Secret Billionaire's Frosty Lover

by Leslie North

  “For a bartender, he hasn’t said much. But I guess his job is to listen more. So what kind of changes do you want to make to the place?”

  She wrinkled her nose and waved a hand. “Lots. More than I can afford right now. This place used to drive my husband crazy.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t know you were married.”

  “Widowed. Weird, I know, since most people end up divorced. But my late husband put his private plane into the side of a mountain.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She gave a shrug. The regret was still there, deep and wide, but the rest had long faded into bittersweet memories. “It was…Jack wanted a smart, pretty wife. Unfortunately for him, he got me.”

  “I don’t see what was so unfortunate about that?”

  She turned and leaned both elbows on the bar. “We honeymooned here—our special place. Jack bought it for me on the spot.” She shook her head. “That was Jack. He thought it would be our retreat. And he had the money to buy whatever he wanted. But Jack also thought everything he touched should produce a thirty-percent growth rate every year. This place drove him crazy. Even more than I ever did.”

  Tipping his head to one side, he looked like he was studying her, a curiously intent expression on his face. “You don’t sound happy about it. Why’d you marry him?”

  “You mean, why hook up with a driven businessman who can’t see past the bottom line?” Turning, she smiled. “Great question. All I can say is I was young enough not to know better. I fell in love—hard and fast. And I had this weird idea Jack needed someone who could make him laugh. I also had this idea that with his kind of backing, he’d make me a ski champion. I was wrong about just about everything. I’m good on the slopes, but I’m not great. I’m no Suzy Chaffee.”

  “Who?”

  The corner of her mouth twisted up with a smile. “You really aren’t in the skiing scene. But don’t you remember those Chapstick commercials way back when?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry. I’m not much on pop culture.”

  “Ever been married?” she asked.

  “Do I look like it?”

  “No…no, I guess not. You’re probably too smart for that.”

  “And you sound way too cynical for your age.”

  She nodded. “Yes, well, that happens when your husband ends up making you cry most of the time. He had money and we always fought over it. Maybe we’d have been happy if we were broke, but Jack…he couldn’t focus on anything but business. We were probably six months from divorce when Jack—” She cut off the words and shook her head.

  “You thought he might have done it on purpose?”

  “Oh, hell, no, not Jack. He thought he was immortal. Money could buy him everything. The only reason the divorce didn’t come soon was that Jack also hated giving up on any project. He was still trying to make me the perfect wife, and this place…well, he couldn’t ever get it to do more than break even.”

  “What? With the prices you charge?”

  “Oh, yeah. This place eats money. Pipes break every damn year. There are always repairs and upgrade, and heading. Jack tried everything from expansion to shutting it down for half the year. The expansion couldn’t be done because of local zoning. Shutting it down cut costs, then cost more since Jack had to hire the staff back at double the rate to get them to come back. And me…well, I was just as expensive.”

  “Shopping?” he asked.

  She glanced at him, eyes narrowed, saw a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth. He had a good mouth, wide with a full lower lip and a thin upper lip. A contrast of lush and stern. She smiled. “Oh, no, Jack would have approved of extravagance—couture clothing and jewels would appreciate. Charities don’t.”

  He gave a warm laugh. The sound echoed in the empty bar, deep and rich, and consummately male. Paris felt it right down to her toes, much like the whisky. She lifted her glass. “To better days.”

  She drank and slapped her glass on the bar. He drank as well and hissed out a breath. “Grows on you like red-hot razor blades.”

  He tipped his head and smiled at her. Her breath caught in her chest. She knew he was going to kiss her—knew it from the look in his eyes, from how he leaned closer. He gave her every chance to pull away, but it had been a long time, and she’d had just enough whisky to be a little reckless. And thinking of Jack had reminded her how lonely she’d been—even before Jack had died.

