Wedding His Takeover Target / Inheriting His Secret Christmas Baby. Emilie Rose

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      He followed the winding walk through bare Aspen trees and leafy snowberry shrubs with their white fruits glistening in the afternoon sunlight. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he and his brothers had used clusters of the small berries as ammunition for their homemade slingshots whenever they’d stolen a few moments away from their father’s eagle eye.

      Though the B and B appeared structurally sound, the clapboards could use a fresh coat of forest-green paint. The butter-yellow railing wobbled slightly in his grip as he climbed the brick steps leading to the front porch. His offer would give Caldwell an influx of cash that would more than cover the cosmetic work.

      Rather than ring the bell by the front door Gavin followed the banging sound around the wide covered porch spanning the front and side of the building, hoping to find Caldwell or someone who could direct him to the man. He found a red-coated, hammer-wielding female, kneeling with her back to him. A matching red toboggan capped long, dark curls winding down her back. Definitely not Henry Caldwell.

      “Ow. Oh. Dammit,” a feminine voice cried out. The hammer clattered on the floorboards.

      “You okay?”

      The handywoman shot to her feet and spun around, clutching her left thumb in her right hand. Wide, bright blue eyes found his.

      “Who are you?” Pain tightened her voice.

      “Gavin Jarrod. Need some help?”

      “Are you looking for a room?” She ignored his question.

      “No. I’m here to see Henry Caldwell.”

      He automatically catalogued her assets. Early- to mid-twenties. Smooth, clear skin. Above average height and probably slender beneath the parka if her long, jeans-clad legs were any indication. In short, beautiful and worth getting to know better.

      Then he appraised the problem, a half hammered-in nail, toenailing the railing to the column. Not an easy angle for an amateur. “Let me get that for you.”

      He bent and scooped up the hammer—one too heavy for her—and slammed in the nail with one swing. “There you go.”

      “Thanks,” she offered grudgingly. Still holding her injured hand close to her body, she accepted the tool he offered with her other.

      “Let me look at that.” He grabbed her wrist and inspected her reddened thumb. The unpainted nail plate remained intact with no blood pooling beneath it.

      The warmth of her soft skin heated his and did something wacky to his pulse rate. Single? Her ring finger was bare. He dragged his thumb over her palm.

      With a quick hiss of her breath, she jerked away.

      Too bad. He hadn’t reacted that instantly to a woman’s touch in a long time. “You’ve probably just bruised it. Work gloves would have offered a little protection.”

      Her eyes narrowed, drawing his attention to a thick fringe of black lashes that looked real. In fact, if she wore any makeup, it was the kind a straight guy couldn’t see. “I couldn’t hold the nail with gloves on. Is Henry expecting you? He didn’t mention an appointment.”

      “I didn’t make one.” He’d wanted to catch the man off guard and perhaps get him to agree to sell on impulse.

      “Are you selling something?”

      “No. I didn’t catch your name.”

      “I didn’t throw it.” She gathered the box of galvanized nails, her discarded gloves and the hammer. “Follow me.”

      She headed toward a back entrance and led him into a warm kitchen. The combined scents of pot roast and freshly baked bread made his mouth water and his stomach growl as he followed her down the center hall to the front parlor. “Wait here. May I tell him what this is about?”

      “An old poker bet.”

      Her dark eyebrows dipped. “He owes you money?”

      “No.” And that was all she’d get out of him. No matter how attractive she might be he wasn’t sharing personal business with her—unless it was over dinner.

      Her curious gaze slid over him, making him overheat under his ski jacket. “You don’t look like one of his poker buddies.”

      “I’m not.”

      “Then you are …?”

      “Here on personal business.”

      She stood straighter, her chin snapping up. “I’ll see if Po—Henry’s available.”

      Gavin hadn’t dated since arriving in town, and watching her peel the knit cap off those thick, gleaming curls and then unzip her coat reminded his libido of the long dry spell. He visually tracked her until she turned a corner out of sight.

      He’d definitely have to take this one to dinner. And then maybe to bed. His heart pumped faster in approval of the plan.

      Unzipping his coat, he surveyed the room. Antiques. But not the kind a man would be afraid to sit on. Lace, velvet and flowery fabrics predominated. But not enough of the girly stuff to threaten his manhood. The inn wasn’t bad. But it definitely wasn’t competition for The Ridge.

      “Are you related to the Jarrods of Jarrod Ridge?” she asked from behind him.

      He hadn’t heard her return. She’d shed her outerwear, revealing a purple turtleneck sweater clinging to a long, lean torso with curves in all the right places. Nice. And definitely worth pursuing. “Yes.”

      Her lips mashed together as if his reply displeased her—drawing attention to the fact that she’d added some gloss to her wide, red mouth. An encouraging sign. If she wasn’t interested she wouldn’t have bothered.

      “My grandfather will be with you in a moment.”

      His plans sputtered and stalled like a faulty airplane engine. “Your grandfather?”

      “Yes.”

      The revelation killed any chance he had of taking her on a date or to bed. With his relationship track record, he couldn’t risk souring the sale with another romance wreck. Business came first—especially family business. But perhaps after the deed had been transferred …

      He couldn’t imagine going a year without sex, but he’d ended his last relationship two months before his father’s death, and thus far none of the women he’d met at the lodge had tempted him like this one did.

      “You’re not from here, are you?” he asked. Not that many people were Aspenites these days between the celebrity invasion and the ski season’s tourist ebb and flow.

      “No.” She folded her arms across her chest, looking protective, defiant and delicious. Down, boy.

      “I’ve worked all around the globe, but I can’t place your accent.”

      “Good.”

      Man, she had it in for him for some reason. “Have I done something to offend you, Ms. СКАЧАТЬ