The Legend of the Inn at Maiden Falls…

There are lots of rumors, but no one is exactly sure why even the crankiest twosomes get so very coosome when they spend time at the historic Inn at Maiden Falls, nestled in the Colorado Rockies. Maybe it’s the beautiful vista of all that rushing water (the falls) outside the windows. Maybe it’s the clean, invigorating mountain air stirring up their blood. Or maybe (as the whispers say) there really are lusty ghosts of shady ladies past floating around the rafters. Old-timers say the inn was a famous brothel more than a hundred years ago; all the “soiled doves” may have mysteriously passed away, but their spirits remain to help young lovers discover the joy of sensual pleasure. Or so the story goes….

Dear Reader,

Ghost hookers who haunt a honeymoon hotel where they spice up couples’ sex lives? That’s the idea Julie Kistler, Heather MacAllister and I brainstormed in July 2002 at the national Romance Writers of America conference in Denver, Colorado. And now, June 2004, our stories have come to life as my book, Sweet Talkin’ Guy, kicks off our THE SPIRITS ARE WILLING Harlequin Temptation series!

In Sweet Talkin’ Guy, heiress and runaway-almost-bride Daphne Remington crosses paths with Andy Branigan, a cynical reporter. He smells a hot story, she needs a place to hide out and they end up sharing one of the bridal suites while pretending to be newlyweds. What they don’t know is their room is haunted by the once-notorious cardsharp and sharpshooter Belle Bulette, who thinks Andy and Daphne are hardly strangers but soul mates, and uses her ghostly wiles to prove as much.

To read about my upcoming books, check out my Web site at http://www.colleencollins.net.

Happy reading!

Colleen Collins

Books by Colleen Collins

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

867—JOYRIDE

899—TONGUE-TIED

913—LIGHTNING STRIKES

939—TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

HARLEQUIN DUETS

10—MARRIED AFTER BREAKFAST

22—ROUGH AND RUGGED

30—IN BED WITH THE PIRATE

39—SHE’S GOT MAIL!

107—LET IT BREE CAN’T BUY ME LOUIE

Sweet Talkin’ Guy

Colleen Collins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Julie and Heather, with whom I had a ball brainstorming our ghostly world filled with divine hookers.

And to my editor, Wanda Ottewell, for her encouragement and insights, and for keeping me on course.

The Golden Rules for Miss Arlotta’s Girls

We know rules are not your favorite things, but some things need to be written down. So here’s your Golden Rules, girls. Abide by ’em and we’ll all do just fine. We weren’t exactly angels when we were here the first time around, but we’ve got another chance. So we want to do what we can to keep the idea of holy matrimony satisfying so’s nobody’s man will be tempted to go lookin’ elsewhere for a good time. It may not seem fair, but them’s the rules. We helped ’em stray. Now we’re helping ’em stay.

Rule #1: You will never, ever do anything that might come between the bride and groom.

Rule #2: No visibility. You can’t be scarin’ the livin’ daylights out of folks by fading in and out or showing up in bits and pieces at the wrong time.

Rule #3: Never, ever make love with a guest yourself. No exceptions.

Rule #4: No emotional attachments to anyone. You can’t follow them when they leave, so you might as well not get attached.

Rule #5: When you have successfully put a troubled couple on the road to bedroom bliss, you earn a Notch in Miss Arlotta’s Bedpost Book.

Rule #6: Especially good or bad activities may earn you Gold Stars or Black Marks.

Rule #7: It’s gonna take ten Notches before you can advance. All Advancements shall be determined by Miss Arlotta and the Council, who will consider how difficult your couples were, how much work you had to do, your level of creativity, whether your heart was in the right place and those Gold Stars or Black Marks.

Rule #8: Any girl who disobeys these rules shall be punished.

Rule #9: Any and all rules may be changed by Miss Arlotta as she sees fit.

That’s it. Push those couples into as much wedded bliss as they can handle, and we’ll all do fine. You’re all creative ladies when it comes to what happens between the sheets. So let’s get to work and show ’em what kinds of sparks can fly when the spirits are willing!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Prologue

BEING DEAD isn’t all it’s cranked up to be. Good thing I died with my cigarillo clinging to my lip, a flask of whiskey in one hand and my trusty .44 in the other. Otherwise I’d be plumb out of luck for entertainment.

Belle Bulette pointed her Colt .44 at the godawfulest, ugliest ceiling light she’d seen in at least a hundred years and cocked the hammer.

Across the parlor, the same room where over a century ago she and the girls had greeted their customers, Rosebud flashed a disapproving look through her wire-frame glasses before returning to her book, Lady Chatterley’s Lover. The rest of the ghostly strumpets either made a great show of ignoring Belle or voiced their opinions of her.

“There she goes again, using the parlor for target practice,” sniffed Flo, tossing a shawl over her nightgown.