  He slanted his mouth over hers, his breath tasting and smelling of whisky—a sharp burn to go with the soft lips. He knew how to kiss and that was good. It wasn’t a wet kiss, not at all sloppy or uncertain. He teased her lips with his tongue and she opened her mouth to him. He tasted her, and she tasted him back. Her body tingled in a way that had nothing to do with whisky, and she touched a finger to his cheek and pulled back with a breath let out.

  “Thanks.”

  He tipped his head to the side. His eyebrows—so very flat and dark—lifted in the center. “For what?”

  “A distraction.”

  “It could be more.”

  She shook her head, uncertain if she was denying the truth, or just certain that more with this man could be trouble. She touched the back of his hand. He hand a painter’s hands—long fingers, narrow palms, sensitive and tapering. She could imagine those hands on her—and how he’d leave her both satisfied and wrecked. He was heartbreaker, he was. She could see that in his reckless smile, in those blue eyes that seemed so guileless. He’d be the type of man who could sweetly lie and leave you just as fast as you could blink.

  His mouth crooked. “Let me guess—not with guests? Damn, I should have booked another hotel.”

  She grinned. “That’s the one advantage we have—we’re the only resort in fifty miles.” She pushed away from him. Michael stepped from the kitchen, carrying steaming plates. She gave him a nod. “Enjoy your hamburger. Michael, I’ll take mine in the office.”

  Chapter Five

  The next day, Dominic decided on a drive into town—but not on the back road. It took over an hour, but with the sun out and the air crisp, he didn’t mind. It didn’t help get his mind off Paris.

  The town wasn’t much—a main street with a grocery store, a post office, two gas stations, a coffee shop that seemed too cute to be real and specialized in Swedish pancakes, and a lonesome church that looked in need of a new roof. At least he had signal here. He called Zach—two days away from his business wasn’t going to hurt anything, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this disconnected.

  Zach’s voice came over the line, bright and loud. “Hey, buddy, how’s the big wild? And why are you calling?”

  “Would you believe boredom?”

  Zach laughed. “Good. You could use some of that. Met anyone?”

  “I’m not here to meet anyone, Zach.”

  “Yes, you are. Locals—remember. Real people. Get out there and mingle. It won’t kill you. That’s how you reconnect—you connect.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m beginning to think this was a mistake. Hey, what do you know about art?”

  “Art?” Zach gave another laugh. “Should I ask?”

  “Nope, probably not. But my cover is that I’m now an artist.”

  Dominic was pretty sure he could hear the sputtering of Zach choking on his coffee—or whatever else he was drinking. “Let me guess,” Zach said. He cleared his throat. “There’s a girl.”

  “Woman. Damn pretty. Got a face made for heartbreak and I’m not sure she wants to hook up with a starving artist.”

  Zach laughed again. “This is perfect. Just what you need.”

  “What?”

  “Romance her, Dominic. Have a good time. Be yourself. You might find something reflected back in her eyes that you like. Now I’ve got to go. Don’t call again unless it’s an emergency!”

  Zach hung up. Dominic shoved the phone back into his pocket. Great—mingle. Romance! He huffed out a breath. Like that was going to happen. Heading into the store, he checked the price of bread,
decided they had to be marking up everything. But he bought the bread, and some milk, too. Why, he had no idea, but wasn’t that something that normal people did—bought stuff they didn’t need or couldn’t afford? He bought a candy bar as well. Why not. He looked over fishing gear, decided that was a waste of his time. He was about as likely to catch a bass as he was to hook Paris.

  And he kept thinking about her.

  That kiss last night—she’d tasted like that turpentine whiskey of her dad’s with a flavor underneath that had to be her own. Something sweet. She’d been warm, soft—and he had to admit he was disappointed that kiss hadn’t gone anywhere. What was she hanging out for? Another husband? Or something else?

  He rubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t shaved, but had gone out in a light sweatshirt and jeans and loafers. He wondered if he looked even more like his cover story—like that bum artist. Was that a point against him as far as Paris was concerned?

