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  Paris strode to the freezer, pulled out lemonade and tossed him the can. “Make yourself useful.”

  He glanced at the can. “What? It’s not fresh squeezed.”

  She opened the fridge and threw another look over her shoulder. “You try getting fresh fruit up here on a regular basis.”

  “You should put in a greenhouse.” She straightened with a loaf of bread in one hand. He popped the lid to open the can and started to pour it into the pitcher. “You know, go for the gourmet greens crowd—everything fresh.”

  “That’s a great idea.” She pulled luncheon meat turkey from the fridge and bumped the door closed with her hip.

  He glanced at her. “You know, you don’t have to sound like it’s amazing if I have a good idea.”

  Standing next to him, she pulled out slices of bread. “I’m still trying to figure you out—accountant, business-dick, or artist?”

  “A guy can’t have sides to him?”

  She shook her head. “I’m just not used to…to Renaissance men.”

  He added water to the lemonade, stirred, and then turned to lean on the counter and watch her make the sandwich. She put her whole focus on the sandwich. Even if it was just lunch meat, she tore off each slice, carefully folded and stacked. She went back to the fridge for mayo and canned cranberry sauce. Watching her, a sense of peace settled over him. He could have stood there forever, doing nothing more than watching her.

  She seemed to realize he was watching her because she looked up at him. That direct stare from those startling blue eyes unsettled him. He looked away and gestured at the kitchen. “This is a great space. You could do cooking classes here. You’ve got the room for it.”

  “And who would take them?”

  “Oh, come on—you’ve got rooms to put up guests. All you need is the connection to a couple of name chefs and you could pull in a crowd when there’s no snow on the ground. Heck, I’ll bet a few skiers would even sign up for some classes—it’d be a great way to warm up after a day on the slopes.”

  She put his sandwich on a plate and handed it to him. “I’m going to have to start writing these ideas down. Are you sure you’re not a marketing guy in disguise?”

  He laughed and started to tell her his marketing people thought most of his ideas were crazy. He bit off the words just in time. He couldn’t tell her that, and now he started to kick himself. Why had he ever thought posing as an artist was smart?

  Because Dominic McCarthy was hiding from the world right now.

  He glanced over at Paris and put his hand over hers. Somehow, Paris was smoothing out all his jaded edges—she was like the best whisky, a good sharp edge, a warm mellow after burn, a rich taste. He wanted more of her. “How do we stretch this day longer, Paris? I don’t want it to end.”

  “I should get some work done.”

  “Really—work? On a beautiful day like today?” And if my staff could hear that they’d all have heart attacks.

  She smiled. For a moment, he couldn’t catch his breath. The joy gleaming in her eyes and her messed up flame-red hair made her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  He moved closer, lowering his mouth to hers, giving her plenty of time to step away. She didn’t move. He put his mouth over hers. Her lips softened. She smelled like flowers—and dirt. She tasted tart like lemonade. He put his arms around her and drew her against him. She groaned and opened to him, letting him explore her mouth, letting him taste her. His heart pounded. He deepened the kiss, and Paris answered. She fit his arms. She started a fire in his guts.

  He wanted to stand there with her forever. She moved her lithe body against him, and he let his hands drift down to stroke the skin showing under her shorts.

  That touch seemed to wake her from the spell. She put a hand on his chest and pulled back. He let her go. She was breathing hard, just like he was. He wanted to put his hands in her hair and pull her close.

  Paris shook her head, but she smiled. “I…I’m not sure I’m ready for someone like you.”

  “I thought you were a downhill skier? A risk taker.”

  “I…” She looked down at his hands. She put one hand over his.

  “I want to spend the rest of the day…and tonight with you. Don’t brush me off, Paris. We …we could just talk.”

  She laughed. “Like we’re going to do just that. Dan…I…this may be moving too fast for me.”

