Page 3 of Sinful Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights #5)

Bradford

"Mr. Maloney?" Susan raps lightly on the doorjamb.

I glance up at her unusual tone. It’s not quite anxiety or nerves.

No, trepidation is the best word for it, which is very un-Susan-like.

Underneath her wholesome, grandmotherly persona beats the heart of a no-nonsense, type-A, control freak.

I may be the CEO, but she’s the glue to this company's tight-ship status.

Whatever has Susan on edge is not to be dismissed.

"Everything okay?" I ask as she steps into my office.

"I don't know," she answers, holding out her hands with a sigh. "Ms. Byrnes was scheduled to be back a few hours ago, but nobody can get hold of her."

Hartley? My stomach drops. "I don't understand. Where did she go?"

Susan eyes me cautiously. "Apparently, she went up the mountain to check out the location you recommended for the spring event but hasn't come back.

She's still new to the area, and I'm concerned that she might have gotten turned around.

With the storm coming tonight, I would certainly feel better if we could find her. "

"Hartley went up the mountain alone?" I jump up and grab my coat as I run toward the door.

Susan hustles after me, her sensible orthotic loafers silent on the thick carpet. She hands me my keys. "The rest of the team is setting up for the Firelight Games tomorrow. Hartley said she'd come right back, but her cell is going straight to voicemail, and her car is still gone."

I curse the hunk of junk she calls a car. I should’ve made sure she had a safe vehicle to drive. As far as I can tell, she barely uses her car except for the weekly grocery run, so it wasn't urgent on my radar.

Damn it! Tomorrow, I'll purchase a resort car for each team. Nobody should be running around on work business in their own vehicle.

"Mr. Maloney." Susan's sharp voice cuts through my racing thoughts. "I know you're worried about her, sir, but please be careful driving. She'll need you in one piece when you find her. The more handsome you look in the process, the better your odds, I'd say."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I mumble, embarrassed that my affection—or as some might call it, obsession —with Hartley has not escaped Susan's shrewd attention.

She raises her eyebrows but doesn't comment further. "I'll wait before I alert the ranger's station, but if I don't hear from you in the next hour, I'm calling in reinforcements."

I nod. "Fine, but I'll find her."

Ethan Hobbs, a renowned author and Festival Valley resident, fought me harder than anyone when I proposed the new city traffic pattern to accommodate visitors to The Palmer during construction.

But it takes me all of ten minutes to get through the bustling downtown area before I'm heading up the mountain. Suck it, Ethan.

I know this route like the back of my hand. My home is about fifteen minutes from the area I suggested for the spring event.

Why in the hell is she worried about spring in October?

My eyes dart along the sides of the road, looking for any sign of Hartley. I inch closer to the steering wheel when I recognize familiar landmarks. I round the bend, and icy fear slithers into my veins as I take in the scene before me.

Hartley's car sits too far off the side of the road. The driver's side window is rolled all the way down. One tire is wedged between two large rocks, and another tire is completely blown out. The rim is bent. It's completely undrivable.

I pull over, hoping to find her resting in the back seat, but the car is empty. My gaze snags on the gray clouds moving steadily over the forest. A chilly gust blows past, stirring up the fallen pine needles and leaves. A storm is coming.

"Where are you, gorgeous?" I ask the forest in front of me.

I turn back toward my car for supplies, and that's when I notice the white piece of paper shoved under her windshield. Hartley's neat script handwriting stares back at me as I unfold it.

This car belongs to Hartley Byrnes at The Palmer in Festival Valley. I'm going to start walking on the little path between the trees at 4:18 pm on the 25th. This is probably a bad idea, but I haven't seen a car in over two hours, and my cell is dead. I'm hoping to find a cabin.

If a bear gets me, I fall down this mountain, or things go south in any other permanent way, please find my friend Celeste (at The Palmer) and give her the following message: Celeste, for the love of God, please clear my eBook library before my dad sees it.

xo, Hartley

I don't have time to consider what books Hartley might have in her library that she doesn’t want her father to see because my heart is in my throat. Checking my watch, I realize I only missed her by twenty minutes. Not long, but in this weather, it could be the difference between life and death.

I race to the trunk of my car, pulling out the extra coat and backpack I keep handy in case of emergency. My home is remote for a reason, and I'm well-trained in mountain survival.

As I head into the woods, I try to remember if she was wearing that floaty dress that highlights her curves but would do nothing to protect her from the cold. I growl in frustration. I'm going to create a mandatory survival training workshop for all employees after this.

But first, I'm going to find my girl.

After half an hour of walking, I pull my scarf tighter around my neck and clamp my hat over my ears.

I scan the sides of the path and glance up ahead, hoping to see any sign of Hartley.

Finally, I see a bright red spot tucked up against a tree.

I race along the trail, panicking when I see two legs sticking out.

"Hartley!" I yell, running over and helping her to her feet. "Thank God you had a winter coat." I drape the other coat around her. She's wearing pants, hiking boots, and a thick, bright red jacket.

"I-I'm n-not a c-complete id-diot," Hartley stutters through slightly blue lips.

Without thinking, I bring her hands to my mouth and blow on them. Her eyes widen, but I don't stop, moving my hands vigorously against hers to get the blood flowing again.

"I know you're not an idiot." Blow. "You're brilliant." Blow. "And funny." Blow. "And perfect." Blow .

Hartley stares at me, her hazel eyes shocked. Her mouth has fallen open, and she's breathing hard.

Is this hypothermia?

I hoist her up in my arms, unwilling to risk letting her walk.

"Oh, m-my god-d. I'm t-too heavy. P-put me d-down, M-mr. M-maloney!" Hartley cries out in protest, but her body shakes in my arms, so I simply ignore her.

The strawberry and vanilla scent I've jacked off to every morning since I found the shampoo she uses invades my nostrils.

I sniffed every damned strawberry-scented bath product available in Festival Valley—and this town is affluent, which meant visiting a lot of candle, perfume, and special soap shops.

Turned out it was a drugstore-brand shampoo.

"P-please, M-mr. M-maloney!" Hartley begs, trying to get me to put her down by tapping my arm.

"Nope." I squeeze her closer. "And if you don't start calling me Bradford, I'm going to fire you."

Her eyes widen even further, and for a split second, I feel bad about threatening her job.

I know how seriously she takes her position.

But if almost losing her has helped me realize one thing, it's that this woman is mine. So she’d better start calling me by my first name, or our wedding is going to be awkward.

"O-k-kay." Hartley swallows hard, her eyes dropping to my mouth and across my shoulders before darting away entirely.

"I'm taking you home, Hartley," I tell her, picturing her soft curves draped in my sheets. I try to tamp down the intense lust coursing through my body. Navigating the path is hard enough with the underbrush. I don't need to add a raging erection to the situation.

Yet.

"Th-thank you, Mr. M–Bradford." She wraps an arm around my neck, which smooshes one supple breast against my chest. I briefly contemplate ripping her clothes off right here, right now. "I live in the t-tiny homes on the b-back property. N-ot sure if you know that," she adds shyly.

"We're not going back to the hotel." I dare to glance at her, and she gasps when my heated gaze lands on her in full force. "You're coming home with me."