Belle barely glanced in Flo’s direction. The hooker’s persnickety attitude had irked Belle in life and just did more of the same afterward. Whoever coined the phrase rest in peace had a thing or two to learn. Shame Mimi forgot to help Flo out of her too-tight corset the night of the fatal gas leak—otherwise, the ol’ biddy might’ve spent eternity in a better mood.

“She was much better behaved when we were alive,” chimed in Glory—oh, the men had once loved to shout “Glory, Hallelujah!”—in her thick Texas drawl.

“Balderdash,” said Flo.

“She didn’t shoot in the parlor,” said Sunshine sweetly, her golden-blond hair as bright as the April late-morning rays pouring through the bay windows. “Or in any other room in the bordello. Well, although she almost did that time that varmint Blackhearted Jack got surly with Miss Arlotta and Belle told him to leave, her gun barrel wedged in his gut.”

Belle wasn’t much of a girly type—she’d always preferred the company of men—but she had a soft spot for Sunshine, who was one of her staunchest supporters. Plus, Belle had learned long ago that beneath Sunshine’s doll-like looks was one savvy lady who knew exactly what she was doing.

Flo harrumphed. “Maybe Belle didn’t shoot her gun in the house, but she sure rode that horse of hers into the foyer after too much red-eye. Miss Arlotta fined her a half eagle for that escapade.”

“As though zat stopped her,” murmured the Countess, as the Hungarian beauty primped in a mirror, her reflection seen by the girls but not by the living eye. “Belle never cared about za money.”

Because I made enough to stock a woodpile. Belle still took great pride that right up until her and the girls’ untimely death due to that nasty gas leak in 1895, she’d earned her living—and a handsome one at that—with her body and her mind. She’d plied her craft in the bedroom and at the betting table, saving most of her earnings so that one day she could open her own gambling house. When it came to cards, she was accustomed to winning, and when she won big, she celebrated big, too. Anyone could walk into a room and announce their good news, but it took balls to ride in.

Smiling at the memory, Belle lowered her pistol and took a drag of her cigarillo before again lining up the barrel with the ceiling globe. Hearing another of Flo’s irritated harrumphs was almost as satisfying as the pungent taste of tobacco.

As if Belle could do any real damage. If her gun could shoot live bullets, that god-awful contraption would have been blasted away years ago. Bad enough their gas lamps had long ago been replaced with electrical lights, but that high-falutin’ investment company who’d renovated their bordello into this fancy honeymoon hotel had darn near sucked the life out of it—painted over gold relief, ripped out oak paneling. Oh, they kept a few “touches of the past” in the lobby—the jewel-toned rug, mahogany fireplace, even added a few potted palms just like the girls had enjoyed many years ago. But the owners had relegated dang near everything else—antiques they called them—to an area in the back of the lobby set off with a red velvet rope and called the “historical parlor.”

This parlor had once been what Miss Arlotta called the “high-rollers” room—nothin’ historical about it—where a gentleman could drink the finest whiskey and gamble for high stakes. It had been an honor for a girl to be summoned there and she often left by means of the secret staircase to the upper floors to keep her rendezvous discreet. If problems arose and a gentleman had to leave quickly, the staircase also had an exit to the side street.

On a few occasions, when no living people were around, Belle had materialized in this parlor so she could touch the faded red velvet chaise lounge or finger the delicate lace curtains. The room was crowded with memories of what it had been like to be alive and her mind would drift back to earthly delights. The brisk spray of water from nearby Maiden Falls during summer, the rush of wind in her face when riding her bay across the fields.

It’d been hell being housebound since 1895.

“Belle,” boomed Miss Arlotta’s voice. “No cussing.”

Flo shot a supercilious look at Belle.

“Pardon,” Belle murmured, glancing up at the attic where Miss Arlotta bided most of her time. Belle still hadn’t figured out how the madam seemed to see and hear everything in this house, but she did. And when she spoke, her words reverberated through the air, commanding respect just as they had back when this was the classiest, fanciest bordello within a hundred miles of Denver.

And just as the girls had adhered to Miss Arlotta’s rules back then, they abided by the madam’s golden rules now, too. Of course, the focus had changed. As Miss Arlotta often reminded them, “Before, we helped ’em stray, now we’re helping ’em stay.” Married, that is.

Because when a girl helped a troubled couple on the road to bedroom bliss, she could earn a notch in Miss Arlotta’s Bedpost Book. It was a coup to earn a notch first, because not all couples needed help. Second, because sometimes it took darn hard work to help the troubled ones—in special cases, Miss Arlotta rewarded bonus gold stars, worth more than one notch! Ten notches and a girl was eligible to advance to “the Big Picnic in the Sky.”

