right, but this was not the woman he’d pictured. “I’m Angela Krizova,” she said, offering her hand.
He took it, the dulcet tones of her words rolling over him. Her hand was warm and soft, and up close he could see she had jade-green eyes and a generous mouth. In fact, everything about her was generous—overly generous. He swallowed hard. Angela Krizova was, well, fat. Definitely not the woman of his dreams.
She withdrew her hand, looking amused. “Not what you expected?” she asked.
He cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment at allowing his feelings to be so transparent. “Excuse me?”
“I asked if I was not what you expected. Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”
She turned to survey the lobby and he closed his eyes, collecting himself.
“Nice place you have here,” she said, the same sweet, velvety voice wrapping around him. “I haven’t been here since it was redone.”
He opened his eyes again, half hoping to see the woman of his fantasies. Nope. Angela still stood before him, larger than life—or at least larger than he’d expected. He realized she was studying him, waiting for him to speak. “Let me show you around,” he said.
He led her through the lobby toward the restaurant decorated in dark wood and light stone. “The Atmosphere Restaurant and Bar has a sundeck with a fire pit right at the base of the ski slopes. We also have the Cirrus Lobby Bar. And down this hallway is our business center and indoor heated pool and spa.” He started to feel more comfortable. He’d given this same talk so many times he could practically say it in his sleep. Which was just as well, since while his tongue was otherwise engaged, every other sense was focused on the woman beside him.
Now that he’d recovered from his initial shock, he felt a little ashamed of his reaction to her. Yes, she was a big woman, but she wasn’t ugly. She had thick, lustrous dark hair that fell past her shoulders; expressive eyes, high cheekbones and a Cupid’s bow mouth; and her curves, though generous, were in all the right places. Some people might even say she was voluptuous rather than fat.
“May I see the ballroom where we’ll be holding the fund-raiser?” she asked.
“Of course.” He paged the catering manager and asked him to meet them there. Then he led the way into the ballroom and pressed the switches that flooded the room with light. “We can set up tables in any one of several configurations,” he said as they walked farther into the room. “The raised dais at the end can be used for speakers or a band or you could showcase silent-auction items there.”
“We can put the silent-auction items opposite the entrance and have tables set up along the sides. We’ll definitely want room for dancing,” she said. “And will there be a coat check available?”
“Yes, we can arrange for that, no problem.”
“That would be perfect.” Her smile, in conjunction with that killer voice, would have stopped any conscious man in his tracks.
Bryan took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the scent of Angela’s subtle floral perfume wrapped around him, further dazzling his senses. Forget the two-dimensional fantasies he’d conjured earlier. The flesh-and-blood woman before him had his expectations—and his libido—in a tailspin. Was he merely responding to the novelty of a plus-size siren, or was there something else at work here?
A stocky man with closely cropped black hair bustled into the room. “I am Marco Casale, the catering manager,” he said.
“Marco, this is Angela Krizova. She’ll be working with you to arrange the community theater fund-raiser.”
Marco took one of Angela’s hands in both of his and fixed her with a dazzling smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Krizova,” he said. “You perhaps do not remember me, but we spoke several months ago regarding a special order of chocolates you created for a wedding I catered.”
“Of course I remember.”
Marco’s eyes glazed slightly as Angela’s voice worked its magic, and Bryan felt a completely unexpected pinch of jealousy in his gut. He hadn’t realized quite how much he’d enjoyed being the focus of Angela’s attention until he had to share it with another man.
Marco moved in closer, still holding her hand. “We should meet privately sometime soon to discuss the menu for your gathering,” he said, his Italian accent more pronounced than usual. “I have some special dishes I have been saving.”
“That’s great. Why don’t you fax her a menu?” Bryan clamped his hand on Marco’s shoulder. “Don’t let us keep you. I know you have a lot of work to do.” Their eyes met in the kind of mute challenge men engage in when physical dueling would be crossing the line into outright incivility.
Marco was the first to blink, and with obvious reluctance released his hold on Angela and backed away. “I will call you,” he said to Angela, before sending a last withering look toward Bryan and leaving.
Angela watched his departure, the dimple to the left of her mouth deepening as her lips curved in a hint of a smile. When she and Bryan were alone again, she turned to him. “I almost forgot this,” she said as she opened her purse and took out a small, gold foil box.
“What is that?” he asked, watching her untie the ribbon that secured the box lid.
“I brought samples.”
“Samples?”
“Of my chocolates.” She selected a truffle from the box and held it up for his inspection, the shiny pink lacquer of her nails contrasting sharply with the velvety blackness of the sweet. “Dark chocolate raspberry,” she said, and offered it to him.
He popped the confection into his mouth and was instantly rewarded with the smooth sensation of melting chocolate, the bitterness of the cocoa and the sweetness of the raspberries in perfect harmony. “Delicious,” he mumbled.
“I’m glad you like it.” She licked the tip of her index finger, where the heat of her body had melted the fragile chocolate. The innocent, unself-conscious gesture sent a jolt of arousal straight through him, rocking him back on his heels. Then she smiled at him and said in that voice, “Would you like another?”
Could I survive another? “Maybe you could leave them for me to enjoy later,” he said.
“Of course.” She replaced the lid on the box and handed it to him. “How long have you been working for the hotel?”
“Not very long.” The last he’d heard, the oddsmakers in town had given him three months before he cried uncle and fled to his former slacker ways. He’d passed that mark two weeks ago, but they still treated his new career as a passing fancy, something he was bound to give up on sooner rather than later.
“And what did you do before that?”
“Different things,” he hedged. Of course, if she was really interested, five minutes spent talking to any of his friends would give her the full, if not necessarily flattering, picture of his past. He’d arrived in Crested Butte seven years ago this month, intending to spend the rest of the winter snowboarding before heading to New York or Chicago or Dallas to put his hotel management degree to use.
As soon as he’d pulled onto Crested
