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Marco moved in closer, still holding her hand. “We should meet privately sometime soon to discuss the menu for your gathering,” he said, his Italian accent more pronounced than usual. “I have some special dishes I have been saving.”
“That’s great. Why don’t you fax her a menu?” Bryan clamped his hand on Marco’s shoulder. “Don’t let us keep you. I know you have a lot of work to do.” Their eyes met in the kind of mute challenge men engage in when physical dueling would be crossing the line into outright incivility.
Marco was the first to blink, and with obvious reluctance released his hold on Angela and backed away. “I will call you,” he said to Angela, before sending a last withering look toward Bryan and leaving.
Angela watched his departure, the dimple to the left of her mouth deepening as her lips curved in a hint of a smile. When she and Bryan were alone again, she turned to him. “I almost forgot this,” she said as she opened her purse and took out a small, gold foil box.
“What is that?” he asked, watching her untie the ribbon that secured the box lid.
“I brought samples.”
“Samples?”
“Of my chocolates.” She selected a truffle from the box and held it up for his inspection, the shiny pink lacquer of her nails contrasting sharply with the velvety blackness of the sweet. “Dark chocolate raspberry,” she said, and offered it to him.
He popped the confection into his mouth and was instantly rewarded with the smooth sensation of melting chocolate, the bitterness of the cocoa and the sweetness of the raspberries in perfect harmony. “Delicious,” he mumbled.
“I’m glad you like it.” She licked the tip of her index finger, where the heat of her body had melted the fragile chocolate. The innocent, unself-conscious gesture sent a jolt of arousal straight through him, rocking him back on his heels. Then she smiled at him and said in that voice, “Would you like another?”
Could I survive another? “Maybe you could leave them for me to enjoy later,” he said.
“Of course.” She replaced the lid on the box and handed it to him. “How long have you been working for the hotel?”
“Not very long.” The last he’d heard, the oddsmakers in town had given him three months before he cried uncle and fled to his former slacker ways. He’d passed that mark two weeks ago, but they still treated his new career as a passing fancy, something he was bound to give up on sooner rather than later.
“And what did you do before that?”
“Different things,” he hedged. Of course, if she was really interested, five minutes spent talking to any of his friends would give her the full, if not necessarily flattering, picture of his past. He’d arrived in Crested Butte seven years ago this month, intending to spend the rest of the winter snowboarding before heading to New York or Chicago or Dallas to put his hotel management degree to use.
As soon as he’d pulled onto Crested Butte’s snow-packed main drag and seen the funky shops and even funkier people, he’d gone into a kind of trance from which he’d only recently awakened. “How long have you had your candy shop?” he asked, anxious to change the subject.
“Three years,” she answered. “The first night I was here I tried to buy chocolate and the only thing I could find was a two-month-old Hershey’s bar. I knew then I’d found my destiny.”
He was amazed she’d known so quickly what she wanted to do, while it had taken him years to figure it out. She had an air of confidence and serenity he hadn’t seen in most of the more conventionally beautiful women he’d dated.
“Is something wrong?”
The question made him realize he’d been staring at her. He looked away and reminded himself of the reason they were standing here in the first place. “How many people do you expect to attend?” he asked.
“About a hundred and fifty. We’re charging fifty-five dollars each or a hundred dollars a couple for tickets. There will be a silent auction as well as food, a cash bar, music and dancing. And chocolate, of course.”
“Of course.” He returned her smile. She had a great smile, one that radiated her enjoyment of the moment. “It sounds like fun.”
“I hope you’ll join us,” she said. “There’ll be a lot of local people there.” They left the ballroom and started toward the front lobby. “Have you seen any of our productions?”
He admitted he had not. Until recently, theater tickets weren’t part of his budget or his scope of interest.
“We’re rehearsing now for I Hate Hamlet,” she said. “We’re always looking for volunteers and it’s a great way to meet new people.”
“Maybe I’ll do that.”
“Our next rehearsal is tomorrow night. We meet at the Mallardi Cabaret, upstairs from the Paragon Galleries, at Second and Elk. You ought to stop by.”
They paused near the front desk. “Thanks for the chocolates,” he said. “It was good to meet you.”
