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  Getting up, he showered. And kept stretching. He worked out on a regular basis—he was not dying of a heart attack at fifty—but he was starting to see that weight lifting was a whole different animal from playing around with man-made snow and mud. He grinned, thinking about Paris, her laughter, her smile. Stepping out of the shower, he toweled off and dressed.

  Downstairs, the lobby and lounge still carried a hint of last night’s fire—the rooms smelled of wood smoke. Someone—Paris or Michael—had cleaned up the dishes from last night and the popcorn.

  He decided he really should at least act like an artist. He found a pad and pencil behind the check-in desk, grabbed them and headed for the kitchen. If he was going to fake sketching, he needed coffee.

  He poured a mug of dark brew and headed to the front porch. The shade still clung to its chill so Dominic dragged a chair to a sunny corner and sat down. He stared at the blank pad and sipped his coffee—and thought about Paris.

  He wanted to see her again—preferably in his bed. What would she do if he asked her to leave this place when he left? Hell, what would she do when he told her he’d lied about his name and who he was. He winced and started doodling on the pad. He’d dug himself a hole, he had to admit that. He really wanted to find her and confess everything, but he was too worried she’d toss him out. That wasn’t an option. Maybe he should just let this thing run its course? She’d get tired of him, he’d get…

  He stalled out on the thought and stared at the abstract shapes he was drawing on his pad. They were all boxes and lines. Looking out at the scenery—the trees and hills—he could hardly see anything that was straight. He tore off the page, wadded it up and tossed it, and started on some circles and curves.

  Curves—that was Paris. All curves in her body and always throwing him a curve, too. No…he wasn’t going to get tired of Paris anytime soon.

  He wished he could take her back to his world. For some reason, he wanted to give her everything she’d ever dreamed about. But she’d had that from her first husband—hadn’t she? That guy—Jack—had had money, and from the way Paris talked it hadn’t bought Paris anything she wanted.

  Dominic frowned. Working hard and being successful wasn’t a bad thing. It was an incredible thing. But it had its drawbacks. Paris was one of the few who thought of him as a person, instead of a billionaire. What would she think of him once she found out he was as rich—or maybe even richer—than her first husband?

  He kept drawing circles. That’s where he was going—round and round. He’d come here to reconnect, to get back to basics, but he’d ended up starting an affair and he had no idea where it was going. He didn’t like that feeling. He liked plans, and numbers that made sense. He wasn’t good when it came to everything else. He started thinking about the town he’d bought up, the water project he’d planned that would flood the place. Maybe he was wrong about that, too. Maybe he should have listened to more of the people-side of the equation instead of just looking at the numbers.

  He could still hear that crazy guy shouting at him, still hear the noise, and he still didn’t know what he should do next.

  Except get Paris back in bed.

  He wanted to take his time with her. He wanted to watch her face go slack with pleasure and her eyes glaze. He wanted to hear her make those sounds again. He shifted on his chair. And all that could vanish if he told her he was rich—just like her first husband.

  Looking up, he glimpsed a flash of red hair outside. She pulled up in an Outback, and stopped. Getting out of the car, she waved. Her red hair reached halfway down her slim back, and the breeze lifted a few strands. And then someone else got out.

  The guy put his hands on his hips and glanced around like the owned the place. He had a shock of white hair that contrasted with a younger, unlined face. He also had on a three thousand-dollar suit and Dominic recognized Hamilton Marshall’s signature grin—all teeth and charm. He’d been in a fight with Hamilton more than once—over a business, or an investment, or an acquisition. And even over a woman a couple of times.

  Hamilton had been born into money. But he was also damn good about making it. So what the hell was he doing here? And, of all the bad luck, Hamilton could blow Dominic’s cover. Well, there was one way to deal with this.

  Getting up, he headed straight for them, thrusting out a hand so he could grab Hamilton and talking loud. “Hamilton? Hamilton Marshall? Is that you? What the hell are you doing this far from a city? No…no, don’t tell me. First vacation in years, right? And you pick this place of all places.” Hamilton tried to pull his hand back, but Dominic shook it even harder and began to drag Hamilton with him. “Come on in and let me buy you a drink. You must be thirsty. This place is more than off the beaten path, isn’t it?”

