The Millionaire's Christmas Wife. Susan Crosby

it be funny if he also found the love of his life like his brothers did?”

      “I would say that’s a long shot.”

      Stacy shrugged, her short black hair bouncing a little. At twenty-eight, she was a year younger than Denise, six inches shorter, and a size two to Denise’s size twelve. Stacy had been Denise’s first hire when she’d started the business, and was being groomed to take over when Denise went ahead with her expansion/franchise plans. They’d also become good friends.

      “What’s he looking for?” Stacy asked.

      “Me.”

      “You? Oh, I see. It’s not business. It’s personal.”

      Was it personal? Didn’t he know anyone else who could play the role of his wife? “We met at the wedding,” Denise said, not knowing whether it truly was business or personal. Maybe both?

      “You could do worse,” Stacy said.

      “And have.”

      Stacy laughed. “So, are you going out with him?”

      “Yes, for dinner tonight.”

      “I’ll bet he’s a good kisser.” She sighed.

      Denise hadn’t gotten the chance to find out, even though he’d had opportunities at the wedding, especially when he’d walked her to her car at the end of the night. There was something about him that said he knew how to please, that he gave every experience his all. She’d felt it a month ago, and had been staggered by it again now.

      “Let me know,” Stacy said over her shoulder as she left the office.

      “You’ll be the first,” Denise answered, but she knew it was a lie.

      She’d learned her lesson. This time she wouldn’t kiss and tell.

      In a quiet restaurant a block from her office, Gideon sipped a beer as he waited for Denise to finish reading his business plan. He admired her all-black, all-business outfit of silk blouse, slim skirt and three-inch heels, which brought her almost eye-to-eye with him. She was exactly as he remembered—and had been trying to forget—five feet eight inches of perfect proportions, deep green eyes that were too serious most of the time and hair a shiny brown that flowed over her shoulders…

      Hair whose roots told another story. A blond story. He’d been wondering for a month why she dyed her blond hair brown. Hiding something? If so, what?

      Their server brought their salads. Denise set aside the papers. “So,” she said. “You’re trying to buy a crosscountry ski resort.”

      “The Trails. It’s on the Nevada side of Lake Tahoe.” He stabbed a tomato and gave his spiel. “It has hugely underutilized potential, as you can see. Except for during the snow months, it’s being used as grazing land. The owners, Ed and Joanne Baker, built fifteen cabins on the property in the mid-sixties. I want to tear down everything and start new, create a year-round recreation site—cross-country skiing still, but also hiking and mountain-bike trails, horseback riding, even wilderness packing and camping, guided trips. And then there would be the accommodations. A spa, of course. Can’t not have one these days. Maybe a conference or retreat area. Plus a great restaurant and hotel.”

      Something flickered in her eyes, but she looked at her salad so fast he couldn’t read it.

      “How much time do you have?” she asked.

      “I have to present my offer to the Bakers in ten days. As you can see, I’ve got everything lined up except complete financial backing. I’ve been scrambling for a couple of months since Max Beauregard died. He was going to partner with me on it. I would buy the land and build the trails. He would build the hotel. Did you know Max?”

      “I didn’t know him personally, but he was pretty young when he died, wasn’t he?”

      “Thirty-seven. Made a killing in the tech business early on. He was one of my first clients when I started my business, then he spread the word to his friends and associates. Plus he gave me great financial advice through the years. Incredible advice that changed my life.”

      “So, what happened? Did he die before you signed contracts?”

      “No, it was a done deal. His widow, Ann, can’t follow through.”

      “Isn’t she legally bound?”

      “Yes—except for a particular requirement the Bakers have. They will only sell to a young married couple who will keep The Trails name and family-friendly environment. The Beauregards qualified us for that requirement, even though the project was really mine. With them out of the picture, I tried to find another couple, but I need a couple with a whole lot of money who are also interested in this project. They don’t grow on trees. Ann gave me some leads that didn’t pan out. Then last month she said it was too bad I wasn’t married, because I was the one with the interest, after all. Then all I had to do was find a backer for the hotel. Not an easy thing, either, but easier.”

      “Why couldn’t she still be your investor?”

      “It was Max’s project, really. And I don’t feel like forcing her to adhere to the contract when she doesn’t have a love for it.”

      “I certainly understand that. But the Bakers’ requirement sure seems odd to me.” Denise gestured with her fork. “A supposedly happily married couple could make the deal and get divorced a week later. How could the Bakers enforce that?”

      “Technically, they can’t.”

      “So you plan to be married until the deal is done, then end it? Not exactly a fine example of character.”

      “Where is it written that only married men have good character? I want The Trails. I know what I can do with it. And what qualifies me is my personal need and expectation not only to provide a family-friendly environment, but one with a bigger scope, one that keeps up with ever-changing interests, to challenge families to play together, to be active together. They’re not lofty goals. They’re possible. If I have to pretend that I’m married in order to prove what I can do, then that’s what I’ll do.”

      “What if they find out you aren’t?”

      “How could they? Only you and I would know the truth. If we don’t tell anyone else, how could they possibly find out?”

      She broke off a piece of roll, buttered it but didn’t take a bite as she mulled over his words. “Okay, I get it. How many investors do you think it’s going to take?”

      “One.”

      “Seriously?”

      “I don’t want more than one, someone who’s got pockets deep enough not to need returns for several years. I could never please or pay off a group of investors. At best I could only get myself a small percentage by putting the deal together and working it. That’s not what I want, not what I’ve worked for, saved for.”

      “You’re looking for a fifty-fifty relationship?”

      “In an ideal world, I’d do fifty-one/forty-nine so that I could always have the final say. The chances of getting someone to agree to it are slim.”

      She set her fork on her empty plate and took a sip of her wine. He could see the wheels turning in her head.

      She lifted her glass to him. “Well, the project looks incredible to me. For the most part.”

      He smiled at that. “For the most part?”

      She shrugged. “I’m concerned about the hotel.”

      Something in her tone intrigued him. “Max and I hired James Madigan. He’s an architect who specializes in hotels.”

      “Yes, I know who he is.”

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

      “Since