Since the renovated Inn at Maiden Falls had opened in 1994—the first time the girls had had the opportunity to aid true love in compensation for the “fake” love they’d made in their earthly lives—Belle had earned nine. She was chomping at the bit to earn that last big notch, not caring if she advanced to the Big Picnic or the big cow pasture in the sky, just get her the hell—she darted a glance at the attic—the Sam Hill out of here so her spirit could once again be free.

“Will you look yonder?” said one of the girls. “Looks like we have a single gent checking into the inn.”

“Just like in them grand old days,” Glory chortled.

Single?

Belle swerved her gaze to the registration desk. Looking through the vapory form of Sunshine, who was chatting animatedly with another ghostly gal, Belle checked out the tall, lanky man with the head of wild red hair. Didn’t look like your typical just-married type. Dressed in blue jeans and a red fleece pullover with holes at the elbows, he looked more like a ruffian.

Some of the girls floated closer to the desk, commenting on his sporty appearance, lack of a wedding ring, those killer blue eyes. Living ones didn’t hear the girls’ chatter unless one materialized to them—which was a difficult feat and risked a black mark in Miss Arlotta’s Bedpost Book. But once a couple had checked in to, and crossed the threshold of, a girl’s room, she could materialize and speak to them as long as her goal was to spice up their sex life.

The ruffian leaned against the registration desk and Belle marveled at his long, lean legs. Men certainly didn’t wear such muscle-revealin’ jeans in her day.

“Denver Post reserved me a room six months ago,” he said to the clerk.

The deep vibrations of his voice rippled through Belle. He had the kind of rock-bottom voice—low, gravelly—that reminded her of someone. But that’d been a long, long time ago.

“Oh yes!” said the desk clerk, a young girl who’d only been on the job a few weeks. “We’ve been expecting the Post and we’re honored to be part of next month’s feature on five-star honeymoon hotels in the Colorado Rockies and if there’s anything you need or if we can be of any help…”

Yappity yap.

Belle had never been one for women’s chitchat. Not during the thirty-two years she was alive nor the hundred and nine she’d been dead. She turned away and was wiping the pearl handle of her gun against her silk drawers when Sunshine floated up to her.

“That single gentleman is staying in your room, Belle,” she whispered.

What?

Belle quickly floated to the desk and hovered over the computer monitor while gazing at the listing of rooms and names. Because of Belle’s exceptional money-earning skills, Miss Arlotta had dedicated one of the rooms to her, the only girl to receive such an honor. The hotel, having unearthed this fact in their historical research, had named it Belle’s Room.

She gasped.

Andrew Branigan, Denver Post. Belle’s Room.

“Hellfire and—” She glanced up at the attic. “Pardon again,” she murmured, “but how in tarnation am I supposed to earn my last notch if I’m strapped with a single ruff—gentleman?”

Several of the ghostly gals giggled.

Belle shot them a withering look. Except for Rosebud, whose rip-roarin’ smarts had always set her apart, they all stared back looking a tad frightened.

Dang, darn and pshaw!

Taking her old shootin’ stance, Belle straightened her arm and pointed the .44 at the ugly globe. Ignoring the girls’ squeals and threats, she squeezed the trigger. The shot tore loose with a crack and flash, only witnessed on their ghostly realm. The bullet, as always, disappeared into nothingness.

Or into another world.

The world where, Belle believed, she’d someday be. And yearned to go. But with a single guy in her room…Well, hell’s bells, she might as well twiddle her thumbs because she wasn’t goin’ nowhere soon.

“Belle, no—”

“Yes, Miss Arlotta, no cussing. No Big Picnic in the Sky, either.” She tucked her gun in the waistband of her drawers and floated up the stairs, needing some breathing room…

As though that were possible. No breathing, no sex, no cussin’.

Being dead isn’t all it’s cranked up to be.

1

DAPHNE REMINGTON, socialite and bride-to-be, chewed thoughtfully on a strip of raspberry licorice as she scrutinized herself in the full-length dressing-room mirror. “Why do brides have to wear white?” she murmured. “I look so much better in red.”

“It isn’t white, it’s ivory,” countered the salesclerk as she adjusted one of the dress straps. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Besides, after that stunt you pulled several years ago at the Firecracker Ball, I figured you’d never wear red again.”

Over the past few months of Daphne trying on the latest bridal designs at Ever-After, the ultra-exclusive salon in the ultra-exclusive Cherry Creek area of Denver, she and the salesclerk, Cindi, had become chummy enough to drop the me-sales person, you-client facade. Plus, not only were they both pushing thirty and feeling familial pressure to marry, they both confessed to serious bad-boy fantasies about the wild Irish actor Colin Farrell—and if that didn’t bond two women, Daphne wasn’t sure what else could.

“Well, I don’t wear red in public anymore, especially around swimming pools,” Daphne said with a wink, which made Cindi laugh.

