Read Lonely Millionaire Online
Authors: Carol Grace
She meshed her body against his, every hollow of his filled with every curve of hers. "One more thing, Mr. Lonely Millionaire," she said. "Just how long is long-term?"
"Forever," be said with a giant sigh of relief as he rolled over to give her a taste of forever right then and there on that deserted sunny beach a million miles from nowhere.
* * * * *
The day was hot, the trail was long and her suitcase was so heavy she almost regretted packing her portable espresso machine. But a summer without good coffee? Unthinkable. Especially a summer where the days are warm but the nights are cool. Chloe rested her fanny against a pine tree to catch her breath and unfolded a piece of tattered, yellowed paper that she took from her pocket.
Paradise Hot Springs, where the Ute Indians once wintered near warm thermal waters, invites tourists to enjoy warm days and cool nights in the mountains of Colorado. Mineral waters known to cure gout, obesity, broken hearts and old gunshot wounds. Guests will be met by stagecoach. El. 7500 ft. Your genial host and proprietor: Horatio W. Hudson. Est. April 1912.
"Where is the stagecoach?" she muttered. "And where is the genial host?" She knew the answer to that one. Great-Grandpa Horatio Hudson was dead at age ninety-seven. And Paradise Springs was hers now. If she could find it. There had been one hand-carved wooden sign that pointed the way, and then nothing. Just a narrow trail overgrown with blackberry thorns and nettles.
Nobody told her she'd have to leave her car at the entrance. Nobody told her she'd be walking miles uphill in suede chukka boots.
"Buy boots," they'd said. They didn't say what kind.
"Take your camera." It was hanging around her neck like an albatross.
"Have a great vacation." She sighed. Maybe once she got there.
After another two hours of wading through a shallow creek, spanning fallen trees and climbing at least another thousand feet in altitude, Chloe was dripping with perspiration and gasping for breath. For two cents she would have thrown her suitcase over a cliff, coffeemaker and all.
But then she saw it in the distance. Steam rising in the clear blue sky. With one last burst of energy she dragged herself forward to the end of the trail. And there it was: Paradise Hot Springs in all its glory.
A group of dilapidated log cabins at the edge of a clearing.
A huge, empty pool, cracked and stained with orange.
An abandoned wooden bathhouse.
The pungent smell of minerals in the air.
She set her suitcase in the clearing, left her camera on top of it, and walked to the bathhouse. From the looks of the place, this was the end of the road. And the end of her dream.
She pushed and the door swung open on rusty hinges. She gasped. In her bathhouse, in her old enameled bathtub, was a cowboy. He was up to his neck in hot thermal water, wearing only a hat tilted low over his forehead. Shafts of sunlight poured through the cracks in the roof, illuminating his broad shoulders and large feet. The rest she could only imagine.
He turned his head. Electric blue eyes met hers and gave her a long appreciative look.
"Hello, darlin'," he said with a lazy grin. "What can I do for you?"
She swallowed hard. "You can get out of my bathtub."
Obligingly he braced his hands on the edge of the tub and stood.
She should have closed her eyes.
She should have looked away.
She should have run for her life.
But she didn't. She stood there and stared at the lean, hard body of a magnificent man in all his naked splendor. Her face flamed. Her knees wobbled.
He came to his senses first and planted his hat against his muscular thighs. "Have a seat," he said, waving his other hand in the direction of a wooden bench along the wall.
"Who—who do you think you are?" she sputtered.
"Who do you think I am?" he inquired. Tiny drops of water slid down his chest, caught in the damp blond hair there and caused her heart to pound erratically.
"I think you're an intruder and you're trespassing on my property," she said stiffly.
"Your property..." A whole series of emotions— including shock and surprise—crossed his craggy face. But he recovered quickly. "Then you must be..."
"Chloe Hudson."
"Zebulon Bowie," he said extending his hand to grasp hers. "My friends call me Zeb."
"Mr. Bowie," Chloe said, trying to ignore the large callused hand that held hers and didn't let go. "What are you doing here?"
