Secret Billionaire's Frosty Lover (The Secret Billionaires 3)

Dominic smiled. “You’ve got the cell-free part down. I’d have to climb a mountain to get signal.” He turned to the bartender. “What about you, Michael? Why aren’t you gone with the rest of the staff?”

“Because my wife indulges my foolish old dreams.” Michael leaned on the bar. “I’m working on a solar-powered snow machine.”

Paris punched the older man’s arm. “Actually, Michael refuses to leave me here on my own. He’s my stand-in grandfather.”

Michael straightened. “I’m not that old.”

She grinned. “Okay—my stand-in great uncle.”

“That does it. I’m off to put away those supplies. I’ll have burgers done in half an hour if you’re hungry, and then I’m going to get my beauty sleep.”

Paris stood up. “I should catch up on the books.”

Waving her to stay put, Michael slipped out from behind the bar. “Don’t be silly. Relax until the burgers are done.” He left the half-full bottle of Macallan on the bar.

Dominic sipped his drink and watched Paris. Would she find some excuse to run away? Or would she stay? He liked the rosy sheen the whisky was putting on her cheeks.

She smiled and left her half-finished drink on the bar. “Uhm…would you excuse me? The bathroom calls. Pour another drink, and I’ll buy this round.” She left him sitting there—he enjoyed the view of her striding off to the bathroom. And he wondered if she’d come back, or find some other reason not to hang out with him. Was that a personal preference? Or maybe she wasn’t looking for a starving artist in her life?

He smiled at the idea.

His mother had adored art—that much he could remember about her. That and her perfume. He didn’t know if she’d ever had any talent, but she had supported the arts. His father had shut down most of her charities, however, after she’d died. He could remember that—and the arguments with his dad that started up as soon as Dominic got older. Hell, maybe he should have become an artist. That would certainly have pissed off the old man.

Dominic shook his head. He held up his glass and stared into the amber liquid before he emptied it. Was it the warmth of the whisky bringing up memories? Or the quiet of this place? But hadn’t he come here to sort that out? To face his past and himself. He could remember his father as a hard man—always wanting to know about the bottom line and not much more. Dominic had grown up feeling more like an investment that needed to provide a return instead of a son—and that had led to the final argument where the old man had kicked him out.

All because he’d refused his father’s plans for him. He was damn sure his father had expected him to last six months on his own and come back, begging for his place. Instead, he’d gone his own path—and made his own fortune. And now what?

Dominic poured a second round of whisky. He shouldn’t be drinking the stuff. It was making him soppy.

He’d just sat the bottle on the bar when a loud crack split the air—the sound a bullet might make slapping into wood. Instinctively, he ducked, the air rushing from him in a sharp breath.

Chapter Four

Paris stared at Mr. Murphy. What was wrong with the guy? He’d just ducked like someone had shot at him. Reaching down, she picked up the wooden pole she’d bumped into. She’d been cleaning the beams this morning with it and a cloth attached to the end. As she’d come out of the bathroom, she’d kicked it and sent it crashing down. And Murphy had gone down like he was in a battle zone.

Heading over to him, she said, “Sorry for the noise. Are you okay?” She started to wonder if maybe he’d done a stint in the army. That reaction was more like he’d thought someone was shooting at him. But he didn’t look army to her. And an artist in the army—how was that a good mix?

He straightened and glanced around. “What the hell?”

“Just a pole. It fell over.”

He glanced at her, his eyes sharp and bright. “A damn pole? That was all? It sounded like…” He let the words trail off.

She finished them for him. “A gunshot?”

His mouth crooked. “No

. More like a pole hitting the floor.”

Perching on the barstool, she picked up her drink. “I’m not usually that clumsy. Must be the long day. That back road would take it out of anyone.”

Dominic swallowed his drink, let it burn, and shook his head. “I have a confession to make. If I buy any more of that Macallan tonight, I’m not sure I’ll be able to afford my stay here.”

“Ah…so you really are that starving artist we hear about. But if that’s the case, what’s an artist like you doing with a suit like the one you showed up in?” He grinned and shook his head. Smiling, she pointed a finger at him. “Okay, I get it. You’re pretending you’re successful? No…no, you’re not really an artist. I mean, you’re commercial right? Sold out to Madison Avenue marketing bucks, but now you’re trying to reconnect with real art and real passion?”

“You’ve got the reconnect-with-real right.”

“Well, since I win the guessing game, you get to taste my father’s blend. On the house. And don’t mind the whole panic attack thing.”