That was because everyone who had read the Denver Post three years ago on July fifth had seen a picture of socialite Daphne Remington being hauled out of the Denver Country Club pool, her red silk dress clinging to every inch of her body. The Post had labeled the photo Renegade Remington which had been bad enough to live down, but then the story got picked up by the AP wire and had ended up in papers and magazines across the country with captions like Red-Hot Remington! and Haughty Hot Heiress. Playboy had even approached her to do a special photo shoot.

Her family had not been amused.

Not even when she tried to explain that she’d jumped in on a dare—a handful of guys had collected several thousand dollars, betting she wouldn’t jump into the pool fully clothed. Loving a challenge—and emboldened by several flutes of champagne—she’d kicked off her Manolos and executed a flawless jack-knife.

But did the papers snap a picture of that moment of stylistic perfection? No-o-o. They’d gone for the grossly unflattering shot of her soaked head to toe, her hair matted and tangled, with mascara smeared underneath her eyes like some kind of prizefighter.

The following morning, when Daphne stumbled to the breakfast table to find the front page of the Post on her chair, she’d explained to her parents that despite appearances, she’d personally raised more money at the fundraiser than any other single contributor.

They continued not to be amused.

Which was par for the course. Delores and Harold Remington III, icons of Denver society, had never been pleased with their eldest daughter’s rebellious nature. And as she’d done mega times before, Daphne listened to their lectures about how her great-great-great-great-grandfather Charles “Charlie” Remington had only a quarter in his pocket when he’d staked his mining claim in the Colorado Rockies. How, through hard work and perseverance, he’d not only struck gold but segued his fortune into a real-estate empire. How his offspring were politicians, doctors, lawyers who’d fought for justice and left the world a better place. How her only sibling, the ever-reputable and perfect Iris, was following the path of outstanding, law-abiding Remingtons…

Left unspoken was that rebellious Daphne had still to find the path. Daphne bet even Paris Hilton’s parents gave her more consideration than Daphne’s own did her.

Nevertheless, after the infamous Firecracker Ball incident, Daphne had done her best to behave. No wild escapades, no outrageous clothes. It was like being in a twelve-step program for bad girls, but she’d done it because she truly didn’t like embarrassing her family. Of course, having her parents threaten to withhold her trust—a cool two and a half mil that was hers on her wedding day—unless she “shaped up” was an incentive.

During that period, her parents had introduced her to G. D. McCormick, a prominent lawyer who was eight years older, sophisticated, with a stellar career as a partner at the prestigious Denver law firm Joffe, Marshall and McCormick. Daphne hadn’t liked him for those attributes, however. He’d had a kick-back side that was fun, lighthearted. Plus, he professed to love her “high spirits.”

When, after dating for a year, he’d asked her to marry him she’d said yes. Maybe she didn’t feel that zap of lightning Mario Puzo wrote about in The Godfather, but that was fiction after all and she was in the real world. Her family was thrilled, her friends were giddy and Daphne was happy and relieved that finally she was on the path.

But the happiness had taken a downward turn six months ago when the state’s top-dog politicos had asked G.D. to be their candidate for governor next year. That’s when G.D. became less kick-back and more kick-ass. Increasingly concerned with his political image, his adoration of her high spirits became criticism of her free spirits. If she’d had a quarter for every time he’d asked her to tone down her wardrobe or her language, she probably could have paid off half the city of Denver’s current budget deficit.

G.D. had even started criticizing her way of walking. Seemed her hips swung too far left and right when she walked. She quipped that she’d swing the way of his political leanings, but he—like her family—wasn’t amused.

Daphne’s high spirits were low ones more and more.

She looked in Ever-After’s dressing-room mirror and fluffed her normally straight dark hair, which was resorting to its natural curl thanks to this morning’s April showers. “When we first dated, G.D. and I used to have spontaneous adventures,” she suddenly said. “We’d grab cheese and bread for a picnic or hop a bus and visit some picturesque spot in Colorado. I’d take my camera and snap photos…” Her voice trailed off.

Cindi, checking something on the hem, looked up. “Politicians can’t afford to be spontaneous. Bad for their image.”

Daphne nodded, taking another bite of licorice. Many nights she’d lain in bed, hoping G.D.—Gordo—would change his mind about running for office. Her life was enough of a fishbowl without being married to a governor.

“Oh, sweetie, don’t look so sad. After the wedding, your lives will settle down. You’ll get into campaigning, learn the ropes about being a politician’s wife.”

“That’s what my mother keeps saying.” Daphne sighed heavily. “But a governor’s wife? Me?”

“My mom said Linda Ronstadt was almost a governor’s wife when she dated Jerry Brown. If a rocker almost did it, shoot, it’ll be a cinch for you.”

“If you’d said Madonna, I’d feel better.”

“Hey, she’s written a children’s book.”

“Let’s hope they don’t mix it up with one of her other books during some kiddie story hour.”

Cindi laughed.