“Thank you. It was a pleasure meeting you.” She gave his hand an extra squeeze on the word pleasure. Struck dumb, he stared after her as she sashayed across the lobby and out the door. Several heads turned to watch her departure. She may not have been skinny, but Angela definitely had style.
“It looks like Ms. Krizova’s been sampling a few too many of her own creations.”
He turned and saw the hotel receptionist standing at his elbow. Rachel was about his age, slim and stylish and part of the crowd of young people who frequented the clubs around town. He usually enjoyed talking to her, but the catty remark about Angela rubbed him the wrong way. No matter that he’d thought much the same thing when he first laid eyes on her. Half an hour in her company had given him a different impression entirely. “Did you need me for something?” he asked.
She arched one carefully plucked eyebrow at his brusque tone. “The Chamber of Commerce called about a donation for the Al Johnson Memorial Ski Race,” she said. “Mr. Phelps said you’d take care of it.”
“Sure.” He took the memorandum from her and turned toward his office.
“Some of us are meeting up at LoBar tomorrow night,” she said. “There’s a new band playing, so we thought we’d check them out. Want to come?”
Even an hour ago, he would have jumped at the chance, but now the invitation held little attraction. “Sorry, I’ve got other plans.”
She leaned toward him, her tone flirtatious once more. “What are you doing that’s more fun than going out with me and my friends?”
“I promised to stop by the community theater group.” He cleared his throat. “It’s business.”
She looked toward the door Angela had exited. “Uh-huh.” Then she turned back to him, her smile brighter than ever. “Too bad. You’d have a lot more fun with me and my friends. Nobody in that theater group is really your type.”
His type. How could she be so sure what his type was when he didn’t even know himself? He glanced at Rachel again, taking in her trim figure, glossy hair and dazzling smile. She was the sort of woman he usually dated. The type most men preferred. All he had to do was turn on the television or pick up a magazine to know that. Angela must have put him into some chocolate-induced trance to have him thinking otherwise.
“Of course she—I mean the theater group—really isn’t my type.” Carl had encouraged him to foster connections between the hotel and the community, so that’s what he’d be doing.
“It’s just business,” he said, and retreated to his office.
Chapter Two
Angela settled into a front-row seat at the Mallardi Cabaret, home to Crested Butte’s Mountain Theatre group, and pulled out her copy of the script for I Hate Hamlet. Around her, other cast and crew members congregated, sipping coffee, discussing the latest snowfall totals, their plans for the upcoming Al Johnson Memorial Ski Race or bemoaning the number of weeks until softball season began. Angela smiled, reveling in the homey familiarity of the scene. Once upon a time she’d dreamed of being a professional actress, but the daunting reality of competing for professional jobs in Los Angeles or New York had convinced her she was better off sticking close to home. She didn’t make her living on the stage, but outside her candy shop, her life revolved around the dusty velvet seats and greasepaint-scented air of community theater.
She opened the script and turned to her lines for the scene that was first up on the rehearsal schedule. She played the agent, Lillian Troy. Lillian’s claim to fame was that she had once had an affair with the late John Barrymore. Angela’s friend Tanya played Felicia, the glamorous girlfriend of the male lead, Andy, who was played by local heartthrob Austin Davies.
At that moment, the man himself crossed in front of Angela. Dressed casually in jeans and a fleece henley, his hair perfectly styled, his jaw perfectly rugged, Austin was the very picture of the leading man. He was a nice enough guy—vain without being obnoxious, over-confident about his abilities at times, but a decent actor.
He smiled at Angela and she nodded, then ducked her head and pretended renewed interest in her script. She wasn’t interested in being overly friendly with Austin. The truth was he reminded her a little too much of Troy Wakefield, the leading man in the community theater group she’d belonged to in Broomfield, Colorado, where she’d lived before moving to Crested Butte. The man she’d been engaged to for fifteen minutes.
Okay, more like fifteen days. Same difference for all she’d mattered to Troy. Old news that really didn’t concern her anymore.
She looked around to see who else was here. She spotted Tanya on the far side of the stage, running over her lines with Alex Pierce, the older man who was playing Barrymore’s ghost. Though tonight she was dressed like everyone else in jeans and a sweater, Tanya’s costume for the play was a short, tight, sparkly cocktail dress that showed off her perfect figure. With her red hair teased into waves that tumbled about her shoulders, she’d be the picture of the glamorous femme fatale.
