He’s out to expose her...

But he’s baring it all!

Gorgeous Summer Love is after Tate Carson’s grandfather’s billions. And New York lawyer Tate will stop at nothing to prove she’s a fraud. Not even following her to glamorous St. Moritz. But he never imagined falling under her sexy spell... And now, from his luxury chalet and her penthouse suite to the slopes of the snow-encrusted Swiss Alps, she’s exposing his every carnal desire—and maybe even his heart...

New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author CATHRYN FOX is a wife, mom, sister, daughter, aunt and friend. She loves dogs, sunny weather, anything chocolate (she never says no to a brownie), pizza and red wine. Cathryn lives in beautiful Nova Scotia with her husband, who is convinced he can turn her into a mixed martial arts fan. When not writing, Cathryn can be found Skyping with her son, who lives in Seattle (could he have moved any farther away?), shopping with her daughter in the city, watching a big action flick with her husband, or hanging out and laughing with friends.

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On His Knees

Cathryn Fox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08686-8

ON HIS KNEES

© 2019 Cathryn Fox

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To my husband, a true romantic at heart. Love you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE
Tate

“YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS.”

My grandfather curls knotted fingers around his crystal snifter, and holds the glass up in salute. Time-ravaged lines deepen around mossy eyes as he smiles at me. “As serious as a heart attack, son,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he takes a long pull, draining the rich, amber liquid with one easy swallow.

I push from the ebony leather chair, shocked at the real reason my granddad asked me to stop by after a long week setting up my new office. Here I thought we were going to catch up, shoot the shit, reminisce about old times after I moved my law practice from Boston to Manhattan to be closer to him. But instead I find myself alternating between sitting and standing, pacing and pausing as his unexpected request pings around inside my brain.

Change my property title and deed half my billion-dollar Manhattan estate to Summer Love.

“She’s quite the looker, this one,” Granddad says, and picks up the Polaroid picture sitting on the mahogany side table in his study, one of the many nostalgic pieces he salvaged from the bygone gentlemen’s club where he once networked. I glance at the picture in his hand. Christ, he’s been grinning at it like love-struck teenager since I arrived thirty minutes ago.

Could he really be in love—with Summer Love?

And what kind of name is that anyway?

“What do you think, son?”

What I think is she’s a third his age. For Christ’s sake, she’s young enough to be his granddaughter. What the hell is going on inside that brain of his? I shake my head, as arthritic fingers hold the photo up higher for my inspection. I glance at the Polaroid, which showcases the left half of my grandfather’s face, and Summer Love from the chin up. I study her full pouty mouth, makeup-free face, big brown doe eyes and caramel hair piled haphazardly on the top of her head. Yeah, okay, she’s gorgeous in that fresh-faced girl-next-door way—which probably opens many affluent doors for a gold digger like her.

And who the hell takes a selfie with a Polaroid anyway?

I shove my hands into the pockets of my black dress pants, and walk around Granddad’s monument of a desk. Incredulous at what he’s asking me to do, a garbled sound catches in my throat—a half laugh, half snort. I pace to the window and look out. On Sixty-Fourth Street below, dozens of people bustle about. A robust, early December breeze ruffles their clothes and pushes them along the sidewalk.

“Come on, have a celebratory drink with me, already,” Granddad says again, his once syrupy voice now broken and gravelly.

Agitated, I remove my hands from my pockets, and swipe one through hair that desperately needs a barber. I just haven’t had a lot of time lately. After moving back last week, I’ve put all my energy into getting my Manhattan apartment in order as well as the new firm—we’re set to open for business after the holidays. My other hand smooths down my tie, a habit I picked up from my granddad even before I began wearing suits.

“Yeah, okay,” I finally concede. The truth is I need a drink, something to help me swallow and digest this troubling news. But I’ll be damned if I’ll drink to my grandfather losing his mind and signing over half his estate to some con artist. I won’t let that happen. Not in a million fucking years. I walk to the bar, pour a generous amount of brandy into a glass and throw it back in one motion. I welcome the burn as I slam the glass down on the bar harder than necessary and turn around to regard my grinning grandfather.

“She’s lovely, James. Don’t you think so?” he asks, using my middle name. He always preferred James to Tate. Probably because James is his first name, too. He loved the idea of his grandson carrying his name into the next generation. My mom, however, insisted on Tate as my first name, after her late father. But thinking of my mom ties my stomach into knots. She left when I was a child, accepting a big payout from Dad to leave me behind. Acid burns in my throat to think she chose money over her son. I guess she knew how to get around the prenuptial, and in the end I’d rather be with a parent who wants me.

Pushing those ugly thoughts to the recesses of my mind, I pace for a moment, then perch on the arm of the chair opposite Granddad. With my hands braced on my thighs, I take a deep fueling breath and let it out slowly. “Granddad,” I begin, then clamp my teeth together with an audible click. How the hell can I tell him this woman is a con, out to bleed millions from his bank account, without hurting him in the process? This is a man who worked hard his whole life, dragged himself up from the gutters and turned thousands into billions on Wall Street. He’s a man of morals, one who led by example and taught me and my father—not to mention my aunts, uncles and cousins—the value of hard work. Nothing was ever handed to any member of the Carson family. Sure, I was given a top-notch education at the finest schools, but Granddad always made me hold down part-time jobs. At Harvard, I worked the dish pit at the campus pub, eventually climbing my way up to bartender. I owe this man so much, and the last thing I want is to slap him with reality when he thinks he’s in love with some...fraud.

The picture falls from his rickety hand, and his frailty hits me like a punch to the gut when he bends to retrieve it. His big, gray cardigan hangs a little looser on his shoulders as he sits back up. He adjusts it, but there is nothing he can do to hide his ill health. Goddammit, I should have come home sooner, should have been here to prevent this woman from ever digging her claws into a dying man.