"What does it look like?" he said with a mocking smile.
"It looks like you're taking a bath in my tub, and I would appreciate it if you, if you... if you..."
What was wrong with her, allowing the presence of a naked stranger to cause her mind to go blank and her body to hum like a live wire? She was a nurse, for heaven's sake. She'd seen naked bodies before. But not like this one.
"If I would make room for you? No problem," he assured her. "You look like you could use some hot water."
Again the frankly sexual gaze raked her body and caused an instant and unwanted reaction. Her nipples peaked against the damp silk shirt that was pasted to her body.
"And a cold beer," he added.
"I don't drink beer," she said primly while her face burned and her parched throat ached for something cool, anything. But accepting a drink would make it look like he was the host and she was the guest. And make it all the more difficult to kick him off her property.
"Too bad," he said, letting her hand go and reaching behind him to grab a pair of clean jeans and a shirt from a shelf above the tub. "Made it myself. Won second prize last fall at the county fair."
She exhaled slowly. Her mouth was as dry as a cotton swab. "Well, maybe just a sip," she said weakly.
He nodded and brushed past her on his way out the door, causing her to tremble uncontrollably for no reason at all. Except that she'd had a long, hard day. And it wasn't over yet.
Zeb stood in the shade of an evergreen tree and pulled his jeans on over muscled calves and thighs. Then a clean, though wrinkled, shirt went over his damp head of hair. His skin cooled rapidly in the dry air. But his body was hot and buzzing with awareness.
So this was Chloe Hudson. If he'd known she had long gorgeous legs that didn't quit, spectacular breasts clearly outlined by a clingy damp silk shirt, and a face the angels would envy, he would have... What? Given up his plan to buy her property and resell it at a huge profit? Not a chance. Not even if she'd jumped in that tub with him and he'd watched the water bead on her smooth skin, traced its path with his tongue as it trickled down her neck.... What did she need an old hot-springs resort for? He, on the other hand, had a desperate need for cash. Now. And no need for sexual gratification. Not from little Miz Hot-Springs Heiress.
He grabbed a cold bottle of beer from under a rock in the stream, then lifted her suitcase and carried it to the bathhouse. "Got your brew for you," he announced. "And your duds."
No answer. He should have warned her about taking care in the hot tub. Some people, unused to a sudden infusion of hot mineral water, fainted dead away. He yanked the door open.
Her head was tilted back against the porcelain, her red-gold hair cascading in wet ringlets over the edge of the tub. Her eyes were closed.
"Chloe!"
Her eyes flew open and she gave him a look that could have shattered the bottle in his hand.
"I knocked," he explained, his eyes riveted on the slope of her smooth shoulders as she sank deeper into the water. But not so deep he couldn't catch a glimpse of rosebud-tipped breasts floating like strawberries in a glass of champagne. He drew in a ragged breath, set the bottle on the floor and walked out.
So now they were even, he thought as he stomped down the rickety steps to solid ground. She'd seen him and he'd seen her. It wasn't as if he'd never seen a naked woman before. Then why was his heart pounding in time to some distant drum?
He glanced back at the bathhouse. "Hey," he yelled. "I left your bag at the door."
No answer. He could go back in. Make sure she hadn't succumbed to heat prostration and didn't need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Oh, lord. The idea of
plundering her mouth, exploring the moist hot recesses, set his pulse racing.
As he stared at the door, it opened. Slowly, cautiously, she stuck her head out, extended one bare arm and dragged the tan leather bag inside.
Enough, he told himself. Enough ogling his new neighbor and fantasizing about saving her life by holding her flat against the floorboards, forcing her lips open, filling her lungs with air from his, his hand cradled under her head. He let out a deep breath. And practiced what he'd say when she came out.
"Welcome to Paradise," he'd say. Then he'd wait a minute to let the irony sink in. "It's not much to look at, but it's all there is. Not to worry. Being the good neighbor I am, I'll take it off your hands. Right after dinner. Then I'll give you a ride to your car...your bus, whatever. And you can be on your way." He smiled with satisfaction. He shouldn't have to say much more. The run-down buildings, the overgrown weeds spoke louder than any words.