Angela, meanwhile, would be stuck in a frumpy tweed skirt, no-nonsense sweater set and makeup designed to make her look thirty years older.
Just once it would have been fun to play the glamour girl, but she’d never been given the opportunity and probably never would.
“All right, places everyone.” Tanya called everyone to order. “Let’s run through the séance scene.”
Angela, Tanya and Austin gathered center stage around a white-draped table while Alex waited in the wings for his cue. Scripts in hand, they began the run-through of the scene in which the three friends try to contact the ghost of John Barrymore.
But instead of the late, great actor showing up on cue, the door to the theater opened, letting in the sounds of traffic on Elk Avenue below and a man in a dark overcoat. “Um, sorry,” he called as he pulled off his gloves. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Bryan! You came to see us after all.” Angela didn’t try to hide her delight. And she couldn’t ignore the way her heart sped up at the sight of him.
Tanya gave her a speculative look, then turned to Bryan. “Why don’t you have a seat down front,” she said. “We’ll take a break when we’re done with this scene. Angela, I think it’s your line.”
Angela forced her attention back to the script, trying to forget about the man seated only a few feet away and to put herself back into the character of the sixty-year-old woman recalling her glory days.
She got through it somehow and trooped off the stage with everyone else when they were done. Bryan stood as she approached his seat, the same front-row spot she’d occupied earlier. “That was great,” he said.
She smiled, determined to play it cool and not let him see how much his presence flustered her. She hadn’t really expected him to take her up on her invitation to visit, not after the mixed signals he’d sent during their meeting. “It’s a pretty funny play,” she said.
“No, I mean you were great,” he said. His eyes locked on to hers. She read definite interest there and struggled to quell the sudden uprising of butterflies in her stomach.
“Thank you. And thanks for coming tonight.”
“Hey, Bryan.” Austin joined them. “What brings you here? Decided to add acting to your list of new interests?”
“Angela and I are working together on the fund-raiser,” Bryan said. “I thought it would be a good idea to meet some of the other people involved.”
“Oh, business.” Austin looked sympathetic. “I’m sure you’d much rather be over at LoBar.”
“No, I’m interested in learning more about the group and what you do.”
Angela thought Bryan sounded annoyed. Austin did have that effect on some people.
“Hello, Bryan.” Tanya squeezed in next to Angela. “It’s good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too.” He nodded to Tanya, and Angela waited for the inevitable. Whenever she and Tanya were together, every man in the room focused his attention on Tanya and forgot Angela existed. They couldn’t seem to help themselves. It had happened so often, it didn’t even bother Angela anymore.
Much.
But, while Bryan was friendly toward Tanya and listened to her explanation of the play and the makeup of the theater group and their plans for the money from the fund-raiser, his eyes didn’t assume the slightly feverish look so many men’s did in her presence. “We have forty or fifty people involved in the group off and on, depending on the size of the production,” Tanya said. “Crested Butte has had a community theater for over thirty-five years now, though I’ve only taken over as director recently.”
“It sounds like a great group,” Bryan said. “I’m glad Angela invited me to stop by.”
Tanya checked her watch. “We need to run through the next scene, but you’re welcome to stay and watch,” she said.
The next scene featured only Tanya and Austin, so Angela settled beside Bryan to watch. As usual, Tanya lit up the stage. For ten years prior to returning to Crested Butte, she’d worked in Los Angeles, acting in commercials. She even had a part in a popular soap opera for a while. She’d been a professional and her skill showed. When she spoke her lines, the audience was transported to that New York City apartment where the play was set.
When the scene ended, everyone applauded. “She’s brilliant,” Angela said. “We’re so lucky to have her back, with all her talent and experience.”
“I’m no expert, but you seemed every bit as good to me,” Bryan said. “Aren’t you the star, or the female lead, or whatever it’s called?”
She laughed. “You flatter me. No, I am not the star. That’s Tanya. I’m the supporting actress. The comic relief.”
“If the rest of the play is like the little bit I saw, you’ll steal the show.”
