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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.
“Can I come in?”
“Will you behave?”
His grin flashed. “Do you want me to?”
She threw back her whiskey. Dammit, where was the girl who used to race downhill—and beat everyone? She grabbed Murphy’s shirt with her fingers. “Hell, no.” Dragging him into her room, she fused her lips to his. She couldn’t breathe in enough of him, couldn’t touch enough of his skin, couldn’t get his clothes off and hers gone fast enough.