“Seriously,” continued Daphne, “I guess you’re saying there’s hope for Renegade Remington.” But even Daphne heard the lack of hope in her tone, which was starting to sound more like the voice of doom.

Cindi touched Daphne’s arm. “Hey, sweetie, I have an idea. Want to try on some slinky lingerie? Something hot for your wedding night? We just got a shipment of sheer, strappy chemises that are to die for!”

Daphne began slipping out of the wedding dress. “Girlfriend,” she said, forcing herself to sound exuberant, fun—not so long ago she never had to force that attitude—“bring them on!”

A few minutes later, Daphne had doffed her bra and was slipping into a bottle-green silk chemise with black lace trim that hovered seductively at the top of her thighs. “Cool,” she purred, eyeing herself in the mirror.

“Some girls are wearing them with skirts and pants. It’s the new skimpy-chic look.”

“I couldn’t wear it in Denver…”

“Take a trip out of town. Somewhere remote, where no one knows you.”

Anonymity. What a treat it would be to be invisible, a face in the crowd. Nobody watching, judging…

Daphne put on her cargo pants and tucked in the chemise. She looked at her reflection. “The pièce de résistance,” she said, stepping into the lime-green Prada heels that gave her bare calves a nice curve.

“You got it,” Cindi murmured.

“I do, don’t I?” It was fun to let down her guard, to be sassy and playful again. She turned sideways, admiring the effect. “I like dressing in different shades of the same color…some days it’s pink, others all blue. Today felt like a green day.”

“Because it’s April?”

Daphne paused. “Maybe. Spring and new beginnings and all that.”

From the other room, a phone trilled.

Cindi stepped toward the door. “Gotta grab that. Hey, check out the turquoise lace camisole on the lingerie rack.”

“Twist my arm,” teased Daphne, following her out of the dressing room.

As Cindi chatted on the phone, Daphne fingered through the sheer, silky lingerie. Outside the tinted windows, she looked down on Denver’s elegant Detroit Avenue.

Jaguars and Beemers cruised down the road. Across the street thin women sipped espressos at a sidewalk café, their groomed dogs sunning nearby. Baskets of bright spring flowers hung from lamp posts. Everything cultured and sophisticated and perfectly perfect…it was as though she were looking into a glass ball at her future life.

She shivered involuntarily, and had started to turn away when something caught her attention.

An old school bus, painted gray with gold trim, sputtered down the street. On its side in cursive script was painted Maiden Falls Tour Bus in bright red.

Maiden Falls. The former mining town in the Rockies, next to where, in the 1880s, her ancestor Charles had staked his claim, Last Chance. It was now a state-preserved historical site. But despite all his riches, for the rest of his life Charlie swore his happiest days were when he’d been a poor and struggling miner.

And could that have had anything to do with your being camped next to Maiden Falls? Daphne grinned, imagining her four-times-great-gramps, before he found the bride of his dreams, being pretty darn happy camped next to Maiden Falls—the tongue-in-cheek term for the ladies of the evening who’d set up business there. After years of usage, the name had stuck. Maiden Falls was now the official town name, a place filled with quaint shops and a lovely old renovated hotel.

At one time, she and Gordo would have been spontaneous and hopped on this Maiden Falls tour bus for a spur-of-the-moment adventure. He’d always justified these excursions with an old legal saying, “No consideration, no contract.” But what he really meant was hey, if you really wanna do it, it’s a deal.

Daphne’s toes twitched as she yearned to break loose, to do something impulsive again.

The bus parked outside the café, next to a sandwich-board sign with Tours written in large black letters on it. A skinny kid in jeans and a baseball cap jumped off the bus and stood next to the Tours sign. Several people—who appeared to have been waiting at the café—began lining up, buying tickets.

Daphne watched, mesmerized, as, one by one, people purchased tickets and got on the bus.

The bus that would be leaving soon.

Her toes twitched again.

G.D. was out of town for the weekend at some political rally. Her parents had back-to-back society functions over the next few days. And her perfectly perfect sister was too self-absorbed to really care what big sis Daphne did.

It’s my last chance to be free, adventurous. Even Cindi said I should escape to some remote town, far away from the rules of high society. If someone asks, I could say I’m anybody, a location scout for a film, a grad student researching old mining towns…

Plus, just as ol’ Charlie Remington had enjoyed his greatest happiness in those hills, maybe so would she. Simple, unadulterated, un-whispered-about-behind-her-back happiness.

That cinched it.

Grinning, she rushed back into the dressing room, tossed on her jean jacket and grabbed her purse. Running through the salon while buttoning up the jacket, she pointed to the top of her chemise and mouthed “Put it on my bill.”

Cindi nodded, her eyes growing wide as she continued talking on the phone.

Half jogging across the street, Daphne felt the exquisite flutterings of an impending grand escape—the way she used to feel all the time. Damn, it felt great to be alive again! Alive and free-spirited, escaping the uptight, rule-oriented world of Cherry Creek.