Chloe let the last draught of the smooth dark beer slide down her throat, then rubbed herself dry with a rough towel she found hanging from a peg on the wall. Her skin tingled, and her body throbbed. She closed her eyes and said a prayer that when she opened the door, the cowboy who thought he was God's gift to women would be gone.
But he was far from gone. Instead, he was kneeling over a campfire, sun-bleached blond hair falling over his forehead, coaxing a bundle of dry sticks to burn. She noticed broad shoulders in blue denim and muscled thighs in tight jeans. She sucked in her breath. He had a gorgeous body, in or out of his clothes.
She reminded herself that his gorgeous body was trespassing on her property and stalked purposefully toward him across the clearing.
Here’s an excerpt from another book by Carol Grace WILD MUSTANG MAN
Bridget McCloud braced her elbows against the wooden fence and held her binoculars up to her eyes. There on a hilltop, riding a wild mustang horse, was the man she was looking for—strong, virile, powerful and sexy. Unable to restrain herself, she let out a whoop of joy. She was not a bounty hunter or a desperate spinster. She was the president and owner of Bridget McCloud Advertising, about to land her first major account with the manufacturers of Wild Mustang men’s cologne.
Now that she’d found her Wild Mustang Man, nothing could stop her. She grinned to herself, wishing her administrative assistant and best friend Kate was there to share the excitement and the view. Not that she would have surrendered her binoculars. Not just yet.
Silhouetted against the blue Nevada sky, wild horse and rider moved as one. Bridget could almost hear the rhythmic fall of the hoofbeats, feel the muscles ripple under the man’s denim shirt and smell...yes, she could almost smell the tangy, masculine scent of Wild Mustang men’s cologne.
With a sigh of ecstasy, she let the binoculars fall against her chest and lifted her Nikon from its case, pressed the shutter and filled her memory card with shots of her future Mustang Man. She never saw the bicycle bearing down on her from out of nowhere. If she had she would have leaped out of the way before it plowed into her and knocked her to the ground.
The bike crashed onto the dirt road, the rider thrown to the side. Bridget staggered to her feet, dazed and bruised, head pounding. The daredevil rider, all four feet of him, was sitting in the dirt, staring at his skinned knees.
“Sorry,” he said, wide blue eyes looking up at her as she limped toward him. “Didn’t know anybody was there.”
“Same here,” she acknowledged. “But I think you got the worst of it. You or your bike,” she said, noticing the smashed spokes, the twisted handlebars. “I better take you home and get you bandaged up.”
“I am home,” he said, waving at the fields on the other side of the fence. Painfully he got to his feet, but his knees buckled and Bridget caught him in her arms before he lost his balance again. His dusty hair tickled her nose. She felt his body stiffen like a wounded animal, before he yanked himself out of her arms. “I’m okay,” he said, his upper lip stiff with pride. But his voice shook ever so slightly. “I can crawl through the fence and be back before my dad knows I’m gone.”
Bridget frowned at his stubborn determination, more than a little concerned about the cut above his eye and the blood oozing from his knees.
“What if I crawl through the fence with you and make sure you get there?” she offered.
He shrugged his narrow shoulders, and his teeth chattered. Bridget wondered if there were more injuries than met the eye or if he was that afraid of his father. “Okay, but we gotta hurry. If my dad finds out about this he’ll have my hide.”
“What’s left of it,” Bridget muttered, giving him a worried glance as she followed him, squeezing herself through the slats in the fence.
The two of them staggered up a sagebrush-covered hill toward a sprawling ranch house, two steps forward, one step back as Bridget’s binoculars bounced against her chest, and her camera case swung back and forth from her shoulder. She began to wonder who was helping whom. The further they walked, the stronger the boy got, and the weaker Bridget felt. Oh, to be young again, she thought, as he pulled her forward, his small grubby hand in hers. Oh, to be wearing sensible shoes instead of sandals.