  He’d had a couple of relationships that had lasted longer than a month or two. But in general he liked to keep things simple. He dated models who wanted to get their names and faces in front of the cameras. They loved the press. He loved them. They parted with smiles.

  He avoided the society girls who were generally looking at his net worth and angling for a ring on their left hand. Every now and then he wondered if he should look for more than a maid who kept his house or an assistant who kept his schedule or a drinking buddy who could be counted on for a good time. But why? He didn’t see any point to passing along his genetic material, and for the rest of it—

  A mom came out of the post office, a little girl in pigtails in her arms. He stopped and watched them. Mom seemed to be trying to cheer up the girl, who looked ready to throw a fit. She threw her doll to the pavement and mom bent to pick it up. He smiled. He could see Paris with a kid like that—red headed, both of them, with tempers to match. He wondered if Paris wanted kids.

  He shook his head and turned his back on the mom and her kid.

  But something stirred in him, a ridiculous tug that wouldn’t be ignored. He’d had to buy something at the store just to try and be normal, but what was he going to do with any of it? Turning back to mom, he walked over and held out his bag. “Here. She’s probably starving and you are, too, I’ll bet.” The mom stared at him. But she stood and took the bag. Dominic bent down in front of the kid. “You behave. You keep pulling a face like that and it’s going to freeze that way and then where will you be?”

  The kid stared at him, eyes wide, her face bunched up like she wanted to start crying, but frozen now. He touched her nose. She blinked. Smiling at the mom, he straightened, turned, and walked away.

  Ah, what the hell was he doing here? Pretending to be normal! That was a joke.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets, got in his car, and started driving.

  His entire life had been about building wealth—well, okay, about showing the old man he wouldn’t starve. Ever. Now he realized he hadn’t thought beyond that. He’d had a goal with no end. How could there ever be enough money or wealth to top the empire his father had built? But did he even care about that anymore?

  He thought back to the guy who’d shot at him. Those could have been real bullets. His life could have ended there. He’d have ended with an obituary on the front page and not much more. He glanced around and saw he’d driven past the town. Pulling over, he glimpsed a tiny graveyard, not much more than a few granite stones chunked into the duff of the pines. Stopping the car, he got out and stared at the scene.

  This is where we all end up.

  When he’d lost his mother, he’d been damn sure he’d never feel so much for anyone again. He’d missed her every day of his life. But had he done anything to reactivate her charities? Or to make her memory a lasting one? Or to carry on her legacy of laughter? Hell, maybe he really was becoming his old man. Maybe he couldn’t help that. Or maybe…maybe if his mother had lived his father might have been a different man. The thought shook him.

  Dominic glanced at the graves, got back in his car, and headed back to the hotel. But he was starting to wonder what he’d be like if he found someone who would love him as much as his mother had loved his father.

  ***

  “Afternoon, Michael. Don’t suppose you have lunch, do you.” Dominic gave the bartender a wave and slid onto a seat at the bar. “Oh, and you might’ve warned me about that rocket fuel last night.”

  Michael let out a laugh. He slid a bowl of peanuts onto the bar. “Dinner is my specialty. But you might talk Paris out of sandwich. And why should I have ruined all the fun of you finding out for yourself?”

  “Ah, you’re someone who thinks we have to learn by doing.” Reaching over, Dominic scooped out a handful of peanuts. “Where is Paris, by the way? Don’t tell me she is still hitting the books.”

  “Not my place to answer.” Michael leaned on the bar. “But, yes, she is. Accounting isn’t one of her strong points.”

  A distant cursing carried out to the bar. Dominic grinned. “Sounds like the numbers are winning the battle. Will she kill me if I offer help?”

  Michael’s eyebrows lifted. “An artist who knows numbers?”

  Dominic waved a hand and stood. “Hey, I am not a walking cliché. I’ll just follow the cursing.” He wandered back into the lobby. He didn’t have far to go to find the source of the cloud of profanity gathering.

