Sweet Talkin' Guy

“Funny how people forget that writers were all ‘contemporary types’ in their time. Anyway, what’s cool about Don Quixote is his ability to see others’ hidden beauty, which he loves with unshakable faith. That love gives him the energy to enter into great battles, to accomplish noble deeds, to become a heroic knight.”

The way he spoke, his words edged with reverence, took Daphne by surprise. With his worn clothes and cocky in-your-face attitude, he didn’t seem like the kind of man to appreciate a romantic story of love and dreams. Even more astounding that he’d taken the time to wade through an old masterpiece, word by word.

“You have a love of words.”

He tipped his flask, pouring liquid into his glass. “Yeah, they call me a sweet-talkin’ guy.”

For books and for the ladies, she’d bet. “That’s alcohol,” she said, eyeing his flask.

“Why, yes, I believe you’re right.” He picked up a knife and stirred his drink. “Vodka to be exact.”

“I don’t believe this establishment has a liquor license.”

“Gonna turn me in?” He jiggled the flask at her before returning it to his pocket. “’Cause if you do, I might get tossed into jail. Which would make it rather difficult for you to share my room at the inn.”

“Share—?” She made a derisive sound. “This is a soda fountain, not a singles’ bar.”

He slid a look to her neckline. “And from that flash of black lace and see-through silk, it’s obvious you know the difference, too.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “You’re—”

“Impudent. I know.” He held her gaze and she felt another wave of heat shimmer through her. “I suppose now’s as good a time as any to tell you I’m also a newspaper reporter at the Denver Post.” He bowed his head slightly. “Andy Branigan.”

Good thing she was sitting down because her entire body went limp. Reporter. Denver Post.

She pressed her suddenly moist fingers against the cool, slick Formica. She’d worked hard these past few years to live down “Renegade Remington” but she might as well kiss off all that do-gooding if this guy penned a story about her escape to Maiden Falls. She could see it now. How she’d been seen wearing lingerie, trying to bribe her way into a remote honeymoon hotel with no G.D. in sight…

Oh God, Maiden Falls.

Before, she’d thought it funny to run away and be a fallen maiden, but this guy had the power to make such a label sound real. Forget Renegade Remington. Next she’d be pegged Randy Remington. Raunchy Remington. God knew what else a reporter could do with an R.

She eased in a steadying breath. Except maybe, just maybe, all this fretting was moot. Maybe he didn’t know who she was.

“Hey, not to worry,” he said, wiping his greasy fingers on a napkin. “I won’t tell.”

“Tell what?” she asked tightly.

“That you’re Daphne Remington, of the Denver Remingtons, set to marry the legal maverick and soon-to-be gubernatorial candidate G. D. McCormick.” He glanced at the four-carat diamond on her finger.

Her mouth went dry. “You recognized me on the news…”

“No, back at the hotel actually. The TV shot cinched it, though, mainly from the look of horror on your face as you recognized yourself on the screen. You’re transparent, you know that?”

“Goes with my see-through attire,” she muttered, not bothering to hide the irritation in her voice.

“Hey, I’m not here to betray you.”

“Words are cheap.”

“I guess a rich girl would know.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How dare you.”

“Sorry. But you’re assuming I’m out to hurt you. Give a guy a chance.”

“You’re a reporter. I’m a Remington. Do the math.” It was time to leave, get away before anything else she said or did was smeared across tomorrow’s news. Damn, if her cell phone worked up here in the mountains, she’d call one of her pals in Vail or Breckenridge and say, “Pick me up! Get me out of here!”

As she slipped off her stool, he caught her arm.

“Daphne,” he said, his cocky attitude gone, replaced by a seriousness that surprised her. “If I wanted to write a fast, flashy piece on the ‘Runaway Remington’ I could have easily phoned it in already. Tell you the truth, when I first saw you, that sure as hell crossed my mind. But I didn’t do it. As I followed you over here, I decided on a better proposition. A decent one.”

