A Bride For Crimson Falls Read online

  “Consider it a good deed,” J.D. had wheedled with that candy-eating grin he’d used to charm everyone from Slater Corporation’s receptionist to Colin’s private secretary when they’d started doing business together several years ago.

  “You are familiar with the term aren’t you, Slater?” he’d continued. “Surely before you got busy becoming so obscenely rich, you did a good deed or two.”

  Hazzard had known exactly what buttons to push. Just like he’d known that Colin always dug deep when the calls came in, soliciting contributions for one cause or another. “What’s a few grand in your scheme of things?” J.D. had added, shoving a book of raffle tickets under his nose.

  It was true. The money he’d laid out for a chance at winning part ownership in this very obviously outdated and badly in-need-of-restoration hotel hadn’t created any hardship.

  Until now, he thought grimly, nearly tripping on a sagging porch board. Hell. He hadn’t figured on winning. Even if he had, he sure as hell hadn’t planned on staking any claim.

  “Thank you one and all,” he muttered, thinking not only of J.D., but of his brother, Cameron, who had insisted he needed a time-out from the corporate crush. Even his secretary, Edith, had been in on the plan to hustle him out of New York.

  “Before you burn out.” They’d bullied repeatedly. Cameron had gone so far as to “retain” a couple of strong-armed “escorts” and then stood by smirking when they’d ganged up on him this morning like a pair of marauding Boy Scouts determined to help some poor decrepit soul across a street. He’d never fully appreciated the term shanghaied until they’d bodily “assisted” him to his private jet while Cameron issued orders to go away and stay away for a minimum of two weeks.

  He took a long look around him, wondering if the only way in or out was by boat or plane. Well, he was definitely away. Water. Trees. Rock. Sky. That pretty well summed it up.

  This wasn’t just a time-out. It was a washout.

  Scarlett set the bowl of chocolate frosting on the counter with a thud. “You did what?”

  “I gave him Belinda’s room,” Casey repeated, sounding way too pleased with herself. She snitched a fingerful of frosting, then with a giggle, scooted out of her mother’s reach when Scarlett playfully swatted her hand away.

  “You’ve got a mean streak in you, child.” Pastry knife in hand, Scarlett put the final touches on the chocolate layer cake she planned to serve her guests after dinner. “As much as I dislike the idea of him being here, we can’t leave Mr. Slater in that room. Belinda will give him the business.”

  Casey’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “She usually does when we put a man in her room.”

  “Which is why we make it a point to offer it to our women guests,” Scarlett reminded her with a distracted scowl.

  “Come on, Mom. Don’t be a spoilsport. I’ve missed her.”

  Scarlett snorted. “So have I...like a toothache. She causes too much trouble.”

  “But it’ll be fun,” Casey argued. “The guests always get a kick out of Belinda when she gets on a tear.”

  “Only because we work overhard to convince them she’s harmless. No easy feat, considering the idea of a ghost in residence has a tendency to set people a tad on edge.”

  “Well, Mr. Slater didn’t seem to mind.”

  Scarlett eyed her daughter with suspicion. “You actually told him about her?”

  Casey shrugged evasively. “More or less.”

  She raised a brow suspiciously. “Less would be my guess.”

  “It’s not my fault he didn’t believe me.” Casey grinned again. “I can’t wait for Belinda to start pulling her pranks.”

  “A wicked, wicked child,” Scarlett muttered, fighting her own grin. The possibilities of Belinda’s style of harassment tickled her...so much that she wished she could give Casey her way on this one. The prospect of having an advantage—any kind of advantage—on someone as wealthy and as stuffy as Slater was hard to resist.

  She set the frosted cake aside and checked on the casserole she planned to serve her guests for dinner within the hour. “What do you think J.D. would say if we subjected Mr. Slater to Belinda?”

  “Oh, I forgot. They’re friends, aren’t they.” Undaunted, Casey opened a cabinet door and started gathering dinner plates to set the dining room tables. “J.D. doesn’t have to know, does he?”

  “J.D. doesn’t have to know what?”

