’d been far too long since he’d had a woman—business had taken over his life lately. He’d been focused on the water deal and land acquisition for so long he’d forgotten his body had other needs. Now here he was with a beautiful woman close by—he needed to get her into his bed so he could get over her.

  And how tough would that be?

  She wasn’t married, wasn’t dating, and wasn’t interested in h
im for his money. But hell if he could remember the last time he’d had to seduce a woman. They usually started throwing themselves at him as soon as they knew his name. But this was one thing he couldn’t throw money at—he had no money and there was nowhere to buy her an expensive dinner or a gift. He was also pretty damn certain she’d already had most of the good life from her late husband. From how she had talked, she viewed her marriage as a good thing to have gone, and not the kind of life she’d enjoyed. Which was great. They could have quick affair and that would be that.

  None of that logic helped him when he saw her the next morning.

  She’d come downstairs in shorts and a ski cap. He approved of the shorts and hiking boots at once—she had great legs. Long and tan, and the boots only emphasized the muscular curve of her legs. She smiled and his heart skipped to a faster beat. She came over to him and tucked another cap on his head and handed him mittens.

  “Seriously?” he asked.

  “It’s supposed to be eighty today, but Michael wants us to try building a snowman.”

  “Right,” Dominic drew out the word. Paris grinned. He grabbed her hand and pulled her into a kiss. “Sure you don’t want to just make out here in the lobby?”

  She laughed and pushed at his chest. He released her. “We can’t disappoint Michael. It’s his day to cook.”

  “Ah, got it.” Heading outside, Dominic found Michael standing in a small meadow not far from the main parking lot. Michael stood next to a large machine that looked more like a snow blower than a snow machine. Black cables ran into solar panels. Dominic walked a circle around the machine.

  Rubbing his hands together, Michael asked, “What do you think?”

  “I’ll let you know after I see it working.” Dominic walked over to where Paris stood. “You sure he’s not making Frankenstein’s monster there?”

  “You got the title right—I’m impressed. It’s Dr. Frankenstein—and his monster. Most folks call the monster Frankenstein. How’d you know that?”

  He glanced at her. “I do read. At least I used to. I majored in English in college.”

  “Really? Not art?”

  Face hot, he shook his head. “No, I kind of fell into that.”

  Michael shouted he was ready. Paris pulled her ski hat down lower and clamped her hands over her ears. Dominic was going to ask about that, but Michael flipped a switch and his machine hummed to life with an eerie whine. Over the sound, Dominic yelled, “Well, it runs.”

  White flakes puffed from the opposite end. They drifted on the wind to where Paris stood. Dragging off a glove, Paris held out a hand. A flake landed onto her palm. She stared at it. “Oh, my—it’s working!” Giving a laugh, she caught another flake and another. She packed the flakes together until she had a small snow ball. She threw it at Dominic. “It’s working!”

  Dominic shook his head.

  Michael and Paris danced around the machine, scooping up the man-made snow, tossing it in the air, laughing and playing like two kids.

  Running over to him, Paris grabbed his hand. “Come on!”

  He resisted her tug. “Someone’s got to be the adult.”

  She shook her head at him. Letting go of him, she ran to a shed and came out with a battered old sled. A small hill rolled down from the meadow. Paris climbed on the sled and yelled over the boom of the engine, “I need a push!”

  Michael was doing something with his machine now, fiddling with some knobs. Trudging over to Paris—the snow was melting fast and becoming mud—Dominic got behind her and started to push.

  “Jump on with me!” Paris shouted, waving at the space on the sled behind her.

  She giggled and the sled managed two feet before giving up and tilting, sending Paris sprawling. Dominic ran to help her, but she lay on the ground, laughing. She grinned up at him. “I’d forgotten how much fun it is. I haven’t goofed off like this in years!”

  He brushed a snow flake from her cheek. Her smile stilled. The whine of Michael’s machine cut off and Michael muttered a few choice curses. Offering a hand down to Paris, Dominic helped her stand. She brushed at the mud on her butt. He did the same, giving her a swat. She grinned at him again and leaned down to grab the sled rope.

  Dominic’s mouth dried. She had as fine an ass as he’d ever seen. The shorts rode up, giving him a better view. He had to ball his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her. Heading over to Michael, Paris asked, “Problems?”

  Michael muttered something and opened a door in the side of his snow machine.

  Coming over to the two of them, Dominic asked, “So, what’s the verdict? Dead or just catching its breath?”

  Chapter Nine

  Paris glanced over at Murphy—she was going to have to start thinking of him with his last name only. She liked him—a lot. But she wasn’t looking for attachments right now, and she knew herself all too well. She wasn’t a girl who did flings very well. She’d tried it before and her heart always got tangled up with the guy. She wasn’t the type who did casual sex—she fell in love every damn time. And she could tell Dan Murphy was a guy who wasn’t into commitment—the lack of a ring on his finger screamed that.