“Let go of me.”

Andy did, reluctantly. I shouldn’t have grabbed her like that. Hell, he never forcefully made a woman stay put—if anything, on several occasions he’d been the one making a beeline for the nearest exit. “Please. Hear me out. Besides, you don’t have transportation, so where you gonna go?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “How do you know?”

“No Jags or Beemers parked nearby.” He smiled.

She didn’t.

But she also didn’t leave.

“Here’s the deal,” he said, leaning closer, bringing their faces level. He hadn’t noticed before the flecks of gold buried in her hazel eyes. “Months ago, the Post reserved a room for me at the inn where I’d stay while writing a piece on Colorado honeymoon hotels—it’s part of a series that’s running throughout May, in time for June brides and all that. What I’d like to do, if you’re willing of course, is also use this weekend to interview you, write a story about whatever happened to Renegade Remington…why she ran away on the eve of her wedding—”

“I didn’t run away!”

“High heels in the Rockies? No luggage?

“Do you realize what the Post did to me?”

Taking in her suddenly ashen face, he felt a flash of remorse for following her in here. If he’d learned anything since losing his grandfather a year ago, it was that life is too short. Sure, Andy was tough-minded—most people called him worse things—but that didn’t mean he hadn’t done his share of soul searching lately, trying to figure out what mattered in this crazy world. Often he’d wondered if his granddad had been right—that, bottom line, what truly mattered was how people treated one another.

“I’m sorry, Daphne. I shouldn’t have—” No, he wouldn’t back down. No reason to feel guilty because what he was offering was good, for both of them. “Haven’t you ever wished a newspaper story also told your side of things?”

Her eyes widened again, and for an instant he swore he caught a look of interest.

“Because we could do that,” he said, taking advantage of the moment. And he meant it. This could be very good. “It’d be a story that fleshes out the real Daphne Remington, her thoughts and options—”

“People are more interested in G.D.’s.”

Andy paused. “Sure, G.D. You can talk up his political ambitions, agenda, whatever.” Maybe she brought up the idea, but she didn’t look so happy with it. “Plus you’ll have two whole days of anonymity in Maiden Falls.”

Damn if her whole face didn’t light up on that one.

So that was it.

Forget G.D. She wanted a few days of freedom. Funny, that was the one thing money couldn’t buy, not in this zoom lens, Internet world where people were ravenous to see into and hear about the high and mighty. He could take off for hikes, concerts or just a cup of java in the sunshine and nobody gave a damn that Andy Branigan was taking some time to enjoy himself. But for someone like Daphne Remington, such outings invited peering eyes, busybodies…

Reporters.

“Look, I don’t want to pressure you.” He stood, pulled a wad of money out of his pocket. “It’s your choice. I already have my work cut out for me writing the honeymoon piece on the Inn at Maiden Falls. Just thought it’d be beneficial to you, and for me, to write this other piece.”

He stood, taking his sweet time to count out a few bills.

“No one at the Post ever seemed interested in my side of things…”

He looked up. “What? Oh, right, you probably had one of those tomcat reporters only interested in making a name for himself.”

“Unlike you.”

“I knew if we talked a little longer, you’d understand me better.” He cocked her a grin. “Hey,” he said, lowering his voice. “My deal is a two-way street. Something for you, something for me. Besides, the only place I’m a tomcat is in…”

He stopped himself. Don’t blow it, Andy. It’s a soda fountain, you jerk, not a pick-up bar. Which the lady’s already pointed out.

He glanced at the plate, debating if he should eat those last few fries. Hated to waste them.

“Something for you?” she asked. “Like what? Money?”

“Sure. Money.”

“Liar.”

He did a double take.

“You’re transparent, too, you know,” she said softly. “You want me to open up, then let’s have you go first. Tell me, Mr. Sweet Talkin’ Guy, what it is you really want.”

