innovative, or so our PR claims.”
“Do you work out of Denver?”
The cop tone surprised her. “I do, yes. Is that a problem, Detective Law?”
His lips took on a slight curve. “Beautiful women are usually a problem—one way or another.”
Unperturbed, she widened her smile. “Sounds like the voice of bad experience to me. Thanks again for your help. Now if you’ll unhook us, we can both be on our way.”
His stare seemed to penetrate her skin and made her want to step back. She held her ground and his gaze. “Have I broken a law, Detective?”
“It’s Nick, and not that I know of.”
“Then I can go.”
“If your vehicle cooperates.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t damaged.”
“That I can see. The proof will be in the drive.”
“Unless we freeze to death first. Neither of us is dressed for this.”
He half smiled. “Tell you what. You take my truck into Painter’s Bluff, and I’ll check out your Land Rover.”
Because her teeth were going to chatter in a minute, and he was, after all, a cop, Sasha went with the suggestion. “I’m staying at the hotel.”
“Which one?”
“There are two?”
“Three. Skye Painter’s Mountain House, the Hollowback Inn and Annie’s Barn on the edge of town.”
For a moment, Sasha forgot to be cold, and laughed. “Let me guess, Annie ran a bordello, right?”
“Rumor has it Butch and Sundance were regulars.”
“Spoken like a proud local.” She tipped her head. “And yet your badge says Denver PD. Are you a man of mystery, Nick Law?”
“I have my moments. You’re at Mountain House, right?” At her nod, he walked her back to his truck and opened the door. “I’ll go first. Once you’re settled you’ll need to see Sheriff Pyle about the guys who sideswiped you.” His eyes caught hers and held.
Sasha shivered. She had the ridiculous feeling that he was stripping away her clothing piece by piece. It felt sexual, and yet it didn’t, exciting in a kinky sort of way, but unnerving at the same time. And just plain weird all around.
Before she could comment, he’d pulled off his glove and caught her chin between his thumb and fingers. “Drive safely, Sasha Myer, and don’t stop for anyone.”
Then he was gone, and she was alone in a stranger’s truck in the middle of a blizzard, with Bruce Springsteen pouring from the speakers.
Gorgeous and odd. What was she getting herself into up here?
“YOU’RE NOT NICK.”
Barely five feet through the front door of Mountain House, Sasha found herself nose to nose with a blond man in his mid-thirties. He wore jeans, a pale blue shirt and a sheepskin vest. Sky-blue eyes traveled past her to the snowy street, then returned to give her a thorough head-to-toe assessment.
“I’d know that black 4x4 anywhere. Why are you driving it?”
In the warmth of the rustic lobby Sasha pushed back her hood and unzipped her coat. “Nick’s got my Land Rover. Since I didn’t pass him, I assumed he’d get here before me. Guess not.” She offered the man a perfunctory smile. “Who are you?”
“Dana Hollander.” He cast another frowning glance at the street. “I’m the mayor of Painter’s Bluff. I also own the feed and seed on Center Street and fix computers on the side.”
“Sounds like a full plate.”
“More than full. The sheriff and I have been run off our feet today.”
“Well, I hate to add to your burden, but five kids in a gray pickup are joyriding out on Hollowback Road.”
“Kids? Oh, that’ll be the Sickerbies.”
“All five of them?”
“Six boys at last count, and every one a hell-raiser.”
Sasha would have moved on to the reception desk, but the man’s expression made her pause. “Look, I didn’t run your friend off the road and steal his truck, if that’s what you’re thinking. The Sickerbies left me hanging, literally, and Nick helped me out. He wanted to make sure my vehicle wasn’t damaged, so we swapped. He said he’d meet me here.”
Dana gave a preoccupied nod. “Maybe he stopped by Sheriff Pyle’s office first.”
“Maybe.”
Shedding her coat, Sasha let her gaze roam the lobby. For a small hotel, the place had charm, plus, if she wasn’t mistaken, original wood walls and floorboards. The varnished oak was scarred, the river-rock hearth and chiseled mantel massive, and it wouldn’t have surprised her to discover that the light fixtures were kerosene conversions.
She looked closer at the seating area. “Are those horsehair chairs next to the fireplace?”
“You have a good eye. They were made in Salt Lake City in 1883. Belonged to Skye Painter’s great-granddaddy. He kept them in his mountain cabin. Skye used them up at the lodge until a nephew tried to perform surgery on one of the arms. Seemed safer to bring them down here.” A sudden smile appeared. “You’re her architect, aren’t you? Sasha Myer from Denver. Skye told us you’d be coming. You’re a bit late.”
“Three days,” Sasha agreed. She started for the desk. “I’ll call Ms. Painter after I check in.”
Dana accompanied her across the plank floor. “You can call, but you won’t be meeting up with her anytime soon. She left town late yesterday morning. Lucky woman,” he added, in an eerie echo of Barbara’s earlier sentiments.
“Lucky because she missed the blizzard?”
“That, too.” Dana addressed the redheaded receptionist. “April, this is Skye’s architect from Denver. Give her a good room and a hot dinner on the house.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hollander, but I don’t want to take advantage.”
“Dana, and you’re not.” He returned his gaze to the door. “Are you sure you didn’t pass Nick coming in?”
“Very sure. I was watching, for both my SUV and your Sickerbies.”
The lobby phone rang. Tucking the receiver into the crook of her neck, the redhead handed Sasha a key. “Room 27, second floor.” She raised her voice. “Hang on, Dana. Sheriff Pyle’s on the line. He’s asking about Detective Law.”
“Who isn’t?”
Sasha debated as he took the handset, then gave his
