all the paperwork ready for you. Why don’t you come right in and we’ll go over it all.”
Mitch followed Lana and her father into an office whose predominant theme was dead animals. Mounts of bighorn sheep, deer, elk, moose and even a mountain lion occupied most of the wall space. Mitch took a chair with his back to the lion and smothered an expression of distaste.
“So have you had a chance to check out the property yet?” Mort asked as he settled into a full-grained leather executive chair.
“I was over there this afternoon. I must say, it’s not at all what I thought it would be.”
Mort pursed his lips and nodded. “Still, not the sort of place you’d want your name associated with.”
“What sort of place is it?” Lana looked at him, a pleasant expression on her perfectly made-up face.
Mort cleared his throat. Mitch resented the warning. He’d already agreed Lana didn’t need to know the nature of the business he’d inherited. “Nothing special.” He waved away the question. “A restaurant will do much better in that location, I’m convinced.” His throat tightened only a little at the lie. He had been convinced a restaurant was a better financial venture until he’d seen the books at Just 4 Play. So convinced he’d sold most of his other real estate around town in order to put everything into this new enterprise. But who would have thought there could be so much money in sex?
“We’ve already had an appraisal done.” Mort handed across a folder. “And here’s the preliminary paperwork for the construction loan. You’ll have no problem qualifying for the funds you need. All we’re waiting on now are the architectural plans and the permits from the city.”
“I should have everything ready in thirty days.” He closed the folder and returned it to the banker.
“Excellent. I think this is going to be an excellent investment, Mitch. Something we can all be proud of.” Mort grinned. “So do you two have plans for the evening?”
“We have reservations at the Boulderado.” Lana picked up her purse and stood. “We need to leave now, or we’ll be late.”
On the way to the restaurant, Mitch only half listened to Lana’s account of an annoying client who’d visited her CPA firm that day. He was replaying the conversation in Mort’s office. Why did it bother him that Mort had said the restaurant was something they could “all” be proud of? Wasn’t Mitch the one who was doing all the work? Wasn’t he the one who’d earned the right to be proud—or not? Or did Mort think a simple business loan gave him control over the project—and over Mitch?
The maître d’ at the Boulderado welcomed them with a smile and escorted them to their favorite table in the atrium. “Should I have the wine steward bring your usual?” he asked.
“Yes, James, that will be fine,” Lana said as she settled into her chair.
James started to leave, but Mitch stopped him. “Wait. Instead of the merlot, let’s have a chianti.”
James and Lana both stared at him. “But we always have the merlot,” Lana said.
He nodded and spread his napkin across his lap. “Tonight, I’d like something different.”
“Yes, sir.” James hurried away.
Lana regarded him with a half smile on her lips. “Feeling feisty tonight, are we?”
“Something wrong with that?” He kept his voice light, but there was no mistaking the challenge in the words.
“No. It’s just not like you to be so…different.”
The truth of her words wounded him. Maybe Uncle Grif had been right. Maybe he was a stick in the mud. Well, that didn’t mean he had to stay that way. People changed. He could change without sacrificing his integrity in the process.
He started by ordering broiled trout for dinner instead of his usual prime rib. Lana compressed her lips into a thin line, but said nothing. Mitch sipped the excellent wine and regarded her over the rim of the glass. Her dark hair was drawn back from her face and gathered in a low knot, the kind ballerinas wore. He supposed people would say she had a classical beauty—fine features, with deep-set green eyes and a Roman nose.
“Is something wrong?” She looked puzzled.
He shook his head and picked up his fork. “No, nothing’s wrong.”
“Then why were you staring at me?”
He forced a pleasant smile to his lips. “Maybe I simply enjoy looking at you.”
She dismissed the compliment with a frown and began cutting up her prime rib with the precision of a surgeon. “I saw Jerry Brenham at lunch today. He says the Canterbury Apartments are going on the market next week. If you call him now, you could make a bid before anyone else.”
“Actually, I’m thinking of getting out of the rental market altogether.”
She raised one perfectly groomed eyebrow in question. “But why? The Boulder rental market is one of the most profitable in the country.”
“Yes, but I’m tired of being a landlord.” At least with his own restaurant, he wouldn’t have tenants calling him up in the middle of the night to complain about a lack of hot water or the noisy neighbors.
“You should hire a management company. Then you wouldn’t have to deal with tenants.”
“I like being personally involved in a business. That’s why I decided to open a restaurant.”
She dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin, careful not to smear her lipstick. “I can’t imagine why. Half the fun of having money is being able to delegate the work to someone else.” She stabbed at a piece of beef. “Then you can go out and make more money.”
It always came back to money with Lana, didn’t it? he thought. They’d met at an investment seminar. He’d been attracted to her from the first because she was so different from him. She had a grace and ease in social situations he wanted to emulate, and a cool reserve he felt could help him keep a tighter reign on his own sometimes tumultuous passions.
The fact that she was the kind of woman who would have never looked at him twice when he was a struggling scholarship student in college made the challenge of winning her that much more exciting. And now here they were, if not engaged, then certainly “in a relationship.” But a relationship based on what—business?
They had dinner every Wednesday at the Boulderado, and attended the theater or a concert every Friday. He usually stayed at her condo two nights a week. She never stayed at his place; she said she couldn’t be comfortable there.
Why hadn’t he realized before how boring and predictable his life had become? He looked at his plate. Right down to the same New York cheesecake every Wednesday night for dessert.
“Mitch, why are you so quiet? Haven’t you been paying attention to a word I’ve said?” Did he imagine a note of annoyance in her voice?
He pushed his plate away. “I don’t want to talk about business tonight.”
She frowned. “Then what do
