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Paris crossed her arms and doubled her rates. “Our premier suite is five thousand a week.”
He gave her a level, hard look, and she wondered how many of his staff buckled under that look. “With no snow and no staff? No way.”
She tilted her chin. “We do have the small loft for five hundred.”
“Can I speak to the manager?” He straightened and glanced around, the annoyance back in his eyes and his voice. “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”
She frowned. Well, he might be the best looking male she’d seen in months, but she wasn’t some country hick who’d just fallen off the turnip truck. “Are you certain?”
He glanced at her and a smile curved his mouth. It was utterly unfair that any man should have that kind of charm. She wanted suddenly to make him smile even more. She fought the urge. If he was one of the rich that she was trying so hard not to attract to her lodge anymore, she wanted him gone.
Flicking back her hair, she told him, “Why bother with the manager when I can get the owner for you?”
“Fine. Do it.” He crossed his arms, looking ridiculously smug and superior.
Paris’ smile froze. “I’ll be right back.” She stepped into the large office behind reception. She checke
d her make-up, straightened her hair, redoing the barrette that kept it out of her eyes. She grabbed a cola from the small fridge and took a long drink. No rush. The owner could keep him waiting for as long as she wanted. She also thought over her strategy.
She had a good mind to just tell him to leave, but it was off season. The lodge could use the cash, particularly with the renovations she wanted to make and the change in advertizing. She wanted to redo this place from a rich-bitch ski resort into a true spiritual retreat—and something about that guy tugged on her.
Sure, he looked confident, but she’d caught something else hidden in his eyes. A deep hurt—a wound. He put on a good show to hide it, but she’d always been sensitive to the hurts of others. Probably because she’d gotten a few hurts put on her. Jack had never been the most caring of husbands—and he’d thought it a right to have a wife and several mistresses. She gave a sigh. Poor Jack. He hadn’t been the best husband, but at least he’d left her the lodge—and she loved these mountains.
She pulled in a breath and glanced at her reflection one more time. Okay, so maybe she didn’t look much like a hotel owner. Not in jeans with her hair down to her waist and an old plaid shirt hanging loose around her. She gave herself a nod and touched her cheek—her freckles were showing again. Putting back her shoulders, she put on a smile and told herself, “Showtime.”
Striding back into the lobby, she stuck out her hand for a handshake. “Good afternoon, sir. Paris Dylan, I’m the owner. Welcome to Obersaxen Resort and Retreat.”
His mouth dropped open. His cheeks reddened. And his blue eyes widened. Paris gave him her biggest, sweetest smile. “And I’m afraid the only room we can let to you is the loft.”
Chapter Two
Dominic stared at the young woman before him. Out from behind the counter, the smattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks stood out. The light shade of her sky-blue eyes showed a mocking challenge. Fine—if she wanted to play, he’d play.
He took her offered hand and caught the softness between both his hands. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m…Dan. Dan Murphy. I’m here for an art sabbatical. Hoping to find my muse, if you would.”
“You’re an artist?” Auburn eyebrows, a shade darker than her long red hair, lifted high.
He stared back at her. He’d said the first thing that had come to mind. Now he was stuck. “I am.” He put emphasis on the words—he’d done his first business deal on just a bluff and his name. Now he was back to that again. And it felt good.
“Which medium?”
Dominic knew a trap when he heard one being set. “None at the moment, if I don’t get a move on.” She smiled a small smile, seemingly satisfied with the answer, but Dominic knew he needed to change the subject fast. “So, the loft…?” He left the question hanging. Was he now going to be stuck in a garret to go with his story about being an artist?
“Yes. But we still have no staff here at the moment.”
“No staff? Nonsense. I’m here.” A heavy-set older man came out from what looked to be the dining room, wiping his hands on a white bar towel.
Paris gave him a warm smile—much warmer than the one she’d turned on Dominic. “We do have a barman. This is Michael.”
The older man put out his hand. “A good barman is all you need. Pop down later for a drink?”
“I will. Thanks.” Dominic looked back and was sure he caught Paris shaking her head at Michael. “So food and the like?”
“We have a kitchen you’re welcome to use. We can add the cost of any food taken from the freezer or pantry to your bill.”
Michael jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Or, I cook up a storm in my cabin, you’re welcome to eat with me. I make a mean hamburger,” Michael said.
“Sounds better than poisoning myself.” Dominic turned to Paris. “Will you be joining us? Family style?” She shook her head. “What, not good enough to eat with a starving artist?”