As she slipped into line for the tour bus, she pulled out her wallet. Fifty dollars cash and a handful of credit cards. Plenty of ammunition for anything she might need on this trip.

As Daphne paid the lanky kid twenty-five dollars for the round-trip ticket, he said, “Have a wonderful trip, ma’am, to Maiden Falls.”

Ma’am? She grinned as she stepped onto the bus. Screw the location scout or grad student fantasies. For these next few days, she’d be a maiden—a fallen maiden—enjoying her last adventure in Maiden Falls!

ANDY BRANIGAN sat in a small parlor nestled in the back of the lobby at the inn at Maiden Falls staring at the sepia-toned photo in the old album, wondering if Maiden Falls was named for this particular group of fallen maidens…or any of the other ladies of the evening who had flocked to Colorado’s mining towns back in the late nineteenth century.

Looking at this picture, however, one would be hard-pressed to claim these were shady ladies. This group was dressed in their Sunday finest, sitting demurely on a blanket in a field having a picnic. Some held parasols, some daintily nibbled on fried chicken.

One would never guess this was a group of hookers who had plied their wares in this very honeymoon hotel, the same place where a savvy Madam Arlotta had once managed her lucrative business and the working girls.

Honeymoon hotel? More like a bridal bordello.

Hmmm, not bad.

He pulled a small spiral-bound pad out of his shirt pocket and jotted down bridal bordello. He stared at the words, hearing Frank, his boss and the Denver Post’s features editor, bellowing, “Forget it, Andy. You’re a sweet-talkin’ guy with a way with words, but no way in hell we’re printing a piece on honeymoon hotels titled Bridal Frickin’ Bordello.”

Andy tucked the notepad back into his pocket, behind his pack of cigarettes, planning his rebuttal. “Frank, buddy, if you wanted safe and sensible, you shouldn’t have sent your best reporter out to write this fluff piece.”

Frank would start to argue.

That’s when Andy would nod, as though commiserating with Frank’s stance, but then he’d say, “Hey, paper’s circulation’s down. You need to boost readership. I’ll write lace and nicety for other honeymoon spots, which women will eat up. But keep the bridal-bordello angle for this place and you’ll woo the male readership, too. Win-win, Frank.”

Andy stared at the No Smoking sign, debating whether to sneak a cig here or step outside. He was toying with testing where a door in the back of the parlor led when a maid opened it. She smiled at him before starting to dust the parlor. That explained the door—had to be some kind of housekeeping stairwell.

He’d head out through the lobby, catch a smoke on the porch outside.

He started to close the album, when a figure at the back of the picnic photo caught his eye.

One of the ladies held a gun, lining up a shot. She was dressed prettily, just like the others, but that dead-eye look she gave her target revealed this was no shrinking violet. And he’d seen that tumble of hair before in other historical photographs.

“Belle Bulette,” he murmured, admiring her strong profile, her spread-legged stance.

One of the soiled doves he’d researched before arriving at this hotel yesterday. He’d requested the Bulette Room, named after this working girl who he’d figured had traveled to Maiden Falls around 1890, maybe ’91, to ply her trade with the growing number of miners in the area. But Belle had had other tricks up her sleeve, like a wicked skill with cards.

And although the history books hadn’t made the link, he felt strongly the name Belle was made up, a label she’d picked after arriving in Maiden Falls to protect a dark incident in her past.

Such facts Andy had compiled from his extensive research on ghost towns and mining towns in the southwest. A love of history that had started back when he was a kid growing up not far from here, privy to the stories his grandfather—the man who’d raised him—and his cronies had told and retold about what their fathers and grandfathers had said about the wild, wild west.

He closed the book and returned it to a side table, then looked around at the lush Victorian decor of this “historical parlor”—as it was advertised on the plaque outside the room. According to the inscription, this room was a replication of how the bordello’s main parlor, now the lobby, had looked back in the 1890s, the place where the ladies had met their customers before taking them upstairs. This historical parlor was filled with everything from photo albums and other memorabilia to an impressive white marble mantelpiece and so much red velvet, the room was like a frickin’ bleeding heart.

Made him claustrophobic.

He headed out of the room into the stylishly decorated and light-filled lobby and grabbed several cookies off a sideboard. A couple lolled on the nearby couch, the young woman hand-feeding a cookie to the man who was nibbling more at her fingers than the confection.

Andy gave himself a mental shake. No woman would ever hand-feed cookies to Andy Branigan. If she did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be in a honeymoon hotel.

As Andy chewed, a sweet scent, like lilacs, wafted past. A lady’s perfume. He looked around, but no one else had entered the parlor. Odd.

Oh, he’d heard the stories about how this place was haunted by shady ladies of the past, but he didn’t believe such nonsense. Ghosts were about as real as true love. Both were fabrications of minds that needed a better grip on reality.