“How did you two meet?” I ask, choking back the emotions crawling up my throat.

Chuckling, he gives me a wink. “At the clinic.”

“The clinic?” Restless, I stand, drawing myself up to my full six feet. “What was she doing there?”

“She held the door open for me.”

“That’s it?” I really don’t like the sounds of this. I put my hand on the back of my head, apply pressure to the dull ache beginning at the base of my neck as every muscle in my body tightens, goes on alert. “That’s how you met?”

“Yes.”

I angle my throbbing head, my gaze raking over my grandfather’s face as I take in his body language. There’s something he’s not telling me. The grandson in me senses it, the lawyer in me knows it. “What was she doing at the clinic?”

Granddad hesitates and I pinch the bridge of my nose, envisioning Summer Love hanging out at the geriatrics clinic, scoping out her next target. If it’s money she’s after, and obviously it has to be, she definitely scored big-time with Granddad. But Jesus, what kind of a woman would do something so reprehensible?

A conniving one.

“Does she work there?” I ask.

Gnarled fingers swat the air, like I’m an annoying fly, buzzing with too many questions. “What’s with the interrogation? You’re going to love her, James. I’m sure you two will hit it off as soon as you meet,” he says, pivoting the conversation.

Doubtful.

Anger prowls through my blood, a hot burn that nudges my temper. In the past Granddad always had an ironclad prenuptial drawn up. Why doesn’t he want one this time? Christ, he’s not even married to the woman, yet he wants to sign half his estate over. He has to be losing his mind. What other explanation could there be?

“How long have you known her?”

“Long enough to know I want her to be part of the family.” He averts his eyes for a moment, glancing over my shoulder to gaze at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf behind me. Why the hell is he being so cagey?

I stand, walk to the bookshelf and run my hand along the aged bindings. The musty scent of old paper, combined with its vanilla undertones, takes me back to my days spent in the Harvard library.

“What does Dad think of this?” I ask, turning back around to square off against my grandfather. No way can I let this go.

His bony collarbone jumps as he gives a shrug. “He thinks it’s a brilliant idea.”

My head rears back in disbelief. No way would my father give consent to this, unless he’s losing his mind, too. Not that I can call him and have a chat to gauge his mental capacity. He’s out of reach, off to Bali on his fourth honeymoon with a girl half his age. Both Dad and Granddad have a history of marrying younger women—although this time Granddad is really widening the age bracket, horrendously so. At least Dad still had enough wits about him to draw up a prenuptial before he said I do.

My gaze rakes over my grandfather. I take in his winter-white hair, the thinning of his face. Heavy lines bracket milky blue eyes that have dulled with age as he turns his gaze back to the Polaroid. Christ, I don’t want to burst his bubble, but no way can I let him sign over his life’s work. I’m not just his grandson, I’m his power of attorney, in charge of his affairs and sworn to keep his best interests at heart.

“When can I meet her?” I ask.

His head lifts, and for a brief second I catch a sparkle of something in his eyes—a reminder of the youthful man who was as sly as he was strong. He briefly shuts his eyes, and when he opens them again, the sparkle is gone. His face pulls into a sad grimace when he says, “She’s on vacation, in St. Moritz. Won’t be back for a week.”

Of course she’s on vacation in St. Moritz. Why wouldn’t she be, considering Granddad owns numerous hotels and chalets in the Alpine resort town? I spent a lot of days on the slopes during my school breaks and holidays, and a lot of nights working the bar. Like I said, Granddad wanted me to understand the value of hard work.

“Is she staying in one of your hotels?” I ask, holding no punches.

“Enough with the questions, son.” He climbs to his feet to refill his glass, but his nonanswer says it all. She’s staying in one of his hotels, and he likely footed the bill for the whole trip.

I dig my phone from my front pocket and do a quick search for Summer Love. I scan all the social media sites and come up with nothing. How can a woman in her late twenties have zero online presence? I’m on Instagram and Twitter, even though I rarely post, but I at least have an account. She has nothing. I guess she’s smart enough not to leave a trail behind after she cons people out of their money.

Agitated, I push from the bookshelf and pace. This. This is the reason I don’t get emotionally involved with women. Between my father, and my grandfather, I’ve seen enough “aunts” come and go over the years to realize it’s not the men themselves these women want. It’s what they have in their bank account. My own mother was no different.

Christ, is there not one decent woman left in the world, one who cares about love, life and people over money? If she’s out there, she’s certainly not traveling in any of my social circles. Not that I’m looking to settle down. I prefer a revolving door, sex for sex and no commitment. Those are the rules I live by, rules that protect me. But right now I have much more important things on my plate. Things like worrying about my grandfather’s state of mental health and exposing Summer Love for the fraud she really is. I will not stand back and let her cheat my family out of millions.

“How long will it take for you to draw the papers up?” Granddad asks, settling himself back into his leather chair, that hint of a spark back in his eyes. “I want to surprise her when she returns.”

I scrub my chin, a stall tactic as my mind races, a plan forming in the depths of my brain. I lift my eyes to his as the idea takes shape, becomes lucid. It might be ludicrous, but extreme situations call for extreme measure. “It will take about a week,” I inform him. Just enough time for me to go to St. Moritz, seduce Summer Love and take her to her knees.

CHAPTER TWO
Summer

“HERE GOES NOTHING,” I say, unable to hide the nervous edge in my voice as I look at the towering ski hill and wonder how I’ll get down it without breaking my damn neck.