  Paris’ office opened off the main lobby. She’d left the door behind the counter open and the cursing got louder and more creative. Dominic stopped in the doorway to admire.

  She perched on the edge of her chair, a T-shirt tight enough to let him see her bra strap and the curve of her spine. She had freckles on the backs of her arms and from the way she sat—forward and tense—he was going to guess this wasn’t her favorite part of her job.

  She sat in front of a computer and flat screen monitor, stacks of papers around her. If she had an organizing system, he couldn’t guess what it was. Muttering another curse, she pounded the entry key with the eraser side of a pencil. “Why won’t you add you stupid, fricking—”

  “Keep pounding like that and you’re going to give the poor thing a complex.”

  She whirled around. She had pulled her hair up and back, but strands escaped to frame her face. She blushed a bright red as she stared at him, and then relaxed back in her office chair and smiled. “You’re not supposed to sneak up on a girl like that.”

  “What—or you’ll come after me with that pencil?” He waved at the one in her hand.

  She threw it on the desk. “Damn thing was working fine, yesterday. But today—oh, I’d love to get my hands on the people who built this software!” Heading into the room, he waved her to her feet. She stood, eyeing him warily. “And what do you think you’re doing?”

  “Getting on the good side of my innkeeper—she might buy me dinner if I fix this mess. And when I say mess, I mean disaster.”

  She blushed again. “I’m not exactly—”

  “Good with the books? So Michael told me. I like numbers. They like me. And before you say it—yes, an artist can be good at math. You think Mozart was a math dummy? Or Da Vinci? Besides, you have to have something for a backup plan, right?”

  She gave a reluctant smile. “I’m embarrassed to let you look at any of this. And, uh, I’ve never been great for backups. I usually just throw myself head first and then find out if it’s going to work.”

  “Ah, a true downhill skier. Well, this can’t be worse than my own finances right now. So, let’s start off by getting you organized. And then I think we could both do with some fun.”

  Chapter Six

  Paris watched him work. He sorted through the paperwork, dividing into piles—something to do with money coming in or going out—and then by months. He coaxed the computer back into behaving, and his long fingers danced over the keyboard to make entries. In two hours, he’d gotten ten times the work she usually got entered during a week.

  “Okay, Mr. Murphy—I’ve go
t you pegged. Your secret is out!” He seemed to freeze, and she didn’t get why. Had she embarrassed him? She slapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re really a tax accountant pretending to be an artist. Now the only question is can I hire you?”

  Turning in the office chair, he grinned up at her, looking more boy than man, his eyes gleaming with something that looked a lot like relief. His flat eyebrows tilted up in the center. “I see you have discovered my secret identify. The rest we can negotiate over dinner. I’m starved.”

  She nodded to the door. “Come on. I’ve been saving some steaks.” She led the way into the kitchen. And she could feel his eyes on her. She didn’t mind. It had been too long since she’d had a man who’d admire her body—usually, they were more interested in the resort, or trying to get it from her. Or in her as a trophy—the late Jack Dylan’s wife. Yes, that’s the way many still thought of her. But Dan Murphy—he was just a guy.

  Logically, she realized she’d only known him for a day, but she liked how the whisky had brought out a fun side to him. She was attracted to him. She was willing to see where that went.

  In the kitchen, she lit the grill and pulled out the steaks. She checked the oven and saw Michael had put the potatoes into bake for her. She opened the fridge and took out the fixings for a salad.

  Mr. Murphy held up his hands. “I hope you don’t expect me to cook.”

  “How about a salad? Can you chop?”

  “I can watch.”

  “What fun is that?” She tossed him a head of Romaine. “Tear that up into that bowl.”

  He glanced at the lettuce, holding it away as if it might bite. “Do I wash it or something first?”

  “It’s been washed. Just tear. Bite-size pieces. But wash up first.” She gestured to the sink and then began to chop tomatoes. Watching him tackle the salad, she asked, “You obviously don’t cook much. Do you ski at all? Or do you like summer sports?”