A woman’s voice caught his attention.

“What do you mean no rooms? I’ll pay double, triple what anyone else is paying!”

Partially blocked by an oversize potted palm was the antique registration desk. If he craned his neck a bit, he caught the rump of a woman leaning over the desk, a pair of cargo pants ending mid-calf, her feet tucked into a pair of lime-green heels.

“The Inn at Maiden Falls is booked ahead for months,” murmured the voice he recognized as the portly hotel manager. She’d intervened earlier after the young desk clerk had realized his room wasn’t ready, wouldn’t be for several hours. The manager had apologized, offered him a complimentary gift certificate to the inn’s five-star restaurant, the Golden Rule, or one of the local restaurants.

He’d picked Pete’s Pizza down the street.

“And the problem is?” said the female voice, tapping a high-heeled foot against the polished hardwood floor. “Surely someone would appreciate not only having a complete refund, but extra money for a side trip or maybe a honeymoon suite in a, uh, better located hotel.”

“The inn is located in one of the most beautiful spots in the country—”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant a hotel in the city, close to museums, shopping centers. A suite in Denver’s Brown Palace, for example.”

“Perhaps you and your husband should go to Denver, check into the Brown Palace.”

“I just arrived from Denver! I want to stay here!”

Spoiled. Andy avoided those types like the plague. They always wanted guys to blow big bucks on them for dinners, theater, overpriced frothy cocktails. But rare to find a spoiled princess alone, desperate to pay two or three times the already substantial price for a room.

Andy had a nose for news stories, and this definitely smelled like an interesting one.

He knocked off the second cookie while ambling closer. Leaning against a settee, he checked out the woman.

Slim and toned. Pretty calves. Tight ass. He imagined her in one of those thong numbers, treading an exercise machine, sweat trickling down her pink, moist skin.

He shifted a little to ease the sudden tightness in his groin.

He stared at her high-rise pants. He always appreciated a flash of flesh, but it was still a bit cold in the mountains to be wearing anything that exposed skin. Plus snow from last week’s storm still dotted the ground—hardly the kind of terrain to navigate in neon skyscrapers. Wearing heels in a mountain town was like wearing flip-flops to climb Mount Everest.

She obviously hadn’t planned for this trip.

She gestured as she spoke and he caught the pink Rolex on her wrist. And on her ring finger, a diamond that could double for a search light.

Engaged. Rolling in dough. Why run away to this inn? Why not hop in her Jag—or Lexus or Mercedes—and scoot down the highway to some private, exclusive spa?

The manager explained there was a boarding house in a neighboring town.

The princess almost-bride huffed and turned her head enough for Andy to catch her profile.

He stared at the impertinent nose, flashing hazel eyes, red-slicked lips. Reminded him of the young Katherine Hepburn. He wondered if just like the movie star, underneath this woman’s steel spine smoldered a passionate heart…

Her eyes caught his.

Their gazes held for a moment before she looked away, returning to her discussion.

He’d seen this lady before….

The hair looked different—curlier—but she was definitely familiar. Andy quickly sifted through his memory, flipping through a catalog of images from his various assignments. No, she was too well dressed to be one of the contemporary cowgirls he’d recently written a piece on. And although her haughty air was similar to the ballerina he’d interviewed last year, she’d had a bit more meat on her.

No, he hadn’t written or interviewed her, but he’d definitely seen her somewhere.

Bam!

“Renegade Remington,” he said under his breath.

He crossed his arms over his chest and eyed the privileged daughter of one of Denver’s bluest-of-the-blue-blood families. Their name was everywhere. The Remington Wing of the Children’s Hospital. The Remington Theater Arts Complex. Even the recently christened Remington Avenue that ran adjacent to the Denver Country Club.

Ah, yes, the Denver Country Club and the scandalous photo of Daphne Remington. Andy flashed on the picture of her being tugged out of the pool, a crimson dress molded to a shapely body. Funny, she’d slipped below the radar after that…reemerging in tasteful society stories, often pictured on the arm of G. D. McCormick, high-profile lawyer and up-and-coming gubernatorial candidate.

Weren’t they supposed to be getting married soon? That explained the boulder-sized ring.

Andy felt a tingling on the back of his neck—an electric warning that he’d stumbled on a hot lead. A runaway heiress story, a runaway almost-bride story…maybe both?

It smacked of that Julia Roberts surprise wedding escapade, one he and the guys at the paper wished they’d broken.

This was that kind of story. A “Runaway Renegade Remington” escapade. Not only was the family name known in Denver, but all over the country thanks to the parents’ upper-crust jet-setting and their philanthropic donations.

This was the kind of hot scoop national magazines and television stations paid big bucks for. The kind of moola that could propel Andy out of being a reporter in the trenches and give him the means to research and write the book of his dreams—the definitive book on Colorado history he’d wanted to write since he was a kid.