“It’s just the bunny hill,” Amber says, as she tugs at her glove with her teeth, adjusting it around the cuff of her coat. “You’ll be fine. You did great during the lessons.” She nudges me to set me into motion, and I nearly tip over in my sturdy ski boots. Oh yeah, hurtling down the mountain on two waxed-up sheets of plastic is going to be so much fun, especially when I can’t even stand in my damn boots. Amber points to the ground. “Now get those skis on so we can catch up to Cara.”

I glance up to see Cara skiing toward the gondola, and resist the urge to throw my pole at her as she effortlessly glides across the snow. I love my girlfriends, I really do. They both grew up in the Hamptons and were best friends when I met them at Harvard. They brought me into their small circle when I arrived alone and nervous my freshman year—my first time being away from my father, and our Brooklyn apartment—and we’ve all been tight ever since. I’d do anything for them, which is why I’m currently standing at the foot of a very big ski hill in St. Moritz, one tumble away from concussion...or worse.

I glance around at all the other mountains. “Can we go tobogganing instead?”

“No,” Amber says, then slips her booted feet into her skis and snaps them in place.

“Why did I let you two talk me into this when I could be relaxing on a Caribbean beach?” I mumble as my breath turns to fog in front of my face.

Amber laughs. “Because our entire trip here was free.” She winks at me. “Compliments of your boyfriend.”

“James is not my boyfriend,” I say, and plant one hand on my hip, even though I know she’s teasing. It’s just that James is generous, and exceptionally good to me, always trying to lavish me with gifts and trips to show his gratitude for my care. Odd really, considering he’d gone through a slew of doctors, firing them for one reason or another. He took an instant liking to me, but I flatly refused this trip when he suggested it. My God, I still have so much to do to build my practice, and my new website was recently hacked. I cringe to think of the picture on display, that of my face sitting on top of a fake—naked—body. How mortifying. Thankfully Dan, the guy I hired to fix it, was able to wipe all the info from my site until he can get the picture down, so future clients won’t associate me with it. I should be home dealing with all those things. Then again, I can answer Dan’s questions from here as easily as I can from New York. So when James pushed, and pushed—even at ninety, the man is damn stubborn, his mind still sharp as a scalpel—and the girls begged me to say yes to this trip of a lifetime, I finally caved. I’ve been under so much stress lately—trying to build my practice, working part-time at the geriatric clinic and taking on private patient care for the extra money—that getting away was just what the doctor ordered, and since I’m the doctor...

“He’s my patient,” I say and stop to consider his ill health. I hated to leave him, especially after his last bout of pneumonia, but he assured me his grandson James was moving back home and would be there to care for him in my absence. Still, I asked a colleague to check in on him once a day.

“I know, I know, now come on. Let’s go pop your cherry. Like sex, skiing is fun once you get used to it.” Laughing, she takes off toward Cara, who is waving us over from the gondola line. I glance over my shoulder and consider sneaking back to the lounge. It’s only ten in the morning, but hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere, right? I exhale a defeated sigh, about to join my friends for my death ride, but stop when out of my peripheral vision I catch a movement, the shadow of a man running toward me. Catching me completely off guard, he grabs me from behind, and lifts me clear off the ground.

“Ohmigod,” I cry out as strong arms tighten around my waist, practically squeezing the air from my lungs. “What do you...” My words die an abrupt death when he spins me around, going faster and faster until I’m dizzy and completely disoriented. My brain wobbles inside my head, and I briefly close my eyes as he laughs, his breath warming the side of my face.

“About time you got here,” he says.

What the hell?

When he finally stops twirling me, and my feet are on solid ground again, I slowly turn around, my breath catching in my throat when I come face-to-face with the hottest guy I’ve ever set eyes on.

“I...um...think...”

I struggle to find my words when he steps back, and blinks thick lashes over gorgeous blue eyes that could melt the panties right off my hips, despite the cold temperatures here in the Swiss Alps.

“You’re not—” he begins, his brow furrowing as he gives a hard shake of his head.

Shocked, intrigued...aroused—despite my spinning brain—I work to focus in on the six feet of pure testosterone standing before me. A wide smile splits his lips, showcasing perfect white teeth as he grabs a fistful of hair, and takes another measured step back to give me space. My gaze slides downward, lingering over broad shoulders that fill out his ski jacket nicely, to jeans that cradle his package to perfection. I study the curved outline of an impressive bulge. I’ve not been with many men, but my guess is this guy won the man lottery in more ways than one.

Stop staring at his crotch, already.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. My gaze jerks back to his as he holds his hands up, palms out, a nonverbal gesture that communicates his mistake. “I thought you were someone else.”

Still wobbly from the spin, I widen my feet to brace myself, and reach for something to hold on to before I face plant in the snow—in front of the hottest guy on the planet. I stumble a bit, and once again his arms are around me, invading my personal space and securing me to his firm body. Only this time we’re face-to-face. And oh, what an incredible face he has.

I lift my chin until we’re eye to eye. Damn I wish I was the someone he was looking for. “Sorry to disappoint you,” I say, surprised I can form a coherent thought as my lust-hazed mind struggles to work.

“Who says I’m disappointed?” he asks, his rich, low baritone curling through my body and arousing all my neglected girly parts. I take him in, my shaky gaze going from unruly dark hair that I want to run my fingers through, to a sculpted jaw covered in a light dusting of stubble—stubble that would leave burn marks on my naked body, if I ever found myself beneath him in bed.

And oh, how I want to.

His grin is back, doing the most ridiculous things to the needy juncture between my legs, when he says, “I’m Tate, by the way.”

Tate. The perfect name for the epitome of male perfection. As I think about that, wind gusts around us, blowing my hair across my face. I catch a few strands in my mouth. I sputter a bit, and swat at them with gloved fingers. How attractive must that look to him? Ugh.

