and constantly doing her best work.
Walton Bowen, the senior partner at the construction company, finished signing the papers and laid aside his ink pen. A big man with graying brown hair and smiling hazel eyes, he rose to his feet and shook hands all around before leaving the office. Petra and Garth followed a few moments later, strolling along the square to the southeast corner in the ninety-plus-degree heat. They crossed the street to the Vail and pushed through the bronze-and-glass doors.
Petra did not recall a time when the hotel had been operational. During her many visits to see her aunties in Buffalo Creek, the old hotel had stood silent and empty, the peach-colored marble columns and grand staircase rising in ghostly splendor behind the thick glass of its murky windows. As a child, Petra had often stood with her nose pressed to the glass, imagining those who had climbed the steps and moved through the lobby.
Though the major contracts had just been signed, work had already begun on the first phase of the project, which involved Garth’s personal quarters. The new construction had left the soaring lobby looking more like a war zone than a luxury hotel in the making, however. Dust coated everything in sight, from the dull but intricately carved registration desk to the gapped crystal chandeliers overhead.
Suddenly dismayed, Petra scrunched her toes inside her shoes. It didn’t help that her spectator pumps, which perfectly complemented her paper-white linen suit and black, sleeveless turtleneck, had turned out to be nothing more than attractive vises to torture her feet. Picking her way through the debris littering the marble floor, she wished mightily that she’d worn sensible flats.
“We’ve got quite a job cut out for us,” Garth Anderton decreed, nodding his frosty head.
“Still,” she said determinedly, “the beauty is here. Just look at that.” She pointed toward the scrolls beneath the pediment of the nearest column.
“Of course, it’s not real gold leaf,” Garth pronounced, tilting back to eye the rich metallic glow far overhead.
“Oh, but it is,” said a new voice. Firm and masculine, that voice carried the weight of knowledge.
Petra turned her dark amber gaze toward the sound, her blond ponytail swishing between her shoulder blades. The speaker stood in the doorway of one of the inner offices. Easily one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen, present company included, he stood at least an inch or two over six feet. Like Garth, he seemed exceptionally fit, but the tool belt slung about his slim hips proved that the muscles bulging in his upper chest and forearms came as the result of hard labor, while Garth’s slender physique was owed entirely to the workout routine designed by his personal trainer. Other differences stood out starkly.
Casually dressed in jeans, boots and a yellow T-shirt that brought out the vibrant green of his eyes, the stranger obviously depended less on packaging than Garth, who prided himself on his grooming and wardrobe. At thirty-nine, Garth appeared several years the elder, but his frosty blond hair had been cut and styled to reflect the latest trend, while the longer, gold-streaked bronze locks of the interloper appeared somewhat unkempt. Yet not even the shadow of a morning beard dimmed the impact of that wryly smiling face, with its deeply set eyes, and lean cheeks grooved with dimples. In short, Petra found this unfamiliar man disturbingly attractive—and to her horror, everyone seemed to know it!
Garth’s dark eyes narrowed behind the rectangular frames of glasses the exact shade of silvery gray as his summer-weight Italian suit. “I beg your pardon?” he intoned, his voice cold enough to leave icicles on the newcomer’s perfect nose.
“The gold leaf on the capitals,” said the other man easily, his vibrant green gaze on Petra as he walked across the floor to place a hand on one of the smooth columns. He smiled and nodded before addressing Garth again. “It’s real. Which is why it was scraped off the bases.”
Garth folded his arms, a sure sign of irritation, but then he quickly stepped forward to offer a perfectly manicured hand. “Garth Anderton, and you are?”
“Dale Bowen.”
So this was the other half of Bowen & Bowen Construction, Walton Bowen’s son. Petra silently thanked God that she hadn’t had to deal with him during the contract negotiations; her discussions with his father had been tense enough, and he did not set her on edge the way the younger Bowen did. Torn between fleeing for cover and basking in that openly interested green gaze, she just stood there staring mutely. When he clapped palms with Garth and switched his attention there, she felt a spurt of relief.
The two men measured each other with blunt, level looks. Finally, Garth put on his easy, gleaming white smile, the one meant to disarm.
He knew as well as she did that Dale Bowen was a partner in the construction firm to which they were now legally bound, but he had to try to take the guy down a peg by saying, “You must be the project manager.”
“I am,” Bowen said, sounding amused.
Petra cleared her throat in warning to Garth. Clearly, here was one “construction type,” as Garth would say, who wouldn’t be easily intimidated. Garth took the throat clearing as a bid for introduction and waved her forward with a frown.
“My Special Assistant, Petra.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Bowen said, and once again she felt the full impact of that green gaze. He shook her hand, his own much larger one emanating bone-melting heat. The man was human lava. Garth, by comparison, always managed to be as cool as a cucumber. Petra suddenly wanted to cuddle up to Bowen. Instead, she yanked her hand back.
“Well, Dale,” Garth said, purposefully using the other man’s given name, “I’m sure you agree that we should consider a less costly alternative to real gold leaf.” He looked up at the gold gleaming far overhead, and so missed the shake of Dale Bowen’s head. “How difficult will it be to match the color?”
“Not very,” Bowen answered, “but it doesn’t matter. Use anything other than original materials anytime they’re available and the BCHS will be all over you.”
Garth settled a frown on the other man. “BCHS?”
“That would be the Buffalo Creek Historical Society,” Petra volunteered.
“It would,” Bowen confirmed, smiling at her before switching his gaze back to her boss. “I’ve worked hand-in-hand with them for years, and I’m warning you now. Use the wrong materials or methods such as pre-hung doors, and they’ll go to the state to shut you down.”
“But the security of our guests—”
“Won’t be compromised in the least if we reuse the original doors,” Bowen interrupted.
“What about cost?” Garth demanded.
“Probably about the same. The real issue is the time it’ll take to strip and refinish.”
“Time, as I’m sure you know,” Garth growled, “is money.”
Bowen looked him in the eye, his sculpted mouth curving in a tight smile. Petra noticed that the square tip of his chin flattened when he smiled. Her own somewhat pointed chin had a tiny cleft in it, a Chatam family trait, and it tended to disappear when she smiled.
“Trust me,” he said, “reusing the original hardwood doors will take less time and money than fighting the BCHS.”
“We’ll see about that,” Garth muttered. Turning to Petra, he ordered, “Do a cost analysis.”
“Yes, sir.” She nodded, carefully avoiding Bowen’s gaze.
“I want to see my private apartment now,” he barked at Bowen. With that, he headed for the staircase. Petra trailed after him on her aching feet.
Behind them, Bowen asked dryly, “Wouldn’t you prefer to use the elevator?”
Garth stopped so suddenly that Petra bumped into him from behind. Turning on his heel, he glared at the construction manager over the top of her head. “Fine.”