And he thought he was the cut-to-the-chase, tell-it-like-it-is reporter. “It’s not sex, if that’s what you’re thinking—”

“Please. You’re a good-looking, charming guy but I seriously doubt you’ve ever had to concoct a let-me-interview you story to get laid. You, the tomcat in bed.”

Damn if heat didn’t flood his face. Normally he was the one who made the opposite sex blush.

The tension between them had shifted. He felt off-balance, but even more surprising, he felt that he was not the one in control.

Problem was, he never discussed his dream. Didn’t like to open up like that to people. But at the moment, he wanted to talk about anything other than tomcats and sex and, Lordy Lordy, how this woman and her peekaboo lace and renegade attitude would undoubtedly be hot between the sheets…

“I want to write a book,” he said hoarsely, followed by a long, cold drink of lime phosphate.

“What about?”

He set down the glass, cleared his throat. “History.”

“You want to write a book on history?” She pursed her lips, obviously realizing she’d just insulted him. “Sorry. I mean, I figured you’d write something like…”

“Hunter S. Thompson?”

She gave a little shrug.

Andy leaned forward, his hand sliding next to hers with the movement. Her skin was soft, warm, and he wondered where on her body she dabbed that rose scent.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” he said huskily. “Underneath this secondhand fleece jacket and ten-year-old tie-dyed T beats the heart of a guy who loves this land and its history and wants to do it justice.”

The way she stared at him, her eyes shining with surprise and understanding, made him wonder if she’d been misjudged so often it took her aback to be accused of the same.

After a moment, she whispered, “What’s your room like? I mean…”

“Where will we sleep?”

She paused, then nodded.

“We’ll sleep separately. Hey, this is business. I’m not fool enough to do something that would result in a sexual harassment lawsuit against the Post because one of its reporters crossed the line.”

Shut up, Andy. As Shakespeare might have said, “The man doth protest too much,” because all Andy could think about was crossing the line, running his hands through those silky curls, caressing her skin, inhaling sweet lungfuls of Dulcinea.

But he couldn’t. And wouldn’t.

“It’s a fancy honeymoon hotel, so the room’s gotta have some kind of couch I can sleep on,” he continued. Probably one of those “love seat” numbers that would require his knocking back plenty of aspirin after folding his six-two frame into a pretzel for an entire night. “You can have the bed.”

Daphne chewed on her bottom lip. No one else knew who she was. And Andy wouldn’t dare blow her identity. Or make a wrong move. After all, he needed her for the interview. Which meant her idea for a last-chance weekend where she could be free, anonymous, was this close to being a reality…

On the bus ride up, she’d even thought about visiting the old mining site, less than a mile away, where her great-great-great-great-grandfather Charles had staked his claim. His former shanty was now a fine Victorian home, filled with family artifacts she hadn’t seen in years. Maybe if she visited the exact spot where her ancestor had experienced the most happiness, well, who knew? Some of it might rub off on her, too.

Even if she ignored the emotional reasons she wanted to stay, there was a darn good practical one. The tour bus didn’t return until late tomorrow afternoon. Which meant unless she could finagle a ride back to Denver, she was stuck in Maiden Falls for the next twenty-four hours.

She looked into Andy’s eyes, seeing something different in their cool-blue depths. Tenderness. Compassion, maybe.

She gave herself a mental shake. The guy’s a reporter, for God’s sake.

But he hadn’t phoned in a story on her, which he could have done easily. He’d approached her with a business proposition, one that would benefit both of them.

She felt again that rush of exhilaration she’d had earlier when she’d seen the tour bus, imagined this escape. Oh, how she yearned to be impulsive again, to jump into life and experience it fully before society’s rules, her family’s expectations and G.D.’s “constructive criticism” stifled every such whim.

Daphne tapped her glass against his drink. “To not judging books by their covers.”

“BELLE’S ROOM,” Daphne said, reading the brass plaque on the door of the second-floor room at the inn. “And what is this saying underneath? ‘Never fold a good hand’?”