He holds his hand up again and cocks his head. “Mind if I...”

Our gazes latch, hold, and the air around us charges with enough electricity to keep the gondolas running in a black out—for a month straight. I take a breath, work to keep it together, but everything about this man reminds me I’m a woman with needs, which shatters my ability to present composed.

“Please,” I say quietly. He pauses for a split second, like that one word means something entirely different, then he’s back in the moment, his rough fingertips brushing my cheek, lingering a second too long, before he pulls the strands free and tucks them into my hat.

Come on, knees. Keep it together. Just because six feet of sex-in-ski-jacket is touching you, doesn’t mean you have to weaken.

“I... I’m...”

Okay, Summer. You’re a Harvard educated physician. Find your words, already.

He angles his head, those astute blue eyes moving over my face, assessing me, as my body flushes. Heat curls through me and climbs up my neck. No doubt turning my cheeks a darker shade of pink. Will he think my flesh is wind-burnt, or will he realize it’s my body’s way of telling me it needs to get laid? Right now. By him.

I inhale, and little lightning bolts of electricity zing though my body when I catch his scent. Sun. Outdoors. One hundred percent hot male. Every bone in my body wants him. I honestly can’t ever remember reacting so strongly to the opposite sex before, but this guy, holy hell, he has me rethinking my stance on one-night stands. Or maybe one-week stands. Something tells me one night wouldn’t be enough to sample everything he has to offer. My mind races, the vision of him warming my currently chilled body beneath the sheets stirs the desire within me. I hadn’t planned to have a vacation fling when I arrived here two days ago, but now...

“Summer,” I say on a breathless whisper.

Tate frowns, and glances at the snow-covered hill. Then he turns back to me and gives me a look that suggests I’m a snow bunny with little going on upstairs. “Could have fooled me.”

“No,” I say. “That’s my name.” I don’t bother telling him my last name. While on vacation, I just want to be Summer, not Doctor Love. Ironic really, since Doctor Love can’t find love. But seriously, when guys find out I’m a doctor, it somehow intimidates them, scares them off. Just once in my life I want a guy to look at me as a woman—the way Tate is looking at me right now. Although there is something about him, something confident and powerful that says he wouldn’t be intimidated by anyone or anything. A fine shiver moves through my blood and settles deep in my core at that thought.

He takes my gloved hand in his bare one, and shakes it. “I know it’s probably a little late for a proper introduction,” he says, that sexy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth again.

I lift my chin. “You mean because of the groping?”

He laughs, and the sound awakens all my dormant parts. “I’m not sure I’d call it groping.”

“Then what would you call it?” I ask, surprised at my flirting. I was never very good at it.

He looks up to the left, like he’s thinking, then gives me a wink. “Maybe copping a feel?”

This time I laugh, but then I mentally kick myself for missing my chance to cop my own feel when he had his arms around me.

“I really am sorry.” He frowns. “I shouldn’t have touched you.” The sincerity edging his voice relaxes me.

“Don’t worry.” I give a wave of my hand to dismiss the incident. “I’m not going to report you.” Not only because it was an honest mistake, but because I damn well liked it.

He blows out a relieved breath. “Good. I need this job.” He lets go of my hand, and it falls to my side.

I glance at him again, admire his too longish hair, and athletic frame. “Ski instructor?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, I would have thought...” My words fall off as I let my gaze travel the length of his long, hard body. What would it feel like to have all two hundred pounds of him on top of me, or better yet, beneath me?

“Would have thought what?” he asks, his voice snapping me back to the present. God, girl, get it together. You’re acting like a sex-starved idiot. While that description might be fitting after meeting Tate, I certainly don’t have to act it.

“You’re just so fit and athletic.” Head tilted, I hold my hand out, wave it down the length of him. “I mean you look like a professional. Not that I know what a professional skier looks like,” I say. “This is my first time on a slope.” I glance toward the bunny hill, catch sight off all the children conquering it. “Those kids are going to put me to shame. Honestly, I don’t even really like heights. Couldn’t even look out the window during the plane ride.”

Okay, Summer, stop rambling.

“You’ve never skied before?”

I shake my head. “You seem surprised.”

“It’s just that...” His eyes narrow as they move down my body, a slow inspection that sparks something low and needy in my stomach. “You’re so fit and—”

“You can’t tell that,” I blurt out, and glance at my puffy white coat and snow pants. “I look like a big marshmallow.”

He grins, takes a small step closer, his scent once again surrounding me as blue eyes lance mine. “I love marshmallows.”

Omg, he’s flirting with me, too.

“And I would have thought you were a ripper, given your top-of-the-line gear,” he says.

“Ripper?”

“Ski slang for an accomplished skier.” He nods toward my clothes. “You’re dressed like one.”

I frown at the skis, boots, poles and clothes I’m wearing. They were in the penthouse suite waiting for me when I arrived, compliments of my generous patient. “A friend bought them for me.”

“Nice friend.”

“Very nice,” I say, and glance around. “So where’s this friend you were looking for?” Before I can stop myself, my gaze goes to his left finger. He’s smiling when my eyes move back to his, totally aware I was checking on his marital status.

Subtle, Summer. Real subtle.

He glances around. “I guess she’s not here yet.” With a nod he gestures toward my friends, who are staring at us. “Looks like your friends are waiting for you.”

I let out a slow breath. “They may have to get used to waiting for me this week.”

He grins, then says, “Listen, I really am sorry about grabbing you. Why don’t I make it up to you?”

The needy girl in me perks up, ready to suggest all kinds of ways he can make it up to me.

“I work the bar at Diamond’s Peak.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Just across the road. Come on by tonight, let me hook you and your friends up with a drink. It’s the least I can do.”