“Thanks.” She looked away, trying not to show how flustered she felt. Why would he go out of his way to flatter her so? After their meeting at the hotel, she’d asked a few people about him—very casually, under the pretext of wanting to know more about the man she’d be working with. Women invariably described him as good-looking and fun. Men said he was a good softball player and snowboarder.
“Hey, Bryan! What’s up?” Chad, one of the crew members who helped with set construction, emerged from backstage and headed for them. He and Bryan bumped fists. “I been missing you on the slopes,” Chad said.
“I’ve been busy,” Bryan said.
“Yeah. I heard you were working at the hotel.” Chad shoved his hands in his pockets. “What’s up with that? I hear you’re even, like, a manager or something.”
Bryan flushed. “I have a degree in hotel management. Decided it was time I put it to good use.”
Chad laughed. “Never thought I’d see the day you’d go over to the other side,” he said.
“What other side?” Angela asked.
“The suit-and-tie corporate side,” Chad said. “This guy—” he put his hand on Bryan’s shoulder “—was one of the slacker kings. He and his buddy Zephyr showed us all how it was done.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe you gave up all that freedom for some job.”
Bryan shrugged off Chad’s hand. “I guess I figured it was time I grew up.”
“Oh, I’m wounded.” Chad clutched at his chest dramatically. “That hurts, bro.”
Bryan, a slacker? Angela considered the idea. It was true the picture his friends had painted didn’t exactly fit with the polished professional image he’d presented to her. The idea of him having this other side intrigued her.
“Rhiannon was asking about you at LoBar last night,” Chad said.
Rhiannon Michaels? Angela wondered. Chad had to be talking about the sleek, sexy siren pursued by half the men in town.
Bryan’s flush deepened, and Angela’s interest piqued. When Chad left and they were alone again, Angela decided to indulge her curiosity. “So you know Rhiannon,” she said.
“Yeah. We, uh, we dated for a while.”
That confirmed it, then. Bryan was definitely more party guy than serious businessman. Rhiannon only dated the wild ones—the men who only dated women like her.
Not that Angela believed she was ugly, but it took a particular kind of man to appreciate her and she was becoming less and less sure that Bryan was that kind of man. She hadn’t missed the disappointment on his face at their first meeting yesterday, but later, in the ballroom, she’d felt a definite zing of attraction. Those contradictory reactions had confused her—a feeling exacerbated by his appearance tonight. She didn’t like this push-pull sensation because it recalled times she hadn’t been so secure in herself. She had a great life without a man complicating things.
Of course, it wasn’t men in general she objected to, just ones who might break her heart. Like a good-looking, charming party boy out for a good time, a fling. A fling that was guaranteed not to lead to anything serious—since the very definition of a party guy was that he couldn’t be serious—was another possibility altogether.
Could she date a guy and not end up with her heart broken? Was she capable of that kind of cavalier, temporary engagement? Maybe with some guys, but with Bryan—she wasn’t so sure. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he laughed at something Tanya said. She hadn’t been this attracted to a man since Troy. And frankly, that worried her. A lot.
THE NEXT DAY was Bryan’s day off, so he and Zephyr went snowboarding. It felt good to trade his suits and ties for fleece and board pants. Fun didn’t have a high priority in his life these days, but it was still a fundamental part of him.
“Where were you last night?” Zephyr asked as they rode the Red Lady Express lift to the top of the mountain. “I looked for you at LoBar.”
“I dropped by the Mountain Theatre group for a while.”
“You thinking of going on the stage? Becoming an actor? That’s radical.”
“No. The hotel is hosting a fund-raiser for the group and they invited me to come by and meet people.”
“A fund-raiser? What kind?”
“A fancy party with chocolate desserts and a silent auction.”
“Chocolate!” Zephyr grinned. “Maybe Trish and I should make an appearance.”
“It’s a hundred bucks a couple.”
Zephyr’s smile vanished. “Maybe not, then.” He brightened once more. “But hey, you and someone from the theater should come on my show and talk it up.”
Bryan knew his boss would like that. Nothing made Carl happier than publicity for the hotel. “All right. I’ll ask Angela when she’s available.”
They glided off the lift and stopped to adjust their bindings. “Who is Angela?” Zephyr asked.
