renting out a room would be frumpy, silver haired and old enough to be his grandmother. It was possible when his secretary had said widow, he’d mentally inserted all the stereotypes.
“Still,” he said, sliding his hands into his jeans’ pockets, “a serial killer by definition gets away with murder and is clever enough to hide it. Maybe I’m hiding something.”
“Everyone does. That just makes you human.” The wisdom in that statement seemed profound for someone so young. “But you, Mr. Sloan Holden, can’t even spit on the sidewalk without someone taking a picture. I doubt you could ditch photographers long enough to pull off a homicide, let alone hide the incriminating evidence.”
“You’re right about that.”
“Even so, Hank assured me you are who you say you are and an upstanding businessman who won’t stiff me for the rent. Again I say welcome.” She smiled, and the effect was stunning. “I’ll do everything possible to make your stay here as pleasant as possible, Mr. Holden.”
“Please call me Sloan.”
“Of course.” When she turned away, he got a pretty good look at her work-of-art backside and shapely legs. They weren’t as long as he usually liked, but that didn’t stop all kinds of ideas on how to make his stay pleasant from popping into his mind. That was proof, as if he needed more, that he was going to hell. After all, she was a mother.
“I just need you to sign the standard guest agreement.” She walked over to the desk in the far corner of the great room.
Sloan followed and managed to tear his gaze away from her butt long enough to get a look at her home. A multicolored braided rug was the centerpiece for a conversation area facing the fireplace. It consisted of a brown leather sofa and a fabric-covered chair and ottoman. On the table beside it was a brass lamp and a photo of Maggie snuggled up to a smiling man. Must be the husband she’d lost.
Maggie handed over a piece of paper and he glanced through it, the normal contract regarding payment responsibilities, what was provided, dos and don’ts. He took the pen she handed him and signed his name where indicated.
“Do you need a credit card and ID?” That was standard procedure for a hotel.
“I recognize you from the magazines you seem to be in on a weekly basis. And I got all the pertinent financial information from your secretary. Elizabeth says you’ll be staying in town for a while to work on the resort project.”
“That’s right.”
“I know you’re here at Potter House because Blackwater Lake Lodge had a major flood when a pipe burst and is now undergoing repairs and renovations. Elizabeth told me you do a lot of work outside the office and wouldn’t be happy with all the pounding, hammering and drilling.”
“She knows me well.”
“I got that impression. And she said you’re not a heartless jerk like most tabloid stories make you out to be.”
“Did I mention she’s loyal?”
He folded his arms over his chest and studied her. Elizabeth was the best assistant he’d ever had and an impeccable judge of character, even on the phone. She wasn’t in the habit of sharing details about him. Not that she’d given away secrets to a competitor, but still... While taking care of his living arrangements for this stay in Blackwater Lake, Montana, she must have phone-bonded with Maggie Potter, meaning that she trusted this woman.
In any event, he didn’t have a lot of choice about where to hang his hat. The lack of accommodations in this area, along with a beautiful lake and spectacular mountains, were the very reasons this resort project he and his cousin Burke had undertaken would be a phenomenal financial success. It was their luck that no one else had noticed the amazing potential of this area before now.
“It sounds as if you got to know my assistant pretty well,” he finally said.
“Lovely woman. She invited me to her wedding.”
“Wow. You really did make a good phone impression. I didn’t even get an invitation,” he teased.
“She’s probably concerned that the kind of photographers who follow you around aren’t the ones she wants documenting the most important day of her life.”
Sloan knew she was joking, but that wasn’t far from the truth. Because he had money, his every move seemed to generate a ridiculous amount of public interest—make that female interest. That would give a guy trust issues even if he hadn’t been burned, but Sloan was a wealthy divorced bachelor and deliberately never stayed with the same woman for more than a couple of months.
A man in his position had social obligations and often needed a plus one. On the surface it looked like dating, but he knew it was never going anywhere. So the more women he went out with, the more interest his personal life generated. But he was ultimately an entrepreneur who knew getting his name in the paper was a positive. Even bad publicity could be good.
And interest continued to escalate about whether or not any woman could catch the most eligible bachelor who had said in more than one interview that he would never get married again. That it just wasn’t for him. The remark, intended to snuff out attention, had really backfired on him and created the ultimate challenge for single women looking for a rich husband. He was like the love lottery.
“My assistant knows I’d never let anything spoil her special day.”
“Because you respect the sanctity of marriage so much?” It sounded as if there was the barest hint of sarcasm in her question.
He didn’t doubt that she knew the tabloid version of his disastrous foray into matrimony. It was well documented and also ancient history. “I do for other people,” he answered sincerely.
“Just not for yourself.”
“It’s always good to know your own limitations.”
“Seems smart. And wise,” she agreed. “So how long will you be here?”
“Indefinitely.” That was certainly an indefinite answer. “I handle the construction arm of the company, so it will probably be quite a while. And Blackwater Lake Lodge is undergoing renovations.”
“True.”
He glanced around and found he liked the idea of not living in a hotel for what would probably be months. “You have a nice place here.”
“Thanks. My husband built it.” There was fierce pride in her voice even as a shadow slid into her eyes. “It wasn’t planned as a bed-and-breakfast. We opened a business in town.”
“Oh?”
“Potter’s Ice Cream Parlor on Main Street.”
He nodded. “I saw it on my way here.”
“Danny, my husband—” she glanced at the picture and a softness slipped into her eyes “—thought everything through. Downstairs is the master bedroom with another room for a nursery. But he figured as the kids got older, into their teens, they’d need their privacy—bedrooms and separate baths. And a game room to hang out in. There’s even an outside entrance for the upstairs. I’m not quite sure how he planned to deal with that