The least.

I twist to see my two friends grinning. “I, ah, should probably go. My friends.”

He holds his hands up, like he’s ready to grab me again if I should fall.

Oh, how I want to fall.

“No more dizziness?” he asks.

“I don’t think so.”

“You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie. The truth is, after being in his arms, being subjected to that sexy, panty-melting grin of his, I’m not sure I’ll ever be okay again.

CHAPTER THREE
Tate

I GLANCE AROUND the busy bar, the thick scent of cigar and perfume clogging the air as I take in the sea of people milling about. Most are talking about the trails they skied today, or worrying about the storm that’s supposed to hit midweek. I’m hoping I’ll be out of here by then, back in Manhattan, no longer worrying about my grandfather getting taken advantage of by Summer Love.

I may have put this plan together quickly, but before following through with it, I tried calling Granddad to ask once more about Summer. Again, I didn’t get any straight answers from my grandfather, who has swung between acting like a moony teen and being purposefully evasive on this topic. This isn’t like him, and if I can’t rely on him for information, I need to get it myself.

Honestly, he’s always been a generous man, always loved younger women, but something about this whole situation just isn’t right, and I’m not so sure I can blame it entirely on his mental deterioration. I visited him last summer, before he got sick. Since getting pneumonia last month, he lost his sharpness but two days ago, when he dropped this bombshell on me, there were times when he seemed like his young self, quick with a response, his mind as bright and agile as I remembered.

Truthfully, when I was little, I thought he’d live forever, but I guess age and frailty catch up with all of us, eventually. Guilt niggles at me for up and leaving him, right after returning home. I fibbed and told him I had some urgent out-of-town business. I guess it wasn’t that much of a lie. He waved me off like he wanted me to go, telling me he was fine, that he had in-house care every day and didn’t need me fussing.

I reach into the fridge behind me and grab an imported beer, then glance at the door to the bar. I’ve been watching it for the last hour, but Summer has yet to arrive with her friends. Maybe she changed her mind and isn’t going to come. Disappointment takes up residency in my gut. Not because I want to see her again, to continue our flirting and easy banter from earlier, but because I need to get close to her, get her into my bed, prove she’s only after my Granddad for one thing. Not that I plan to carry through with the seduction. No, I just need to strip her bare and expose her for the con she really is.

I uncap a beer and slide it across the smooth mahogany bar top, before turning my attention to the next customer. As I take his order, I glance over his head to keep one eye on the door. I can definitely see what Granddad sees in Summer Love. She’s gorgeous, and has a sweet, almost innocent quality about her. It might be all an act, but dammit if that doesn’t bring out the protectiveness in a man—at least in the Carson men. Since Dad is okay with the arrangement, it sounds to me like he’s fallen for her charm, too.

I, of course, am not about to be lured in by her, not in a million years, but Jesus, when I put my arms around her, felt her soft body against mine, I almost got derailed and forgot why I’m really here. But when it comes to her, there’s a line I have no intention of crossing. Not even when she whispered the word yes, all sultry and seductive like—okay, it’s possible I imagined the sultry and seductive part. My mind drifts once again, envisioning that one word on her lips when I have her naked, beneath me in bed, my cock sliding in and out of her hot, sweet body.

Get your shit together, Tate.

You’re not here to sleep with the woman, you’re here to prove she’s not who your grandfather thinks she is. With that last thought pinging around inside my brain, and steering me back on track, I finish making a Manhattan, then glance at the door in time to see Summer enter. Her caramel hair is piled haphazardly on her head, and she’s dressed in tight jeans and a snug sweater that showcases one hell of a hot body.

My dick twitches.

I track their path to the back of the room—and I’m not the only one—to a coveted window table that just opened up. Once she and her friends are seated, I turn to Henry, the older gentleman who runs the place. The two of us go way back, to when I used to come here during my high school years. He’s much older now, a little rounder, with thinning hair. After explaining the situation to him when I arrived yesterday, he jumped at the chance to let me work the bar. Granddad was always good to Henry, was always a generous tipper, and gave Henry’s wife a damn good job managing one of the hotels. Most people around here would bend over backward for Granddad.

Would Summer bend over for me?

Shit. Don’t go there, dude.

“Hey, Henry, you want to take over the bar for a bit? I’ll take the floor.”

“Sure,” he says, and gives me an understanding nod.

I tug the cloth from my shoulder and slap it onto the counter, giving it a little scrub as I plot my next step with Summer. A drink is a great icebreaker, and since I promised her one, it gives me a reason to go to her and start up a conversation. If I could turn back time, I never would have grabbed her by the waist and spun her around. I shouldn’t have put my hands on her like that. It was a snap decision, a stupid one, because now, I can’t help but want my goddamn hands on her again. I clench down on my teeth, and whip up three strawberry daiquiris, taking a chance it’s their drink of choice, like most other snow bunnies, and set them on the tray. I wipe my hands on my apron and carry the drinks across the room.

“Hello, ladies,” I say, and all eyes turn to me. I hand Summer the first drink. “On the house, as promised.” She smiles up at me, and it messes with my equilibrium. My hands shake and the drinks on my tray wobble. I make a quick adjustment, and I’m able to rebalance before making a damn fool of myself. I hand the other drink to her blonde friend, and catch the way the men at the table beside me are staring at the three ladies, most focusing on Summer. Not that I can blame them, she’s the hottest girl in the room.

Her friend accepts the drink, and takes a sip, then nibbles on the straw. I hand the third woman a drink, and her lips twist into a grin.

“A daiquiri for copping a feel,” she says, and leans a little toward me in a conspiratorial way. “What would you give her if...you know...” She holds both hands out, and cups them. “You got an actual, full-on feel.”