  Still…the guy could kiss. And he wasn’t half bad to look at. And…and now she was heading into dangerous waters.

  She knew she was drawn in part to him because she wanted to fix him. She wanted to show him he could find a caring woman who’d make him want to put down roots. She wanted to put ties on him that would tangle him up good. She shook her head. She had to stop thinking like that.

  Maybe a fling was just what she did need—maybe if she had more flings she’d get better at just having fun in the moment. Maybe she really could become that passionate and confident woman who made all the right choices and didn’t give a care about the opinion of others—the woman she’d always wanted to be.

  She let out a sigh. Who was she fooling? She was always going to be more ski bum than anything else. And right now she was just a woman who was attracted to a man—the wrong man, probably.

  She flopped down next to Michael’s snow machine and pulled off her snow mittens. “I’m out of breath just from that. I’m going to have to start hiking to get in shape for snow season.”

  Michael banged on his machine, and Murphy grinned at Paris. “Please forget to invite me on those hikes. And when is snow fall around here, anyway?”

  Pulling out of his machine, Michael glanced from Paris to Murphy. “Help, or take your chatter inside.”

  Standing and brushing at her butt, Paris nodded. “Sir, yes, sir. You two see what you can do with this and I’ll make some sandwiches.”

  She left the guys bent over Michael’s machine and headed inside. It didn’t take long to make a couple of turkey sandwiches. She added some canned cranberry sauce to them and took the plates out to the front porch. She whistled for the guys, but Michael waved to her, obviously needing five minutes more.

  Biting into her sandwich, she stared at the mountains and the sky. More blue skies were in the forecast—no storms. No snow. She gave a sigh. She really wanted to be hurtling down the side of the big hill, gaining speed, the wind whistling past her ears. Some days she missed skiing so much. She grinned. She’d love to see what Dan Murphy would do on a pair of skies. She could imagine him wobbling, maybe falling into her arms. There’d be lots of laughter and…

  She cut off the thought. Dan Murphy probably wasn’t staying long enough for the first snow to hit the ground. Getting up, she headed back to the kitchen and made some lemonade from a frozen concentrate. She added ice and brought it and glasses out on a tray. Michael and Murphy had moved to the porch. Both of them were eating their sandwiches with greasy hands and talking about the snow machine.

  Around a bite of sandwich, Murphy asked, “So what’s your investment strategy? You going for an angel or crowd funding?”

  Paris stared at him. “You know investment? You really are an accountant trying to reconnect to your art, aren’t you?”

  The tips of Mu
rphy’s ears pinked. “I know some investors. Money and art always go together—it’s actually one of the big areas where investors love to stash their cash.”

  She sat down. Michael grabbed a glass of lemonade from the tray. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead. The main idea was to get it working.”

  “We had light snow last year, and it melted early,” Paris said. “Michael thinks he can extend our season by a month.”

  Michael nodded. “Last two years we’ve had sleds bogging down in soft snow and skiers complaining about patchy runs.”

  “One machine does not a business make. You’ve got a good idea here, but you need a business plan, manufacturing cost estimates, an idea how you can scale up production.”

  Paris swapped a look with Michael. Right now Mr. Murphy wasn’t sounding like an accountant, but more like a business tycoon. It left her a little nervous. Just who was this guy? She wanted to ask him flat out if he had been lying to them. But it really wasn’t any of her business. She’d just have to be more careful. The very last thing she wanted was another business-only guy in her life.

  And then Murphy grinned and took a huge bite from his sandwich. He looked a normal guy again, and when he swallowed, he told Michael, “You should go on that TV show. What is it? Shark bait? Shark something? The one where you get money for great ideas. Or better yet, there are all these websites for crowd funding. They are heaven-sent for artists because you can actually get funding for things like graphic novels and even for art installations.”

  Paris relaxed. Now he sounded more like a normal guy—like someone who got his information from the Internet and spouted off like an expert. She stood and asked, “Who wants more lemonade.”

  Murphy stood. “Let me help in the kitchen. That’s the least I can do.”

  “And maybe get another sandwich?” she asked.

  He spread his hands wide. “Busted.”

  Chapter Ten

  Dominic followed Paris into the kitchen. Stainless steel counters, fridge, freezer and sinks left the place looking totally commercial. Along with a huge-ass range and oven. But someone—Paris, he figured—had added homey touches. Drying herbs hung from a center wrought-iron rack. Bright red hand towels lay on the counters. The dishes were all white, but touches of blue on the pans and on some of the serving dishes added a splash of color. He liked the place at once.