  “You could say that. Some people pay for remote—for quiet.”

  Dominic grinned. “Yeah, some folks pay for anything. Come on in. I want to show you my sketches.” He looked over his shoulder and saw Paris frowning, and eyeing a pile of luggage in the back. That would keep her—and Michael—busy.

  Hamilton’s eyebrows lifted high, but he followed Dominic into the lounge. Michael wasn’t around, had to be out helping Paris with Hamilton’s baggage, so Dominic went behind the bar and poured two whiskeys.

  Dominic lifted his glass. “To chance.”

  Hamilton smiled. “Luck’s overrated. To brains.” He threw back his shot and hissed out a breath. “What the hell are you doing here, McCa—”

  “It’s Murphy while I’m here. Dan Murphy. I didn’t give them my real name. Trying to be smart while I scout out the place.”

  Hamilton’s smile dimmed. “Scout? Look, this is my investment. Ms. Dylan brought me in on it. I’ll let you know if I pass.”

  Dominic leaned his elbows on the bar. “Really? You’re seriously looking to invest in a ski lodge?”

  “And you’re here for your health?”

  Dominic smiled. “Sure am. Clean air. Great scenery.”

  Glancing back at the doorway, Hamilton nodded. “Yes, I saw the scenery on my way here.” He looked at Dominic again. “It’s one of the reasons I’m considering investing. Ms. Dylan sent me an interesting proposal to turn this into a summer retreat—something about no Internet, no cell phones, and no stress. And then I find you here.”

  Keeping his smile fixed, Dominic poured two more shots. “Here first. And I’m looking to buy. But you know how it goes. The name Dominic McCarthy shows up and the price goes up. Of course, she won’t sell if you invest.”

  Hamilton’s smile came back, all glinting white. He had a perfect tan to match the perfect teeth. “Nice try to get me to open my pocketbook without looking at the place first. No sale on that, Dom…I mean, Dan. I never buy any pig in any poke—not without looking at the books first of all.” He threw back his shot and leaned his elbows on the bar. “How about making this interesting? What do you say to a bet?”

  “You’re going to wager on an investment?”

  “No, I was thinking more of Ms. Paris Dylan. Ten thousand says she ends up more interested in anything I have to offer than anything you can put on the table.”

  Dominic shook his head. “No bet.”

  “Afraid?” Hamilton grinned, and Dominic stiffened. Hamilton had always rubbed him wrong, from his own-the-world attitude to his glinting teeth. He looked the guy over. Hamilton kept himself perfectly thin so his suit hung on him without a stray line. His hair was staring to thin, but money would fix that. He stared back at Dominic, his eyes a flat brown. “Well?”

  “Okay, I’ll take a bet with you. But let’s make it worthwhile. Fifty thousand says you’ll be gone in under seventy-two hours. But Dan Murphy will still be here.” He stuck out his hand. “One condition—you can’t blow my cover. I’ll be just some guy who’s hanging out hoping for snow. And I think Paris will be sick of your face and toss you and your money out—or you’ll snap from boredom.”

  Hamilton grinned. He shook Dominic’s hand. “You stay Dan Murphy—I like the o
dds better that way. And, hell, I’ll stay just so I can take your money. That’s always fun. Now I’m going to shower and shave. And maybe I’ll buy Ms. Dylan dinner tonight.”

  He left the bar. Dominic threw back his whisky and let it burn. His phone rang and he pulled it out. “Hey, Zach. What’s up.”

  “Just wanted to check in. See how it’s going. Catch you up on business.”

  Dominic drummed his fingers on the bar. “Business can wait. I’ve got something else I need your help with.”

  Silence answered him, and then Zach let out a soft whistle. “Never did I ever think I’d hear you say that. Business can wait? Man, that place is doing you some good.”

  He could hear Zach’s smile in his deep voice. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I need some digging. First on Paris Dylan’s first husband—guy named Jack. Put his plane into a mountain.”

  “I take is this Paris is female? I’m also thinking young, pretty, and why are you asking?”

  “I’ll fill you in later.”