“Amber,” Summer says, and whacks her friend. The slap reverberates through me, settles into my balls.

“Ouch.” Amber pulls her hand back, and her other friend laughs. Summer’s face is as red as her drink when she glances up at me. Something inside me softens as dark lashes blink rapidly over big mortified eyes.

“It’s okay. I hear lots of comments working in a place like this,” I say, brushing it off to put Summer at ease.

Amber looks me over. She must like what she sees because she bobs her head and makes a lip-smacking sound. Does Summer like what she sees?

Jesus, Tate. It doesn’t matter. You’re not here to sleep with her.

Why do I have to keep reminding myself of that?

“I bet you get lots of offers for lots of things,” Amber says, pointing a finger at me, and running it up and down.

I grin, and Summer clears her throat. “Tate, this is my friend Amber. Amber is obnoxious and doesn’t have any filters.” She points to her other friend, who is still nibbling on her straw. “This is Cara. She’s the nice one.”

“Hey,” Amber says. “I’m nice, too.” Without missing a beat, she turns to me. “So this friend you were looking for earlier. Was she your girlfriend?”

Summer opens her mouth, no doubt to yell at her friend again, but I hold my hand up to stop her. I turn to Summer. “No, just a friend.”

“Well then, I’m not so certain a drink for a grope is quite enough,” Amber announces.

“You’re right,” I say. I brace one hand on the table and lean into Summer. I catch her floral scent, and breathe her in. “Have you eaten?”

She sits up a bit straighter, my offer taking her off guard. “No, not yet. But I had plans—”

“I think I’m getting a cold,” Amber says, and nudges Cara as she fakes a cough. “I think I caught it from Cara.”

Catching on quickly, Cara coughs, too, and I can’t help but grin at her friends’ antics. If the circumstances were different I would probably really like them. “We’re going to skip dinner, and just get soup delivered to our room.” Amber takes a big sip of her daiquiri. “After I finish this delicious drink of course.”

Summer is staring at her two friends like she’s going to kill them. I touch her arm, to bring her attention back around to me, and she nearly jumps out of her chair.

“Sorry,” I say. “No touching. I get it.”

“No...no, it just surprised me.”

“I get off in a few, why don’t you let me buy you dinner.”

“You don’t have to buy me anything, and we can pay for our own drinks, Tate. Seriously, today was just an accident.”

She wants to pay?

Okay, I totally didn’t expect that. Then again, Granddad’s probably set her up with a nice bank account by now.

“What if I want to?” I ask. Summer’s breath comes a little faster, as she reaches for her drink and takes a long pull from the straw. “There’s a really nice restaurant at Raydolins with a great view of the mountains and lake.”

“I’ve passed by it,” Summer says. “We’re staying at that resort,” she adds.

Of course she’s staying at Raydolins. My granddad owns it.

“We got in late two days ago, so we haven’t had too much of a chance to explore the resort or visit the shops.” She reaches into her purse, her hand rustling around for something.

“Good, I can be your tour guide. So yes to dinner?”

“Um...sure.” She glances at her watch, dropping a ten-dollar bill onto my tray. I stare at it, confused for a moment. Ah, she’s tipping me. Surprise number two. “I can meet you there at eight, but do you think we’ll get in without a reservation?” she asks, her nose crinkling.

I give her a wink. “I’ve got a few connections, and I’ll pick you up at your door.”

She holds her hands up, palms out. “You can pick me up, as long as there’s no spinning involved this time,” she says, and I laugh. I have to admit, she does have a great sense of humor. Probably has Granddad laughing all the time.

“What room are you in?”

“301.”

“Penthouse Suite,” I say.

Why the hell would Granddad put her in the one place we always stayed, and never rented out. He must be more serious about her than I ever thought. Damn, this is going to crush him. But what choice do I have? I have to protect him. He’s not just family, he means the world to me.

“You know it?” Summer asks.

I nod, and push a rebellious lock of hair from my forehead. I’m normally clean cut, and it’s driving me crazy. I really should have visited the barber before I bolted to the airport. Then again, I guess the disheveled look works better with my ruse. “I know it.”

“Summer’s friend owns it,” Cara informs me.

I nod. “Like I said before, nice friend.”

“Don’t worry, he’s not her boyfriend, or anything,” Amber says and aims a wink Summer’s way, as if to say, not yet.

“After dinner, maybe we can hit the slopes?” I say, banking my anger and putting myself back together.

“Once on the hill today is enough for me.”

I glance outside, take in all the hiking trails. “Okay, I’m sure I can find something else for us to do.”

“Oh, I’m sure you can,” Amber says, laughing.

Summer shakes her head at me. “Ignore her, please.”

Please.

What is it about her saying that one word that gets to my dick? I look at her lush mouth and for a brief second, I envision it wrapped around my thickening cock. Goddammit, the vision is ridiculously hot.

“Can I get you ladies anything else?”

Summer smiles up at me again. “No, thank you for the drinks. You didn’t have to do this, but I really appreciate it.”

I nod and walk away, thinking about all the other things I could give her that she just might appreciate.

Stop it, Tate.

I step back to the bar. Henry has a thin sheen of moisture on his forehead, and his breath is a little more labored as he gestures with his chin, and lowers his voice. “That her?”

“Yeah.” Worried that he’s been working too hard, I grab the glasses from the dishwasher and stack them on the bar, taking over for him.

Henry shakes his head. “Your grandfather must be having a midlife crisis.”

“If that’s the case than I guess he’s going to live to one hundred and eighty.”

He laughs. “At least he has good taste.”

“That he does.”

