Page 8 of Christmas at the Ranch
“Jackson Hole at Christmastime is one of the best small towns in America,” Bruno said. “There are sleigh rides and ice-skating, and people line up outside Persephone Bakery for their European hot chocolate.”
Samantha peered out the window. Even the snow seemed different than at home. In Brooklyn when it snowed, it meant that she might slip when she took Socks for his walk. In Jackson Hole, it made the whole scene more inviting, like thick white icing on a holiday cake.
Then the SUV left town and they drove up a small incline.Samantha was beginning to get nervous again, when they turned on to a private road. Bruno pressed a button and they slipped through iron gates. It was hard to see in the dark, but Samantha took in a garage and a long barn. They drove a little farther and the main house was in front of them.
Not even Charlie’s description had prepared her: it was like a proper ski lodge with huge windows and a great stone chimney. There was a small turret made of glass and inside she could see a spiral staircase and walls of bookshelves.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Samantha gasped.
“It’s Mr. Wentworth’s library.” Bruno followed her gaze. “You can see it from all over the valley.”
Samantha thought it resembled the most amazing lighthouse, but with books.
Charlie had been right: the week wasn’t going to be so bad after all. The town of Jackson Hole was as charming as a holiday postcard, and Arthur’s ranch was something straight out of a movie.
She gathered her purse and followed Bruno inside.
“Samantha, you made it,” Arthur said, coming to greet her. Arthur was in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes. He wore a smoking jacket over corduroy slacks and he was holding a cocktail glass.
“I’m so glad you came,” he said as he took her arm. “Let’s get you a drink and I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
The entry led into a step-down living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced the mountains and one wall was taken up by a fireplace. The ceiling was made of timber and there were thick woven rugs and leather sofas.
Samantha was about to comment on the giant Christmas tree strung with blue and silver lights when she heard a familiar voice.
Arthur was leading her to the bar.
“What would you like to drink?” Arthur turned to her.
A man was standing behind the bar. He was very tall and wore a navy sweater. He turned around and Samantha’s mouth dropped open.
“This is my son, Drew,” Arthur introduced them. “Drew just arrived from New York. I’m surprised you didn’t meet on the plane.”
Samantha’s knees went weak and she could feel the color drain from her cheeks.
She flashed on everything she told Drew on the plane. She wasn’t anything like Sloane Parker, and everything the marketing department said about her was a lie. When the marketing department first came up with the idea, it was meant to be a one-time thing. Everyone on her marketing team was delighted and amazed when Sloane Parker’s Instagram followers kept tripling and sales went through the roof. After that, it was too late to change things. The team decided the fewer people who knew the truth about Samantha the better. Arthur knew about the campaign; he oversaw everything at the publishing house. But he had no idea that Samantha wasn’t like that in real life. That she would never dream of diving in a cage with sharks, and that her closet didn’t contain a single Badgley Mischka evening gown.
Then she reminded herself what Charlie had told her about Arthur’s invitation. Sales of her latest book were down, and the house party was her chance to impress Arthur with her commitment to her writing, and for Samantha to meet important critics and booksellers. If she had turned it down, next year Melody Minnow might have been the author on the guest list and Charlie might have had to find a job at another publisher.
Drew’s eyes met hers. He smiled slowly.
“We did actually,” he said to his father. “I know exactly what Samantha would like to drink. Kahlúa and cream.”
She opened her mouth to answer but it came out as a squeak.
“Kahlúa and cream would be fine, thank you,” she said, nodding.
Thank god for alcohol. It was the second time today she couldn’t think of any other way she was going to survive.
Chapter Three
Samantha sat up in bed and groaned. She had dreamed that Sloane Parker was trapped in a ski cabin in the French Alps. Sloane had only herself to blame. She’d accepted a dinner invitation from her ski instructor, Jean-Claude. Jean-Claude had a sexy French accent and took her skiing off-piste in their first lesson. He must have drugged her Jägermeister, because one minute they were sharing fondue in a mountainside restaurant and the next she was strapped to a chair with a handkerchief stuffed in her mouth.
Sloane heard voices in the next room and wondered whether Jean-Claude was talking with her captors. She wiggled the chair but she couldn’t see through the keyhole. In her pocket was a long-handled fondue fork she had saved as a souvenir. She used it now to cut through the rope that tied her wrists. Then she climbed out the window and grabbed the skis leaning against the wall.
It was only when she was sipping an après-ski drink in Val d’Isère that she allowed herself to relax. She had called the French ski patrol and alerted them to money launderers using the cabin as a hideout. Let them finish the job and arrest them. She preferred drinking mulled wine and flirting with a Swiss snow polo player.Phineas at British Intelligence would be pleased. Phineas was the opposite of a Francophile. He believed anyone who wore a beret and ate things that crawled couldn’t be trusted.
Usually when Samantha dreamed about her books, she wrote the ideas down in a notepad she kept on her bedside table. This morning she couldn’t concentrate. Every time she remembered her arrival last night at the ranch, there was a sick feeling in her stomach.