  “Ah, the walls have ears. Got it. Hey, wait a minute, are we talking Paris Dylan the skier? She married rich—an older guy. He married a girl on the short list for the Olympic downhill team.”

  Frowning, Dominic stilled his hand on the bar. “You know her?”

  “Man, you’d know her too if you ever followed any sports. Girl was good on the slopes. Marriage seemed to kill that for her. Stories I heard—the unofficial ones—said her husband’s parents hated Paris. Thought she was a gold digger. They were old money and had enough pull to get her off that short list. After hubby died, Paris fell off the sports radar. Now what else do you need?”

  Dominic smiled. Zach was about the best friend he had. He laid out the other things he needed—most of it stuff he could have done on his own, if he had a computer or strong enough signal to use his smart phone the way God intended. He could already hear Zach’s voice going choppy with bursts of static. “Got it all?” Dominic asked.

  “Most of it. But…look, just how serious is this?”

  “You’ll know when I do.”

  Zach’s voice took on a dry tone. “I doubt that. I’ll get you what you need, but if Hamilton is there, watch your back. That bastard likes to cause trouble just for fun.”

  “And I don’t?”

  Zach’s laugh came over the line. “Tell Hamilton to go to hell from me. That bastard bought up a ranch we were trying to get with our charity fund to save open ranch land. Turned the whole thing into a luxury development in the middle of nowhere. I was hoping he’d lose a bundle on it, but he’s selling the homes, even in this market. Man has a Midas touch.”

  “Forget that.” Dominic straightened. “Oh, there is one business thing you can see to for me.” He got his orders out as fast as he could—this line was breaking up. “Can you do that, Zach?”

  “You sure about this?”

  Before Dominic could answer, the signal cut out. Cursing, he tried to call Zach again. Moving out to the lobby, he caught one bar and lost it. He didn’t have any better luck on the porch. Giving up, he headed up to his room to shave and change. He was going to make sure Paris was looking at him this evening.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Paris stuck another smile in place. Hamilton Marshall had asked for a tour. She’d tried to stick Michael with the task, but Hamilton insisted on her being his guide. And she wanted his investment. If she was going to remake this place into a business that actually made money year-round, she needed help. Right now, Hamilton was the only angel investor who’d showed any interest in the proposal she’d sent out. Thank god she had the books in order now—or really, thank you, Dan Murphy.

  “If you’d like to see the books…?”

  “I’d rather see the view from the balcony.” Hamilton flashed a bright smile at her. She’d never seen teeth so white or even.

  She nodded, and smiled even more. Leading him to the balcony, she leaned on the wood. It needed fresh paint, just like every year. The snow was great but it was hard on the buildings.

  The view was great. Looming mountains, cloud wisps in the sky, turned gold by the sunset, and dark green trees. Pine-scented air and a hint of fall finally hung in the crisp evening. “We’re hoping for snow soon,” she said. She also rattled off ideas—including some of Murphy’s, such as the cooking classes both in off season and during ski season. Heading out to the balcony, she pointed over to the side lot. “There’s room on the property to add an exercise room, and a spa. We’ll need staff, of course, and staff quarters. The nearest town doesn’t really have great accommodation. And I want to put in a green house and indoor pool over—”

  Hamilton put his hand over hers. “We should talk numbers over dinner.”

  “Uh…I don’t mix business and pleasure.”

  He smiled. “You should. After all, what else is there in life?”

  She blinked at him. That made no sense. She could think of a hundred other things—including bills. Hamilton’s smile widened. “Have your cook throw a couple of steaks on the grill. I’m doing the Paleo diet these days, so no starches.”

  “Right.” Paris thought of Michael’s cooking. If a meal didn’t have bread, Michael didn’t think you could eat it. Still, she needed investment. She was going to ignore how much Hamilton reminded her of her late husband. She was going to ignore how she’d rather spend the evening with Murphy. She was going to force yet another smile. “I’ll just go downstairs and talk to Michael. Why don’t you have a drink in the bar?”

