The Millionaire's Christmas Wife

The way she said it implied not only that she knew him, but she didn’t approve. “You object to his plan?”

“Since you asked, yes. Don’t get me wrong. He’s great at doing hotel chains—you know, keeping with a tradition already established—but he’s not good at fresh design. This plan he did for you is okay, but it needs to be more rustic, more suited to the environment. And the interior design is…well, it’s like a lot of other resort hotels. There aren’t any surprises.”

“Should there be?” He found himself unexpectedly turned on by the focused businesswoman. He generally liked women who were daring and adventurous, like him. Bold. Had even married one—not that it had worked out. He’d figured Denise for being time-and-detail oriented, without much give, but packaged in a supersexy body that he hadn’t stopped thinking about—the primary reason he’d kept his distance this month. He hadn’t needed distractions. But then he couldn’t get her out of his head—

“I certainly like being surprised when I travel,” she said. “I imagine the views at this resort are spectacular, given the location in the Sierras. They need to be taken advantage of better.” She tapped the stack of paperwork. “The guest rooms are doing that fairly well, but the common rooms aren’t. Not fully. If I—”

She stopped herself, smiled apologetically. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to take over.”

He considered her in a new light. He’d known she was intelligent, but he hadn’t seen fire in her eyes, not like this. “There’s no time to change the plans,” he said. “Ten days…”

“Yes, there is. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just the core idea with a reasonable estimate of costs, right?”

“True.” Their server took away their salad plates, replacing them with their entrées—salmon for her, rib-eye steak for him. “But we’re talking an immediate turnaround. If I don’t have a plan to show, I can’t interest anyone in the project.”

“It can be done.”

“How?”

She didn’t answer right away. After a long, increasingly tense moment, she said, “You don’t know who I am, do you? I thought maybe you’d come to me with this proposition because you knew, but you don’t.”

He focused on her, confused. A month ago he’d spent a whole evening staring into her face, holding her close. She was beautiful, but not recognizable beyond the time they’d spent together. “Should I?”

“If I tell you that most of my life people called me Deni?”

It took a few seconds to make the connection. Deni Watson. He could even picture her—the way she used to be. Blond hair, worn short and wild. A size zero, or two or four. He didn’t know how to measure such things. Best friends with Dani something or other. Deni and Dani, their names always linked in the tabloid headlines. Daughter of Lionel Watson, hotel magnate, owner of the luxurious Watson Hotels chain founded by his late father years ago.

Deni Watson, young, headstrong and beautiful. And bad girl extraordinaire.

Chapter Two

Denise knew the moment he registered who she was. She continued to eat her salmon, even as his gaze never wavered except to probe deeper.

“I guess you do know hotels,” he said. “I don’t pay much attention to the gossip magazines, but I do recall a lot of speculation when you disappeared from the scene. How long ago was that?”

“Five years.” She lifted her glass of chardonnay in a toast to creative journalists everywhere. “Apparently I either had a disfiguring car accident or a prince’s secret baby.”

“Or a very long stint in rehab,” he said.

“That was my personal favorite. I certainly partied now and then, but I didn’t make a fool of myself, except once. A moment that haunted me for years.”

“Why did you go into hiding?” he asked. “I’m assuming that’s what you did, anyway, since you changed your hair color and put on some weight.”

“Some?” She’d gained more than twenty-five pounds.

“Enough to put you at a healthy weight now,” he said, studying her. “And you’re right. Most people probably wouldn’t recognize you.”

“Interest in me may have faded, but I still pop up in where-are-they-now articles and video segments. But you asked why I left my old life. The short answer is that I had something to prove, and I needed to do it without the power of my father’s name behind my success.”

“To prove to him?”

“Mostly to myself.” She set down her wineglass. “I’m telling you this because while you may think I would be an asset to your cause, in truth, I could just as easily be a liability, depending on how someone feels about me. And, believe me, people generally have strong opinions about it. So you may want to rethink your plan. I’m sure I could come up with someone to fill the part for you.”

She didn’t want to come up with someone else for him, she realized, had changed her mind when she studied his plan. His project intrigued and excited her.

So did he, in an even bigger way. She’d be taking on a big risk personally because he, too, intrigued and excited her, unlike anyone else had for a long time.

“Are you saying you’ll do it?” he asked. He’d gone still and serious.

She’d fallen in love with the idea of his resort, but she couldn’t let him see the extent of her interest yet. She needed to be sensible first. She didn’t want to lose her credibility—or have her heart broken. “I’d like to take the plans home and study them further before I decide. I’d also like to see the scale model you talk about in your plans. And I’d like to see the site in person.”

He half smiled. “It’s not like I’m asking you for money.”

“I can’t lend my name if I don’t fully support what you’re doing. And we have to go into this assuming that some people will figure out who I am. I don’t flaunt it, but I don’t hide it either.”

“I respect that.” Their server picked up their plates, offered dessert menus, then left when they declined. “Are you free tomorrow?” he asked.

They worked out a plan for the next day as they left the restaurant, stopping outside the entrance. She slipped into her raincoat as he held it, then she pulled her mini-umbrella from her briefcase.

“Not gonna rain,” he said, looking up. “Not for a couple of hours, anyway.”

“I suppose you can smell it in the air or something, mountain man.”

He smiled. “The point is, I can’t smell it.”

“I’ll bet you’re very good at your job.”

His shrug could mean anything.

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

“I walked. I usually do.” She pointed ahead. “That’s my building.”

“I’d offer you a ride on Hilda, but I don’t have another helmet with me. And you’d have to hike up your skirt…” He angled toward her, looked about to say something, then stopped himself. “I’ll walk you home.”

She wished he’d said whatever had been on the tip of his tongue. “That’s not necessary, Gideon, but thanks. You should get going before the rain does come, just in case your nose isn’t right,” she added, even though she figured he knew what he was talking about. “You’ve got about an hour’s drive, I think?”

“Are you always this bossy?” He softened the words with a grin. “I want to see you safely home. Be gracious.”

“Who’s the bossy one?” She wasn’t afraid to walk home alone, even though the hustle and bustle of commute time had passed. There wasn’t the usual crowd to get lost in.

He rested his hand at the small of her back to get her moving. Every hormone, every nerve ending in her body reacted.

“You always walk in those stilts?” he asked.

“I left my walking shoes in the office.” Her ego had overruled her usual sensibilities. She’d caught Gideon admiring her legs in the high heels.

“Hilda’s your motorcycle, I gather,” she said, needing to make conversation, needing to do anything to slow the arousal racing through her, clamoring for attention.