“I bet that if you took one look at Grace Emery, you’d be getting acquainted right quick. You’d be all over that.” He shook his head. “It’s a mystery to me how you did it so fast. You arrived after supper last night and now it’s breakfast time. Every guy within a hundred miles of Mustang Creek suddenly feels the need for a spa visit, just so they can get a look at her, and you, brother, you somehow figured out how to get her to come to you.”
His assistant, Nathan, must have told one of them about Grace’s visit, Slater concluded with a degree of resignation. Fine. He wasn’t going to tell them why she’d stopped by; the business about the swiped sign was between him and Ryder. As far as he was concerned, the matter was settled. “What’s her story?” he asked.
Mace seemed to relish answering the question. “She’s divorced. The kid lives with her because her ex-husband is some sort of hotshot military type. He’s deployed at the moment.” He paused, then added, “From what I’ve heard, she’s doing a great job at the resort. The owner hired her personally.”
Not much news there. Grace had told him most of those details, along with the fact that she’d been a police officer at some point. As brief as their encounter had been, though, Slater could well imagine the memorably lovely Ms. Emery meeting any task head-on. Of course the transition from cop to hotel manager was quite a leap. Obviously, there was more to her story, and he wanted to hear it. “Interesting.”
One thing about his brothers—they weren’t inclined to poke their noses into other people’s business, and when he didn’t divulge Grace Emery’s reason for stopping by, they left it alone.
Mace said matter-of-factly, “To answer your other question, our wine arrangement with the resort seems to be going well. On another subject, I’ve been doing some research, and I’m getting some new info on what vines we ought to put in. As you know, Mom wants to expand the operation, take it national. Anyway, the clients at the resort select different wines than the ones the liquor stores order from us. The higher-end lines go over better with the spa guests—they want the full-bodied, well-balanced reds or big, oaky chardonnays, while on the retail level, the customers seem to prefer fruity, lighter varieties. We’re entering a few competitions this year to see if we can get more press.” He paused, but only long enough to take a breath. Once Mace got talking about the vineyards and the wines they produced, it was hard to shut him up. “The trick here is dealing with our weather and finding vines that can handle the winters and still produce the quality of fruit and yield we’re after. Right now we buy most of our grapes from other states. That’s not unusual, but I’d like to swing the pendulum our way.”
Slater enjoyed his younger brother’s passion for the wine business because he knew this venture was their mother’s dream as much as it was Mace’s. They were three very different people, he and Mace and Blythe, but he could identify with both of them, since filmmaking and running a successful vineyard were both artistic pursuits. Drake, however, couldn’t have been less interested, down to earth as he was—always active, always on the move. It was almost comical the way animals and kids gravitated toward him. Slater had seen his middle brother at many a picnic or cookout with a toddler on his lap and three dogs belonging to someone else at his feet. He’d be talking away with friends, evidently oblivious to the Doctor Dolittle phenomenon.
“I don’t know much of anything about making wine,” Slater admitted, addressing Mace, “but that sounds like a plan to me. I can grow mold on a piece of cheese in the fridge, and that’s about it. Speaking of wine and cheese, I need to throw a shindig for the investors. They deserve a celebration. I’m thinking the resort would be the perfect venue.”
Both his brothers laughed, and Drake reached into his pocket and pulled out a few bills. He selected one and handed it to Mace. “You win,” he said. “Here’s your ten bucks.”
* * *
GRACE PEERED AT her computer screen, blinked a couple of times to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. The booking had come in just as she was thinking about taking her lunch, and it was major. Slater Carson’s production company had reserved fifteen of the resort’s best rooms as well as the private dining room, and had requested gourmet menu suggestions and comprehensive spa privileges for its top executives and a number of investors.
The bill would amount to tens of thousands of dollars. Grace was new enough to the resort-management field to be impressed, although she supposed such expenditures were common in the corporate world.
Not that Slater struck her as the corporate type; she couldn’t really picture him wearing a suit, giving speeches in some boardroom. He’d looked like a denim and custom-made boots man to her, but then she’d met him only once, and under distinctly awkward circumstances at that. So maybe she’d missed something.
Still, Grace had good instincts where people were concerned; as a cop, she’d learned to depend on her gut.
She’d certainly noticed Slater’s easy air of command. He was clearly comfortable with himself, and he was assertive but not overbearing. Otherwise, he would’ve been a lot tougher on Ryder the night before.
It was a safe bet that Mr. Carson had a clear idea of what he wanted and seldom, if ever, hesitated to go after it.
She couldn’t help making a few comparisons—and there were undeniable similarities between Slater and Hank, her ex-husband. Both men were strong, single-minded and ambitious.
There were undeniable differences between them, too.
Hank, in fact, was not merely ambitious, he was driven, a trait that could seem sexy at first glance; power usually was sexy. She’d been drawn in quickly, despite the practicality that had served her so well on the force. Trouble was, she’d sadly miscalculated her place in the pecking order. On the list of Hank’s priorities, she came in last.
Even Ryder was low on the figurative totem pole. Hank’s career was number one, and both she and his son were basically distractions. Afterthoughts.
She’d been wounded by this realization, and she’d been cautious ever since. One major mistake was forgivable; two would constitute disaster.
Okay, so she didn’t know Slater well enough to write him off as a player, but she’d learned to be wary of his brand of charisma.
If he saw her as a conquest—she’d run into that attitude before and after Hank—he was riding for a fall that would bruise his masculine ego big-time.
Count me out.
She looked past her computer monitor, took in her surroundings. It was an old trick, a way of grounding herself in the real world when her mind wandered.
Grace loved her spacious second-floor office, overlooking the pool and the gardens. There was a small balcony, complete with a couple of ornate deck chairs and a small, glass-topped table.
Not that she had time to sit out there and enjoy it all.
This morning, though, she had the balcony doors open, and a cool, soft breeze wafted in, scented with a tinge of pine and the lush flowers crowding the gardens.
The resort was a terrific place to work, her salary was generous and so far, she’d gotten along beautifully with the guests as well as the staff. In short, she’d finally gotten her life unstuck, and no complications would be tolerated.
Specifically, the tall, dark-haired, good-looking cowboy sort of complication.
“Did you see that booking I forwarded?”
The
