When Conor Gault strode out of the tiny Lost Harbor Airport, Trixie nearly laughed at how out of place he looked in his Armani blazer and white open-collared shirt.
“It’s a good thing you’re not here to defend me from bears or wolves,” she teased as he bent to kiss her on the cheek. Thankfully, the nerves that had paralyzed her the last time she’d seen him—at the airport in Minnesota—had disappeared.
“Nope, I’ve got one specialty only, and that’s misbehaving rich boys.”
“You do look the part.” She eyed his perfectly cut butterscotch hair and cool gray eyes. Conor had the effortless charm of someone who’d been born with every advantage—socialite mother, Ivy League education, trust fund that he’d used to start his own financial empire. But she knew there was more to Conor than that.
For