  “Oh, I already did. With Mr. Murphy. Quite an interesting character, isn’t he?” Paris could hear something in Hamilton’s voice—something hard. But she couldn’t figure out why Hamilton would have hard feelings for Murphy. The two had seemed to know each other. Oh, hell, was Murphy trying to get Hamilton to buy a painting or invest in art? And Hamilton didn’t want to? She’d have to talk to him. She couldn’t have him screwing up Hamilton’s interest in her place.

  Heading downstairs, she gave Michael an order for salads and steaks—and no bread. Michael looked at her as if she was crazy. She left him shaking his head and went to find Murphy.

  He wasn’t in his room—at least he didn’t answer her knock. What a great time for him to disappear. Heading outside, she heard the sound of wood being chopped. She followed the uneven clunking to the side of the house.

  Murphy had his shirt off and his muscles gleamed with sweat in the twilight. She stopped her mouth drying. She’d been remembering his touch all morning, but now…now she couldn’t think. Heat skidded into her and pooled low in her belly. She was still stretched in very nice ways from him. Now, the sight of bare skin, broad shoulders, and tight jeans was enough to wish she could sneak over to him and knock him down into pine needles. But she had a dinner—and numbers to talk over.

  Letting out a breath, she called his name. He didn’t look up from his work, so he must not have heard her.

  “Hey, Murph.” He still didn’t look up, so she touched his shoulder. “Murphy.”

  He looked at her at last, a frown flattening his dark eyebrows. The frown cleared at once, replaced by a charming smile. “Hey, stranger.” He slipped an arm around her waist. Before she could say anything, he’d pulled her close. He smelled musky—and good. Like he had after sex. Her pulse quickened, and he pulled her in tight and kissed her.

  Heat flooded her, left her dizzy and breathless. She clutched his shoulders and could only hang on. At last he loosened his grip and Paris could step back.

  “You wanted to see me?” he asked.

  Paris stared at him. She had wanted to see him—now she wanted to see all of him. Naked. But she had dinner…that was right. She had to talk to Murphy about Hamilton. She pushed away from him. She couldn’t think with Murphy’s arms around her. “Are you trying to sell Hamilton Marshall a painting?”

  He gave a laugh. “That’s the last thing I’d ever do. The man makes sharks seem polite.”

  Paris wrapped her arms around herself. A chill wind had come up. God, they nee
ded snow so bad. “Great—you don’t like him.”

  “I don’t. But…look, I’ll just stay out of the way, okay. I know the guy, and well, I heard from him you’re looking for an investor. Once he goes—”

  “Goes?” She stepped back. “You’re already planning to get rid of him?”

  He shook his head, but now Paris wondered just what she’d gotten herself into. She’d let her heart rule her head last night, and now…now she was falling for this guy. She mentally kicked herself. She knew better. She knew that she didn’t do flings well, and here was the proof. She was already in over her head with this…this artist. She backed up another step. “Maybe you should leave.”

  Setting the ax head into a log, Murphy grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. “I thought I was paid up through the week? Look, if you do a deal with Hamilton he’s going to put strings on it. I know the guy. And I know some other investors.”

  Paris took a deep breath. “You’re not an artist are you?”

  “Does it matter what I am? What matters Paris,” Reaching out, he took her hand. “I think this matters. What’s between us matters. And we…we need to see where it’s going to take us.”

  Pulling away, she shook her head. “I have to get back.” Turning, she almost ran to the lodge, her head spinning and her heart aching. Just who was Dan Murphy? Why was he here? And what was he doing to her?

  She made it through dinner somehow. Once the numbers came out, Hamilton became all business, asking more questions than she could answer. He asked about overhead, about cost analysis, about long term depreciations even—her head was spinning even more.

  By the time she trudged up to her own bed, she didn’t want to see Hamilton or Murphy or anyone. She wasn’t even certain she wanted to see the hotel in the morning. She dragged on her baggiest sweats and curled up on a chair with a glass of whisky.

  A soft knock sounded on her door. She considered not answering, but this was her place. She had to answer. Pulling open the door, she glanced out. Murphy stood there, looking better than any guy had a right to. He’d showered. Stubble darkened his cheeks, but he was a guy who had to shave twice a day it came in that fast. He stood there, his chin down and his finger tips tucked into his jeans, looking like a lost boy.