And therein lies the problem. Summer is breathtakingly beautiful, a girl I plan to expose, except suddenly exposing her—her clothes, that clip in her hair, her inhibitions—is playing out all kinds of wrong in my head.

CHAPTER FOUR
Summer

I PACE INSIDE my suite, hardly able to believe I’m about to have dinner with Tate the sexy bartender with a body made for sin. He never did give me his last name, and I never gave him mine, which is A-Okay with me. If I’m going to have a hot affair with a man I never plan to set eyes on again, the less I know about him the better.

Wait.

What?

I’m going to have a hot affair with Tate?

My blood races faster, heating my flesh and no doubt turning my cheeks a deeper shade of pink. God, am I really going to do this? I mean, there is no denying the heat between us, the insane, off-the-charts attraction. As soon as he approached our table, crowded my personal space, we created a volatile bubble of sexual energy that even my friends felt to their cores. Off course, after he left, they suggested I jump his bones and have a little much needed fun while I’m on vacation.

Should I?

I walk to the patio window and glance out at the slopes. Honest to God, I have the nicest view in all of St. Moritz. James spared no expense, giving me this suite and setting my friends up in their own rooms. Guilt tightens my stomach. I’m not one to take from people, not at all. I’ve always paid my own way in life, and went without when I couldn’t.

For most of my life, I’ve had my own preconceived notions about the wealthy, thanks to many childhood incidents with the rich boys at my school. Spoiled, entitled, mean boys who bullied me, and set me up for disaster. Growing up in New York and going to Harvard, I’ve met people from all walks of life, most of them kind. But after what those boys did to me when I was a kid, I was never able to shake the feeling of distrust I get around rich people. And, honestly, several summers spent working at an upscale steakhouse in Boston did little to help with that. The tips were great, some of the diners...not so much. But James is kind, compassionate, fair and generous. In the world of the rich, he may be one of a kind.

The knock on my door startles me, and my heart jumps into my throat as I turn around. I glance at myself in the mirror. Am I dressed appropriately? I only packed a few nice dresses. I had no idea I’d be dining with anyone other than my girls.

I check my clipped hair, take a deep breath and walk to the door. I open it and my pulse leaps when I find Tate standing there, hands in the pockets of his dress pants, and a suit jacket that fits him to perfection. He must have had it professionally made to fit those shoulders. Then again, probably not. Not on a bartender’s salary anyway. I give him another once over. Tate in jeans is one thing, but damned if he doesn’t clean up nice.

His gaze leaves my face, drops to take in my little black dress. “You’re beautiful,” he says so low, I almost don’t hear him.

“You are, too.”

He grins as his eyes lift to mine. “I’ve been called a lot of things before, but beautiful was never one of them.”

“Well, it’s fitting,” I say. “You look amazing. I’ll be the envy of every woman in the restaurant tonight.”

He steps into me, captures my chin with his thumb and index finger, lightly brushes the soft pad back and forth, and my mind takes that moment to envision him using the same movement, on a different part of my body.

“Thank you for the compliment,” he says. “But you’re the one who’s going to turn heads tonight.”

His intense gaze sets my panties on fire, and I resist the urge to run to the bathroom to change my damp thong. My God, the man sure knows how to sweet talk a woman.

His hands drop. “You all set?”

“I am.” I grab my purse from the table, and let the door click shut behind me. Silence ensues as we walk to the elevator and I steal a few glances at him as we wait for it to arrive. It’s empty when it opens and Tate puts his hand on the small of my back to lead me in. Breathless, I move to the back wall, and grip my purse tighter.

“How long have you worked here?” I ask him as he presses the button for the lobby.

“Long enough to know my way around the place. Are you up for a tour later?”

“I’d love a tour.” I glance down at my little black dress and heels. “I’ll have to change though.”

“Of course. We can’t have you going outside in that dress.”

The doors open and he leads me into the exquisite lobby. Raydolins is a pretty top-notch resort, so I’d imagine the fine dining restaurant must be pricey. He puts his hand on the small of my back again and guides me across the wide expanse of marble flooring. Heat sizzles through me at his touch, and I try not to appear as flustered as I feel.

We step through the doors to the restaurant, and I take in its opulence. “Tate,” I begin quickly. “We don’t have to eat here.” Jeez, how do I say this without offending him? He wants to take me out to dinner to a nice place, but I don’t want it to empty his bank account.

“You don’t like it?” he asks.

“No, it’s beautiful, I just...” To be honest it’s a little out of my element. Deep down I’m just a simple girl from Brooklyn and I don’t want this man to think he has to wine and dine me to impress me. I’m good with a cheeseburger and Coke. I might even prefer it.

He leans into me, puts his mouth close to my ear and whispers, “If you don’t want to stay...” he says, looking and feeling far more comfortable in this swank restaurant than I do. He actually looks like he belongs here, like he wants to be here.

“No, I do,” I say. If he wants to stay, we stay.

“Anything you want, Summer. Just say the word.”

What would that word be, please?

My brain spins, buzzing like a fine wine, as his low, sexy voice travels down my body, hitting every erogenous spot along the way. I tremble. Almost violently.

Tate’s brow furrows. “Maybe we should run back upstairs and grab you a sweater.”

“No, it’s okay, I’m fine,” I lie. I’m far from fine because the thoughts of running upstairs with him sounds appealing. Except I don’t want to go back to my room to put more clothes on. Quite the opposite, really.

When the hostess arrives, Tate says something I can’t hear. The waitress laughs, and her face lights up in admiration. She touches Tate’s arm, and I sense the familiarity between them. I guess working here, the staff all know each other and probably hang out. Heck, they probably all live together in the staff’s quarters.