  “Says the girl who loves speed.” Lifting her hand, he toyed with her fingers. “Tell you what, we’ll build a huge fire, get out some whisky—the good stuff, not your dad’s. It is getting cold at night. We’ll sit and watch a movie. That work for you?”

  “Give me two hours to get my work done and you’re on. That’ll give you and Michael time to cut some woods.” She kissed his cheek—and Dominic gave a groan. The things he was doing for this woman!

  Chapter Eleven

  Two hours barely gave Dominic enough time to soak in the tub after Michael finished teaching him how to split wood. He’d used muscles he’d never thought he’d had. And Michael had rolled his eyes over Dominic’s lack of skills with an axe.

  “Pansy artist,” Michael had muttered loud enough for Dominic to hear.

  “Hillbilly redneck,” Dominic muttered back. Michael had grinned and they’d gone on to swap insults.

  Thankfully, after an hour, Michael deemed they had enough wood—and he had to get dinner cooking. Dominic went to his room to clean up. He soaked, changed into a dark blue sweater and loose sweats. He wasn’t up to tight jeans tonight, or anything fancy. He slipped on a pair of Italian loafers. They looked too pricy for an artist, but they were damn comfortable.

  Coming downstairs he found Paris in the main lounge, set up with something that smelled great, a big screen TV and an array of DVDs. “I didn’t know what you liked.”

  Dominic spread his hands. “I’m a guy right, so anything with cars or explosions is good.”

  “How do you feel about sheep and English lawns?”

  They argued over film choices and finally settled on a comedy—an older movie. Paris put it in and Dominic served up soup into the bowls. He cut into the crusty bread, and spread butter lavishly on it—after cutting wood, he felt like he’d earned the calories.

  Once Paris had the movie going, she curled up on the leather couch next to him. He handed her one bowl and bread. She sat with her hair curling damp around her face—she’d washed too, and she smelled like flowers and like her soap. Dominic watched her instead of the show.

  Her face came alive as she watched—she showed every emotion. Tension, laughter, a hint of tears at the sappy ending. She watched like a kid, totally involved in the show and the moment. He envied her that gift.

  Turning to him, she put a hand on his thigh. “Popcorn—and now you can get your movie with cars and big bangs.”

  “Sounds perfect to me.”

  She came back from the kitchen with a bowl of popcorn and a bottle of whisky. Macallan’s. He lifted his eyebrows when he saw the label. “Your private stock?” he asked.

  She sat down next to him. She was barefoot, in jeans and a ratty sweatshirt. She grinned. “You bet.” Pouring two glasses she handed him one and clinked her glass against his. “Bottom’s up.”

  “Uh…aren’t we supposed to drink to something more than bottoms? Not that I’m not a fan of yours.”

  Her cheeks pinked. “Okay, what do we drink to? I know—to your art!”

  He touched his glass to hers. “To getting what our heart truly desires.”

  She smiled at him. “Poet, too? You never told me what you paint. Landscapes? Modern stuff? Abstract.”

  “Portraits. I generally sketch naked.” Her cheeks pinked again. He liked that he could make her blush. “That means I’m naked not my subject.”

  She laughed and batted at his arm. “You’re teasing me.”

  “I am. And…uh, yeah, I do very modern stuff.”

  She nodded. “As long as it’s not soup cans. Or a solid black with a red dot i
n the center. I saw that once in a magazine—some rich guy named Dominic McCarthy paid like two million for it.” Dominic almost choked on his whisky. He knew the painting. The artist had a great reputation and Dominic had bought the painting as soon as it came up for sale. It had already appreciated fifty percent. He coughed and Paris pounded his back. “You okay?” she asked.

  Throat burning, he nodded. “Went down the wrong pipe. What about that second movie?”

  She put in something with car chases and exploding and action. Dominic got distracted by some of the scenes, but mostly he watched Paris. At some point when the tension got high, she tucked her feet up under her. He touched her toes, found them cold and pulled them onto his lap. She glanced at him and he told her, “Just warming them.”

