A Bride For Crimson Falls (2 page)

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Authors: Cindy Gerard

BOOK: A Bride For Crimson Falls
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One
C
olin Slater trudged alongside his pint-size rescuer, doing his best to ignore both her smirk and the squishing sound his imported Italian loafers made with every step he took.
“You sure you’re okay?”
Had there been less amusement and more concern in her tone, he might have assured her that he was just dandy. Had he been less humiliated about losing his footing and then realizing the water was waist-deep, he might have responded with more than a grunt.
Instead, the best he could do was heft his suitcase into a firmer grip and plod on up the lane beside her.
The teenager sent a quick, grinning peek his way. Under other circumstances he might have found her youthful lack of guile charming. Other circumstances being anything but what they were right now.
He sneezed loudly as his sinuses rejected the last of the lake water he’d inhaled in his unscheduled baptism.
Damn, he was happy to be here. About as happy as if he’d been stranded in the middle of the Mojave in a sandstorm. Barefoot. Without a camel. Or a fax.
“I’m Casey, by the way,” the girl said, introducing herself belatedly. “My mom was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up.”
“I should be so lucky,” he grumbled under his breath. Had it been his call, he wouldn’t have been anywhere near this backwater lake that wasn’t anywhere near
anywhere
. He’d still be in Manhattan, probably closing the Lawton deal he’d been working on for the past three months.
But it hadn’t been his call. That fact rubbed against the grain with the same irritation as his soaked socks, which were slowly crawling down his heels inside his shoes.
He turned his glare on the little strawberry blonde at his side, but gave it up when she flashed that full-of-herself grin again. Becky Thatcher with an attitude. He shook his head as she pulled ahead of him and loped up the steps leading into what he’d concluded was his new business venture.
He scanned the aged and deteriorated structure he’d glimpsed from a distance when the boat had docked, then let out a deep breath. Some business venture.
It was also proof positive that Colin Slater, self-made millionaire, business mogul
extraordinaire
, per the
Wall Street Journal
, was the sucker of the century.
He couldn’t prevent a wry grin. J. D. Hazzard had missed his calling. Instead of making his fortune in air freight, Hazzard ought to be selling sand to sheiks. If he couldn’t convince them they needed more, they’d buy just to get rid of him. Just like Colin had bought those raffle tickets to get Hazzard off his back.
“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 apology, 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?”

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