We’re led across the restaurant, and a few heads turn to Tate, give him a nod of acknowledgment. I guess he’s well known, even with some of the guests. The hostess takes us to a table with a spectacular view of the mountains, as nice as my penthouse view. I stare at Tate, and wonder how exactly he managed to arrange this.

“You’re right, you do have some pull,” I say as we’re seated.

He grins, and smooths his hand over his tie. I angle my head, the gesture so familiar to me. James does the same thing, even when he’s not wearing a tie.

“Told you,” he says, but not in a show-off way. Just then the server stops by.

“I’m Justin. I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you both off with some drinks?”

Tate turns his attention to me. “Summer, what would you like?”

“White wine, please.”

The muscles along Tate’s jaw twist, and he goes quiet, like he needs a minute to compose himself. He scrubs his chin, and the bristling of his fine hair is like silk being dragged across my nipples.

“A bottle of your best,” Tate says.

The waiter nods. “Thank you, Tate. I’ll give you a minute to look over the menu, and I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

“Does everyone here know you?”

“Pretty much,” he says, and opens his menu.

I do the same, and nearly swallow my tongue when I see the prices. Even on a new doctor’s salary, these prices are a bit steep for me. Fortunately, the salmon costs the least and sounds the most appealing. I close my menu and glance at the crystal chandelier above us, take in the amazing view outside. The hill is lit up under the star-studded night sky, and off in the distance I hear children laughing. The sound brings a smile to my face.

“Something funny?” Tate asks, and I turn my attention back to him as he sets the menu down.

“No, I just... I love this view. I’ve never seen anything like it actually.”

“No? Where’s home?”

“I’m originally from Brooklyn,” I say, an invisible band tightening around my heart as my thoughts go back to the old apartment I shared with my late father. God, I miss him. If it weren’t for Amber and Cara, I’d be all alone in this world. Sure, I have my patients, but that’s not quite the same. “How about you, where do you call home?” When he arches one eyebrow, I laugh. “Right, St. Moritz.”

“I used to live in Boston,” he says.

“Ah, I spent time in Boston, too. Maybe we crossed paths a time or two.”

“What were you doing in Boston?”

I open my mouth, not wanting to lie to this man, but not wanting him to know too much about me either, especially the fact that I’m a Harvard grad and a doctor. Just then the waiter returns with our drinks. He pours a small amount into Tate’s glass and he tastes it.

“Perfect,” he says, and the waiter fills our glasses. We put in our order and once he’s out of earshot, Tate leans toward me. “You never did tell me your last name.”

I hesitate for a second. “It’s just Summer.”

He leans back and nods, a flicker of a smile on his face. I expect him to call me on it, ask why I’m not giving up more information, but he doesn’t, and for that I’m grateful.

“What do you do, Summer?” He lazily waves his hand toward the view of the mountains. “Besides vacation in St. Moritz.”

I chuckle. “Right now I’m between jobs,” I say. Not a lie. I do run between the geriatric clinic and James’s mansion on Sixty-Fourth Street. Not to mention my own clinic that I’m trying to build. I look out the window. “This was all compliments of a friend.”

“A very generous friend.”

Averting Tate’s gaze, not wanting to flaunt the fact that I’m here living in luxury—and feeling guilty about it—I pick up my napkin and place it on my lap. “Very generous indeed.”

When I don’t elaborate, he lifts his glass, redirecting the conversation. I reach for my wine and we clink crystal.

“What are we toasting to?” I ask.

“Mistakes.”

I crinkle my nose. “Mistakes?”

He laughs. “Yeah, me groping you by mistake.”

“So, you admit to the groping?” He laughs harder and I arch a challenging brow. “I’m beginning to wonder if it was a mistake,” I say, fully aware I’m leading this conversation elsewhere.

His blue eyes deepen, little flecks of honey sparkling under the chandelier lights. “Believe me, Summer. If I was touching you on purpose, you’d know it,” he says, his voice full of promise and heat. My breath rushes as he stares, his eyes latched on mine, not letting me go.

The waiter returns to top our wine glasses, and Tate expels a breath, long and slow...tortured. A thrill goes through me, to know I can do this to him. I’m not being totally honest about who I am, but it’s the woman in me he wants, so it’s the woman in me he’s going to get. The bottom line is, I want this man, and dammit, before the night is through, I plan to have him.

A loud group of middle-aged men gets seated next to us, and I shift my chair a little closer to the window. The hostess hands them their menus, and when they start making inappropriate comments to her, every muscle in my body stiffens. My heart goes out to the girl who stands there quietly and smiles. Having been in her position, I know just how she feels. If she says something, puts a complaint in about their behavior, she’ll be out of a job before the night is over. Men like the ones beside me, ones with impressive pedigrees, well, they think they can get away with anything—and they usually can. I lift my eyes to find Tate watching me, his gaze narrowed, zeroed in on me.

“Summer.”

“Yes?”

“Would you excuse me for a minute?”

I nod. “Of course.”

Tate slides his chair back, and stands to his impressive height. “I’ll just be a moment.” He turns from me, and I expect him to disappear down the hall, to the little boy’s room. What he does instead surprises me.

I study the way his hair flirts with his collar as he bends down, puts his hands on the backs of two chairs and says something to the table of men, his voice low, for their ears only. A moment of silence, then he straightens and smooths his hand over his tie as he walks back to me. My jaw is practically on the table, as the men give their apologies to the girl, then go deathly silent. The hostess smiles after Tate, but his attention is back on me.

“Want to get out of here? Go somewhere a little quieter?” he asks.

“But we ordered.”

He smooths his hand over his tie again. “I’ll take care of it. What’s important right now is if you want to leave.”

I hesitate for a second, not wanting to ruin this date, but not wanting stay here a minute longer either. “Yes, please.”

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