  An explosion pulled her attention back to the screen. He stroked his hand over her foot. She had strong feet, high arches, and unpainted nails. He liked that about her. She was practical—but she couldn’t balance her books. She was down to earth—but now he knew she cried over comedies and laughed over action films. She fascinated him—how the light played off her hair, how her moods showed up so fast in her eyes.

  He settled back and let the movie drone on.

  At some point, a soft hand traced down his cheek. He blinked his eyes open. Paris stood in front of him. She’d turned off the lights and the movie had ended. The half eaten popcorn bowl sat on the coffee table with the remains of the soup and bread.

  He sat up and Paris stepped back. Glancing at her, he asked, “I fell asleep?”

  “Right at the good part.” Wiggling her fingers, she held out her hand. “Come on, I’ll help you up.”

  He took her hand. She pulled and he surged up from the couch and into her arms. She teetered, but he caught her tight. Her red hair fanned around her face. Dominic touched a hand to her hair. “You’re beautiful.”

  Her cheeks pinked. “You’re a little drunk.”

  “On one glass of whiskey? The only thing I’m drunk on is you.” He touched a finger to her cheek. Her eyes darkened. Her lips parted and he knew she was about to say something sensible. He didn’t want to be sensible. He put a finger over her lips. “Don’t say it.”

  She pulled back. “Say what?”

  “You’re going to say you’re not really beautiful, or that we shouldn’t really do this, or that—”

  Wrapping a hand around the back of his neck she pulled his mouth down to hers. She kissed him long and hard and then let go. “Stop telling me what I’m going to say.”

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “Oh, like I was wrong?”

  She grinned. “Okay, I was going to say all that, but…” She let the words drift.

  “But what?” He took her face in his hands. Her body pressed into his, warm and soft. “What, Paris?”

  She put her hands over his. “But I don’t want to say any of those things. I don’t want today to end, either.”

  “Let’s see what we can do to push the dawn back.”

  She smiled and touched his lips. “Am I going to regret this? Regret letting you get too close?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t promise that. I can’t promise anything—except that I can make damn sure you have a great memory, no matter what else happens.”

  She smiled, but the smile seemed a little shaky. “I…you know…it’s rare to find honesty. Even rarer to give it.”

  Something wrapped around Dominic’s chest and squeezed hard. He didn’t know what to do about that—but he had Paris in his arms. That was something he could handle. Leaning down, he covered her lips with his.

  Chapter Twelve

  His kiss set her on fire. She could think of nothing else except his hands on her face, and then slipping under her sweatshirt and onto her bare skin. She shivered and did the same.

  He groaned at her touch. Pulling back, he dragged off her sweatshirt and then pulled off his sweater. She touched his chest, marveled at the muscles, at the soft dusting of hair. Firelight flickered over him. He pulled her down with him onto the couch.

  Cupping her breast, he rubbed the pad of his thumb over her nipple. She gave a gasp and wrapped her leg around his. She loved the feel of him on top of her—not too heavy, holding her down so she wouldn’t fly to pieces. Anticipation coiled inside her, along with the need for him. Sucking in a breath, she closed her eyes. His hands trailed over her, and then his mouth.

  He sucked a nipple into his mouth, drawing back and tugging with his lips until she arched her back and cried out for more. Sitting back, he undid her jeans and pulled them off. Then he rose and slipped off his sweatpants. He pulled a condom from the pocket, tore it open and rolled it on. She reached for his hand and pulled him back down to cover her.

  Fisting his hands into her hair, he kissed her again. When he shifted his kisses to her neck, she gave a soft hum. “More,” she muttered.

  Reaching down, he stroked into her, his fingers warm and firm. She stroked a hand over his bare shoulder. “More,” she whispered again.

  He shifted and pushed into her—just the tip of his penis, pushing. She arched and wiggled to give him more room, and he slipped in. She gave a sharp gasp. He stilled. “Did it hurt?”

  “Been a while,” she said.

  He leaned in and kissed her softly on the lips. “We’ll go slow.”