  Scarlett jumped at the sound of an unfamiliar male voice. She spun around, a hand to her throat, then stared in startled silence at the man standing just inside her kitchen door.

  “J.D. doesn’t have to know that you fell off the dock,” Casey volunteered quickly, shooting him a huge, wide-eyed grin. “We were just saying we could save you that little embarrassment. Right, Mom?”

  Scarlett would have taken more time to wonder when her sweet, innocent daughter had gotten so devious if she hadn’t been so preoccupied with other things. Like the set of broad shoulders currently filling up a substantial portion of her kitchen. And a head of hair that was deep chestnut, perfectly styled and still damp around the edges from his encounter with the lake.

  And the mesmerizing magnetism of a pair of steel gray eyes set in a face that could sell anything from bourbon to woodsy cologne to black satin sheets.

  So, she thought, completely unnerved by the unexpected perfection of the package he came wrapped in, this was Colin Slater.

  She drew in and slowly released a deep breath, trying to pit her preconceived notions against the picture he made standing there. Her long-distance glimpse of him had been little more than a blur of a business suit and windmilling limbs. Up close and personal, it was immediately evident that a potbellied cigar smoker, he definitely was not.

  He’d ditched the suit that was no doubt as soggy as the doughnuts Geezer dunked in his coffee every morning. In its place was a white, short-sleeved broadcloth shirt tucked into tan twill trousers. Not exactly cutoffs and a T-shirt, which was pretty much standard North woods attire, but it was notably less aseptic than the suit. And it was definitive in proving there was no belly—unless it was of the washboard variety.

  That unsolicited speculation caught her off guard. She had no business thinking about his midsection—or any other section of his impressive body.

  “Set the tables, Casey,” she said with a stiff smile. “Mr. Slater and I need to discuss his accommodations.”

  “Rats,” Casey grumbled. She gathered a stack of plates and headed for the dining room. “It would have been fun,” she added with a pout, as she set her fanny to the swinging door and bumped it open.

  “There’s a problem?” Scarlett heard Slater ask as she stood there, all of her visible attention focused on the gradually slowing motion of the swinging door.

  Unfortunately the sound of his voice—authoritative, yet soft; curious but polite; unsettling in its sensuality-kept her hormonal attention focused on those other sections that she’d told herself she wasn’t going to think about.

  Except that she was still thinking about them. Was far too aware of them, in fact, and finally had the sense to ask herself why.

  Because she’d been expecting so much...so much what? So much more of a dud? So much less of a man?

  Putting on her business face, she fabricated a gracious smile and willed both firmly in place.

  “Formalities first.” She wiped her hand on a dish towel before extending it to him. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Scarlett Morgan.”

  “Colin Slater, as you’ve already figured our,”

  Unlike his return smile, which was cool but polite, his hand was warm as it covered hers, his gaze intense as he assessed her. Again she was taken with the unusual gray of his eyes. Gray, however, seemed far too generic and mundane a word to describe them. Gray sounded plain. Gray sounded ordinary. They were neither. What they were was a stunning, smoky quicksilver—and right now, they were hovering somewhere between cool reserve and open appreciation. His gaze roamed her face without apol
ogy, while hers did the same, unabashedly studying him. In her case, however, she felt like a gawking tourist, wowed by the uniqueness of her discovery.

  Okay, this has to stop, she told herself sternly. The problem was that she’d never been good with surprises—and Colin Slater was definitely that.

  His hand was huge and hot. And his grip was firm and strong. So was the corded muscle of his forearms, she noticed, as he continued to hold her hand in his. The breadth of his chest was, for lack of a better word, impressive. And contrary to what she’d envisioned, it seemed that the only thing his shirt was stuffed with was him, lots of him, and judging by the soft dark curls peeking above the top button, lots of them, too.

  It didn’t end there. The way his trousers fit over lean hips and long legs that appeared to be slightly and quite beautifully bowed did unexpected and fluttery little things to her tummy.

  And so it goes, she thought in self-disgust as she realized her mind had wandered back into territory even a fool would avoid.

