The Millionaire's Christmas Wife. Susan Crosby

game for anything.”

      “Anything?”

      “Food-wise,” she said with a smile. He was going to keep her on her toes.

      “See you tomorrow morning, Mrs. Falcon.”

      She tried to think of something witty to say in return, but came up empty. “Good night, mountain man.” She hung up, left her hand curved over the receiver. She stared at the brilliant wedding band.

      She couldn’t fault the man for his taste, or his brains. Or his body. He was the real deal, the whole package.

      And if she wasn’t careful, he would end up being the death of her grand plans for herself.

       Chapter Three

      Denise thoroughly enjoyed her drive the next morning up into the gorgeous and green Sierra foothills. The farther away she got from Sacramento, the more her shoulders relaxed, which surprised her. She loved her city life. She had a prosperous business, good friends and a busy social life. She thrived on action and purpose. This trip was making her forget work completely.

      Except, of course, there was something else to worry about—Gideon. She’d taken some risks in her life, but this was one of the riskiest, getting involved with a man embarking on a new enterprise that would take years of focus and concentration.

      At five minutes to nine, she turned into Gideon’s driveway and followed it a long way back, not seeing the house until she’d made a couple turns. She had to laugh. He’d said his house had all the amenities of her condo, including underground parking. She guessed he’d meant the parking area under his deck, which stood probably twelve feet above the ground, the front of the house raised on thick beams. A silver-gray SUV was parked below the deck, Hilda next to it.

      The structure itself, more cabin than house, melded aesthetically with the surroundings of oak and pine trees, evergreen shrubs and craggy rocks. Frost rimed shady spots.

      She parked in a graded space off to the side. By the time she’d gotten out of her car, he was walking toward her. The quiet struck her—even the fact she couldn’t hear his footsteps. She shivered, wondering what the temperature was.

      “Welcome,” he said, his breath billowing in the cold air, his gaze intense.

      She wanted to hug him hello. Instead she said, “This is breathtaking, Gideon. I’m looking for the swimming pool, however.”

      “You can see it best from the back porch, upstairs.”

      “Lead the way. I can’t wait to see your library and fitness center, too.”

      He grinned. “They may not match up with your own on-site amenities, but then I value privacy more than size.” He headed up the path that led to steps hewn of heavy timber. They crossed his front deck, where comfortable cushioned chairs and wooden side tables made the perfect place to sit and think, to enjoy the birds and squirrels in the branches above, or whatever other wildlife passed through the property. Deer, she supposed. Foxes.

      Tall, thick trees blocked the wind, filtered the sun and scented the air with pine, a reminder, too, that Christmas was coming.

      The cabin’s exterior was built of logs. She couldn’t guess how old it was, but it looked well maintained.

      “The swimming pool,” he announced gesturing toward a small, sapphire-blue lake a couple hundred yards in the distance. Smoke rose from chimneys here and there in the landscape between his place and the lake.

      “You swim laps, I suppose,” she said.

      “Daily.”

      “I’ll bet.” She rested her hands on the railing and took it all in. “It’s stunning. So is your cabin.”

      “Thanks. I built it myself.”

      She wondered why she wasn’t surprised. “That must be satisfying.”

      “Beyond measure.” He eyed his house, looking pleased.

      “You’re a man of many talents, aren’t you? Very of-the-earth.” Very macho, she wanted to add. She was more used to executives—the kind of men Gideon probably took on adventure treks into the wilderness. Men more like his brothers, actually.

      “You’re wearing the ring,” he said, putting his hand over hers, rubbing the stones with his thumb. “I’m going to take that to mean you’ve decided to be my wife.”

      Heat snaked through her. “Your pretend wife. You’re wearing yours, as well.”

      He nodded, a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, drawing her gaze to the lips that had kissed her lightly last night, leaving a desire for more.

      “There are details to work out,” she said.

      “Like?”

      “Legalities.”

      “Salary,” he stated.

      She turned around and crossed her arms, leaning against the wood at her waist. “I don’t want us to have a contract through my business, but something personal.”

      “I’m willing to deal. What are you looking for?”

      “No salary.”

      His brows went up. “Why not?”

      “I know your intention was to hire me as a kind of figurehead, someone to show off, but I can be of much more help than that. I have contacts, you know.”

      He hesitated. “Let’s talk about it over breakfast.” He led the way into his house, the front of which was almost entirely glass, allowing an incredible view from inside.

      She smelled bacon, her all-time favorite food, although she wouldn’t have admitted that to anyone. Logs crackled in a big, stone fireplace. The large, open floor plan included the kitchen, living room and dining room, its table set with very masculine black-and-brown dishes and placemats. A carved wooden bowl heaped with pinecones made up the centerpiece.

      He’d already moved into the kitchen. She ambled over to the counter and eased onto a stool to watch him work.

      He pointed to several bowls on the counter, filled with fresh ingredients—tomatoes, shredded cheese, sautéed mushrooms and green onions. “I’m making omelets. What’s your pleasure?”

      “The works, thanks.”

      “And salsa?”

      “Perfect.”

      He grabbed a piece of crisp bacon kept warm in an aluminum foil packet and passed it to her. His eyes were smiling, as if he knew, absolutely knew for a fact she was dying for a piece. “Coffee?” he asked.

      “Love some. But I can get it.”

      “You’re my guest. Relax.” He poured her a cup, added one sugar and a smidgen of cream, then set the mug in front of her. When she looked at him in surprise, he said, “I’m assuming your tastes haven’t changed since the wedding reception.”

      He turned back to the stove, added butter to a hot pan and started fixing an omelet like a seasoned chef. She nibbled on bacon, sipped her coffee and enjoyed the show, which seemed effortless and efficient. He turned the omelet onto a plate, then quickly assembled another exactly the same. He poured warmed-up salsa over the top of each, added bacon and sourdough toast to each plate, then carried them to the table.

      “You’re fun to watch,” she said, taking her seat. “Have you worked as a chef?”

      “Sort of. I cook for my clients, but I generally use a small camp stove or an open fire pit for that. And I’ve always liked to cook. I learned very young because Noah, being the oldest, was given way too many chores as we were growing up, and he hated cooking, so I took over. I’m the grill master in our family.”

      They ate in silence for a couple of minutes.