  She smiled and wrapped her legs around his waist. “Don’t you remember? I like speed.”

  His grin flashed in the firelight, cocky and sure. He pushed her back on the couch and moved down on her body, his hot mouth trailing heat over her belly. “So beautiful,” he murmured. Paris spread her legs. He settled down, and used his tongue to take what he wanted, teasing her into a boiling frenzy of need.

  She’d never had anyone want her body the way he seemed to right now. She trembled as he licked and tasted her. A flush of fire washed over her. His tongue plunged into her and then skirted over the throbbing bud and traced around her outside lips. He licked and lightly sucked. She never wanted him to stop.

  The trembling started from deep inside, a place that had never been reached by anyone else. His tongue connected with the most sensitive part of her, and he pushed his finger inside. She arched her back hard. He kissed her clitoris. Light exploded before her eyes as her body squeezed and clenched every drop of energy out of her.

  Moving up he covered her body with his again. “You’re so beautiful. Glistening. Ready to come again.” He kissed her and she tasted her arousal on his lips. Pulling back, he smiled. “Let me take you to heaven.”

  Paris ran her hands through his hair. “I never knew how good that would be.”

  He kissed again and pushed into her. “I’m going to fuck you now, Paris. Fuck you like you should be.”

  A jolt of need shook her. She nodded.

  He pulled out and pushed in again. She gripped his hips with her hands, wanting more, clawing at his arms, his sides anything to bring him inside her faster. With one forward thrust he entered her fully. She gasped. Again, he pulled out and pushed in again with hard, long strokes. The more he gave her the more she wanted. The leather squeaked under her.

  She wrapped her legs around him and held him tight. The pressure built inside her. He growled in her ear, “No one else fucks you. No one. You’re mine.”

  Pleasure swept into her, blinding, a fracture of eternity. Gasping, she held him, but she felt as if she had fractured. As if she had splintered into a million pieces. It was like the best ski run ever. Like a downhill rush. He cradled her body in his arms. Slowly, his breathing eased. He shifted so that he lay on the couch and she lay next to him, still in his arms. Her skin sweaty and cooling.

  The fire crackled at her back. She didn’t know if he’d meant what he’d said about her being his—but right now she didn’t care. Her muscles felt stretched and beautifully used. She smiled. “That was…I’ve never felt this alive.”

  He kissed the tip of her nose. “I thought you’d been married?” She gave a hum. “Not much of a husband? Some old dude?”
>
  She giggled. “Jack was…Jack. I swear he got off more on a perfect ledger or a big bank balance than he ever did with a woman. Not old, at least to look at but, not…well, not you.”

  It was his turn to give a soft hum. She propped herself up on an elbow. “I…I feel like an idiot saying this, but I…I wasn’t sure if it was me.”

  He folded an arm behind his head. “You? You thought you were frigid?”

  She traced a finger over the hair on his chest. “It was possible. I…I tried having casual sex before. And…well, I bailed. Both times. That was before I met and married Jack.”

  Catching a strand of her hair, he brushed the tip of it over her cheek. “I can tell you right now, it wasn’t your fault. And…and now I’m feeling honored that you let me, well, be the one to you know…make you…”

  Paris had to laugh. He sounded so clueless. “Make me come like a freight train? You definitely succeeded there. Must be the artist’s touch.”

  Rolling off the couch, she grabbed for her sweatshirt.

  Dominic reached for her hand. “You’re not the only one who had…Paris, my life hasn’t been lot of fun, ever. So…thank you. And, please, don’t ever settle for anything less than just what you want. Don’t ever think you’re not worth the world.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dominic woke in his own bed—and alone. He reached for Paris before he remembered she hadn’t come to bed with him. Damn. Sitting up, he scrubbed a hand through his hair and glanced around.

  The sun streamed in through the open drapes. He’d left his window open last night and the air had a tang of crisp cold in it—a hint that winter was on its way even if it was taking its own sweet time.