  So he was nothing like what she’d expected from a city boy who pushed pencils and little else. So what. Just because he was pretty didn’t mean he was any less of a threat. She still didn’t like the idea of him being here. She liked even less that she felt suddenly self-conscious about the roughness of her hand, tucked inside his.

  Realizing belatedly that they might have just set the record for longest-recorded handshake greeting, she withdrew her hand quickly and grabbed her towel. Work at the hotel was not conducive to lily-white, silky soft skin. No matter how much lotion she slathered on each night, her hands felt closer to sandpaper than satin by this time of day.

  And why do you even care if he noticed? she berated herself mentally, more puzzled and unsettled by her reactions every moment.

  “You—you look a little different dry,” she said, determined to get it together. When she heard how inane and hollow-headed she sounded, she felt herself flush with embarrassment. “Well, that was a true jewel of a statement. As subtle as an icebreaker. And a shoo-in for the insensitivity award. I’m sorry.”

  Instead of taking offense, he just shrugged. “No problem. I feel a lot different dry, too.”

  She tilted her head, a reluctant smile forming that offered a smidge of sympathy and a pinch of goodwill. “You mean you’re not going to spend the next ten minutes justifying what happened?”

  “And then another ten explaining why it wasn’t my fault I made a laughingstock of myself?” He gave a dismissive and good-natured shake of his head. “Not my style.”

  His style, it seemed, was to take it on his jutting, masculine chin and move on. This surprised her; she grudgingly admired his grace under fire.

  He surprised her again with the sincerity and the straightforwardness of his next statement. “I know this is an imposition. I hope you don’t mind that I’m here.”

  “Of course not,” she said quickly, mimicking his polite tone, then wondering why she hadn’t gagged on the words. Talk about surprises. She’d just flat-out fibbed. She minded. She minded big-time that he was here.

  Lying—even a white lie for the sake of decorum—was not her style. However, she didn’t correct it; in fact, she compounded it. “Crimson Falls is part yours now. Your interest is understandable.”

  Deeper and deeper. She didn’t find his being here understandable at all. And she couldn’t comprehend why she didn’t know how to act around this man or why he set her on the sharp side of a very nervous edge.

  Yes, she did, she admitted finally. She just hadn’t wanted to believe it. It was physical. Pure. Potent. Profound.

  She hadn’t recognized the feeling at first, because it had been so long since she’d experienced it. She’d thought her experience with John and their divorce had awarded her lifelong immunity from the opposite sex. Apparently she’d been wrong.

  It wasn’t as if she never saw attractive men—although, granted, if most of the men who stayed at the hotel didn’t smell like fish and look like bears when they got here, they did by the time they left. But there had been the occasional single, attractive male who had expressed interest. Their interest and hers, however, peaked at opposite ends of the scale.

  So what was different about this man? Sure, he was sleek and sexy and self-assured. Not to mention sophisticated, worldly and wildly attractive. And his voice, she’d decided, would sound seductive reading a weather report.

  It was more than that. It was how he made her aware of herself, as a woman who’d ignored the sensual side of her nature for too long, as a woman lacking in the social graces and sophistication a man like him was accustomed to experiencing.

  “Scarlett?”

  His voice penetrated her thoughts like a splash of lake water.

  “What?” she said quickly, when she realized she’d been standing there like an extension of the counter. “What? Did I miss something?”

  He smiled. Slow and cautious and undeniably amused. “I’ve heard that those short vacations are great.”

  She felt her face flush as scarlet as her name. “Oh. I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little preoccupied. With preparing dinner and all.”

  She let out a big breath, reluctantly met his eyes, which were now probing hers with undisguised curiosity, and gave it up.

  “Oh, hell.” She tossed the towel onto the counter and propped her fists on her hips. Her unprecedented reaction to him had done more than rattle her. It had made her forget who she was and what she stood for. She didn’t lie. She didn’t posture. And she sure as the world didn’t call a shovel a teaspoon. It was time for some honesty.