“Angela Krizova. She owns the Chocolate Moose.” But apparently making chocolate wasn’t her only talent. He still couldn’t get over her transformation onstage last night. “She’s coordinating the fund-raiser.”
“Cool.” Zephyr straightened and unzipped his parka partway. “Maybe she can make some chocolate recipes on the show or something.”
Bryan laughed. “You want her to cook?”
“Why not? Food sells. So does sex, but you can’t do that on TV—at least not on my show.”
The thought of Angela and sex sent a jolt through him. There was a definite sensuality about her, something Bryan was aware of every time he was with her. His attraction to her was unsettling. He’d never pictured himself with a woman who probably weighed more than he did, but when he’d been with Angela last night, he hadn’t thought about her size—except to notice the soft roundness of her hips or generous curves of her breasts. He shook his head, trying to clear it.
“This weekend I’m broadcasting live coverage of the Al Johnson Memorial Race,” Zephyr said.
“Oh, yeah? What are you going to do? Show footage of all the crazy costumes and stuff?”
“That, and I’ll interview some of the entrants. But first I put together a short film about Al Johnson.” Al had been an early mail carrier in Crested Butte, one who lived up to the old saying about neither rain nor sleet nor gloom of night preventing the mail getting through. Al delivered the mail on skis, over mountain passes, sometimes in blizzard conditions. “I got Hagan to dress up in old-fashioned gear with a big mailbag we borrowed from the museum and I filmed the whole thing in black-and-white,” Zephyr said.
“Hagan is probably the only one who could ski on those big, old wooden skis,” Bryan said. Hagan Ansdar, a Crested Butte ski patroller originally from Norway, had won the race two years previously, skiing with conventional telemark gear, but dressed in a ratty raccoon coat someone had unearthed from a basement.
“He’s working this year, so he said this was as close as he could get to participating,” Zephyr said. “Maddie will be there, too, on call as an EMT.”
Maddie and Hagan’s wedding had been the third one Bryan had attended this past summer—the one that had turned his thoughts toward settling down. If a former playboy and ski bum like Hagan could find happiness with marriage and starting his own computer software company, then why couldn’t Bryan make similar big changes in his life?
They headed down the run, bombing through drifts of powder, carving wide turns on the steeps. They let out loud whoops as they raced each other through a stand of trees, then skidded into the lift line, red faced from the cold and grinning ear to ear.
“Magic!” Zephyr said, exchanging high fives with his friend. “I’ve missed being out here with you, dude.”
“This is great,” Bryan agreed. They inched their way to the head of the line and flashed their passes for the liftie.
On the chair once more, Zephyr said, “Rhiannon was asking about you last night. That Rachel chick from the hotel said she’d tried to talk you into coming with her, but you turned her down.”
“I told you, I had to go to the theater group.”
“Trying to score points with the boss, huh?” Zephyr shook his head. “Better you than me. I couldn’t handle that corporate BS.”
“It’s not so bad,” Bryan said. “I enjoy the work, most of the time. And this is just a stepping stone. One day I want to open my own hotel. A smaller, boutique place where I can do things the way I want. Right now I’m paying my dues.” And he had a lot of dues to pay. At twenty-eight, he had a long way to go to catch up with guys who’d gone straight to work out of college. He didn’t want to be an old man before he realized his dream, so he had to work extra hard and move up the ladder quickly.
“I told everybody you hadn’t really sold out to the man,” Zephyr said. “I told them this was all part of a plan.”
“Who thinks I sold out?” Bryan asked.
“Oh, you know.” Zephyr waved one hand. “Just some people shooting off their mouths. It doesn’t matter.”
But it did matter to Bryan. It annoyed him—and yeah, it hurt some, too—that his friends had so little faith in him.
“So, who all did you meet last night?” Zephyr asked. “Anybody interesting? That new director of theirs, Tanya Bledso, is pretty hot.”
“How do you know about Tanya?”
“Dude, I know everything that goes on in this town. I’m plugged in, you know. So, did you meet Tanya?”
“She was there.”
“And she’s really hot, right?”
“She’s okay.”
Zephyr grabbed Bryan’s wrist and made a show of looking at his own watch.