Andy swiped his card in the lock. The room hadn’t been ready when he’d checked in, so he hadn’t seen it yet. He hoped all that frilly, lacy, bleeding-heart crap was confined to that historical parlor downstairs. Otherwise, a guy could OD on froufrou if he stayed here too long.

“This room is named after Belle Bulette,” he said, “one of the ladies of the evening who worked here from around 1891 until that fatal gas leak in 1895—the one that took all the shady ladies’ lives.”

“All of them?”

“Even a judge, they say, who’d been having a late-night drink with the madam.”

With a click, the door opened. “Besides being a working girl, Belle was also a sharpshooter and gambler. She took men’s money both at the gambling tables and in the bedroom.” Andy gestured for Daphne to enter.

“Enterprising woman,” Daphne murmured, stepping inside. She stopped abruptly. “Oh, excuse us!”

“What?” Andy looked over Daphne’s shoulder.

She paused, then gestured toward the smoky mirror that covered the wall behind the brass four-poster bed. “I could have sworn I saw the reflection of…” Her voice trailed off as she shifted her gaze to the bay window seat across the room.

“What is it?”

“A woman,” Daphne whispered. A chill washed over her. “Sitting on that ledge, taking a sip from a flask.”

Late-afternoon light filtered through the gauzy curtains on the bay windows. Andy glanced back at the mirror. Thanks to its hazy tint and the minimal light in the room, his and Daphne’s features were indecipherable. All he could really see was the color of their hair. Hers, dark, almost black in this muted light. His, red. Reminded him of what his granddad had always said before a game of checkers. Smoke before fire.

Daphne glanced at Andy. “She seemed so real…then nothing…”

“There’s hardly any light,” Andy said, searching the wall. “Easy to imagine things.” He flicked a switch. An overhead electric chandelier came to life, infusing the room with a bright glow. He looked around. The brass bed was big, and he didn’t know if he’d ever seen a chandelier in a bedroom, but everything else was sedate, tasteful. Didn’t smack of froufrou. A guy could breathe in this room, relax.

“Except I’m not one to imagine things,” Daphne murmured. “I pretty much call it as I see it.” She frowned. “You’re not going to smoke in here, are you?”

He held a pack of cigarettes he’d just extracted from his pullover pocket. “Uh, let me think about it.” He looked briefly up, then back down. “Yes.” He popped the filter-tip into his mouth.

“There’s a No Smoking sign downstairs.”

“Good place for it.” He struck a match and drew it to the tip of his cigarette. The scent of sulfur stung the air.

Daphne snatched the cigarette from his lips. “No.”

He shook out the match. “Hey, who invited whom to this room?”

“You want me to turn you in? Keep the room for myself?”

He gave a double take. “You can’t do that—”

“Watch me.”

He was watching all right. Watching that dare-me glint in her eyes. The imperial tilt of her chin.

The lady was a handful.

Fortunately, he knew how to handle handfuls.

“Sure,” he said, ambling over to the love seat—looks like he called that one. Hopefully, the aspirin was close by. “Go ahead and report me. I’ll say you broke in and tried to steal my room. After that little gimme-a-room-or-else routine you pulled at the front desk earlier, I have a feeling they’ll buy my story over yours in, oh, the space of a heartbeat?” He sat down and stretched out his legs.

She watched him through slitted eyes. “You wouldn’t say that.”

“You watch me.” He stroked his fingers over plush velvet. “I believe the cops call it breaking and entering. The news of your alleged crime would be on the Internet faster than a giga-minute. Reporters would be flocking here like adrenaline-crazed swallows to Capistrano.”

“Aren’t you taking this a bit too far? Adrenaline-crazed birds, good grief.” With a sanctimonious sigh, she lobbed the cigarette back to him. “Go ahead, die of lung cancer.”

“Cheery sort, aren’t you?” Eyeing a wicker trash can, he dunked the cig in one smooth toss. “But I’ll spare you the secondhand smoke. Believe it or not, I can be a gentleman.”

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