  “The bald truth, Mr. Slater, is that I’m preoccupied because of you. I lied when I said it wasn’t a problem for you to be here. I lied when I said I understand that you want to check out your investment. The fact of the matter is—”

  “You resent my presence? You don’t want me meddling?” he suggested, walking up beside her.

  Her chin went up a notch. She shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry, but yes. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that—”

  Again he supplied the words she hadn’t quite worked up the candor to voice. “You needed my money, not my advice.”

  Because his conclusions were so dead-on accurate, she averted her gaze from eyes that had gone soft with understanding. She fussed at a stain on the countertop.

  “You know, you’re making it awfully hard to dislike you.”

  “Good. Because you’re going to have to trust me on this one. There’s no need. I’m not here because I’m interested in my investment.”

  Her head came up. She eyed him with doubt of the hopeful variety. “No?”

  “No.”

  He sounded sincere. He looked the part, too. She would like to accept that he was, but if there was one thing she’d learned about men from her ex, it was that they rarely did something for no reason. Even though her opinion of Colin Slater had risen with his candor, she was skeptical that she’d come face-to-face with the exception.

  “Then I guess that prompts the obvious question,” she said, taking her doubt to the limit. “Why are you here, Mr. Slater?”

  He flashed her a quick, fidgety smile then began wandering restlessly around the kitchen. “Better make it Colin, since it looks like I’m going to be stuck here for a couple of weeks.”

  Scarlett had to turn in a slow circle to follow his progress. He made her think of a cat on the prowl. A big, predatory cat, his eyes alert and watchful, his dark chestnut hair sleek and full-bodied.

  “To answer your question,” he said, still on the move, “I’m here because well-intentioned friends and family decided I needed a vacation.” The tight compression of his lips relayed pure irritation.

  He stopped his restless wandering long enough to pick up a quart jar of green beans that she’d canned earlier this summer. He studied the jar, set it down with a distracted frown, then shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “I stand accused of being a workaholic. I believe the term burnout also came up. Oh, and battle fatigue�
��they really liked that one. In their learned opinions, I need a rest.”

  She didn’t doubt the workaholic reference. The way he moved around the room, the stiff set of his shoulders, relaying his tension, spoke to an underlying energy and drive. She wasn’t, however, prepared to accept his statement on faith.

  “On the level? You really didn’t come here intending to flex a little fiscal muscle on the hotel?”

  He made a soft sound of derision. “On the level.”

  She should have felt relief. And in a way, she did. If what he was saying was true, however, another budding suspicion, equally disturbing, set her back on that edge she suspected was every bit as cutting as his.

  “These well-intentioned friends,” she began slowly. “Would J. D. Hazzard happen to be among them?”

  He snorted. “Among them? He’s the ringleader. At least from this end. It was his idea that since I was getting away, I should ‘get away’ here.”

  “His idea? Really.” She tapped a thumb against her lips, thinking of all of J.D.’s posturing about Slater coming to check out his investment. “And you really didn’t come here to change the way we do business?”

  He raised his hands, palms up in supplication. “What else can I say? You’re going to have to trust me on this. I have no interest in this hotel.”

  “I’m not a naturally suspicious person,” she said, a frown furrowing her brow, “but if that’s the case, why did you get in on the raffle?”

  Again he stopped pacing. Again, he picked up a jar—her blueberry jam this time—and studied it with a distracted scowl before setting it back on the shelf. “J.D. said it was for a good cause. Preserving the past and all that. Historical enhancement.”

  “And you accept everything J.D. tells you at face value?”

  He shrugged. “He’s never given me a reason not to.”

  “Until now,” she said as her suspicions began to solidify.

  He turned to her, his frown deepening. “Are you saying the money isn’t going for a good cause?”

  Reluctantly she met his eyes. With even more reticence she voiced her thoughts aloud. “I’m saying,” she began with caution, “that I think I’m beginning to. smell a rat the size of an airplane—a float plane to be exact—piloted by none other than your friend and mine, J.D. Born-To-Be-a-Meddler-Hazzard.”