Daphne was tapping her diamond-heavy hand on the polished wood of the registration desk. “Well, I can’t believe you’d turn down such a good deal.”

“In the future, please make your reservation ahead of time and we’ll happily accommodate you.”

The woman didn’t sound very happy at the prospect, however.

Daphne pivoted on those skyscraper heels and minced to the door, a leather purse slung over her jean-jacketed shoulder.

No luggage.

That cinched it. Daphne Remington had definitely traveled here on a whim.

Oh yes, baby, this was one hot scoop.

As the front door clicked shut behind her, Andy followed, thinking how Frank would beg for this story, but Andy would have already made some sweet deals elsewhere.

Hot scoop? Andy chuckled to himself. More like molten.

2

DAPHNE SAT on the red vinyl stool at the drugstore soda fountain. She stared forlornly out the window at the Inn at Maiden Falls across the street, admiring its pink-and-raspberry exterior.

I belong there. It even wears colors the way I do.

A blast of noise distracted her. She glanced at a compact TV on a shelf next to coffee cups and fountain glasses. On its screen, a baseball player wielded a bat, his jaw tight, his eyes focused. I probably looked like that at the hotel, minus the bat.

But despite her determination, Daphne had failed to get a room. There was a time when she could talk her way into anything. Once, in Vegas, she’d convinced a nightclub owner to let her and two girlfriends into a No Doubt show. What a night that had been. Fun, carefree, back before she’d worried about things like what the press might say if she did this or that.

When did I lose my touch? Or maybe I’ve lost my confidence?

Daphne popped open the top buttons on her jacket as she glanced at the inn again. It was hot as blazes in this drugstore.

An older gentleman sidled up behind the counter, tufts of white hair sticking out underneath a Rockies cap. “Walker,” he barked at the TV, “you’re paid too much to strike out!” He looked back at Daphne. “What can I get ya?”

“Diet cola, slice of lemon. And—” she fanned herself “—could you turn down the heat?”

He rolled his eyes toward the kitchen. “The better half’s always cranking it up. I’ll turn it down.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything else?”

“Lime phosphate,” answered a deep, gravelly male voice. “And an order of chili fries.”

“Ya got it.” The older man sauntered away.

Daphne looked over at the man who had settled on the seat next to her. Piercing blue eyes and a thick, unruly mass of rust-golden hair grown unconventionally long. She wondered if that don’t-give-a-damn look was calculated or if he really didn’t care about current styles.

Although…picking the seat right next to her was definitely calculated. Every other stool was empty.

“Couldn’t find another seat?” she asked.

He looked down at hers, then back up. “The one I wanted was taken.”

A rush of heat blasted through her. “You’re impudent,” she said, which would have sounded outraged if her voice hadn’t gone all breathy. She was seriously out of practice with bad-boy come-ons.

“My apologies.”

From the twinkle in his blue eyes, she didn’t believe he was sorry for a millisecond. Not trusting her traitorous voice, she gave a half nod as though accepting his apology.

He leaned forward and she caught a flash of tie-dyed shirt underneath a red fleece pullover. “Caught your give-me-a-room speech across the street.”

He was watching? She glanced out the window again at the inn. If he’d been standing on the hotel porch, he could easily have seen through the windows into the lobby, but she doubted he’d heard any of the conversation between her and that obstinate desk clerk.

Although, on second thought, Daphne recalled briefly making eye contact with some man standing behind her. She’d been so irritated, however, she’d barely registered who he was.

But now she knew.

It was him.

Which meant he was staying there. At her hotel. The place where she desperately wanted to spend one last carefree, anonymous weekend.

Daphne looked past the man, searching the aisles of beauty items, and at the small pharmacy beyond for a newlywed Mrs. Impudent.

“I’m alone,” he said, reading her searching gaze.

Daphne tucked a curl of her hair behind her ear. “That wasn’t necessarily what I was thinking.” Like I’d admit it. She cleared her throat. “But since you mentioned it, seems strange to stay alone at a honeymoon hotel.”

“Strange?” He cocked a sardonic eyebrow, his eyes glistening. “No, sad. Very, very sad.”

A feeling rippled between them. A sizzle of attraction that charged the air.

She became overly aware of his hand on the counter, how close it lay to hers. And she recalled something her great-aunt had once said—that a person’s hands were either muscled like a worker’s or long-fingered like an artist’s. She didn’t want to stare, but…

His were both.

“Here ya go!” said the older gentleman, jarring her out of the moment. He set the cola in front of Daphne and a glass filled with a slushy green concoction and a plate piled with a greasy mess in front of the guy. “Anything else I can do for ya?”

When they shook their heads no, he jabbed his thumb toward the TV where a television reporter spoke earnestly to the camera. “Want it off?”

Just then, a photo of Daphne flashed on the screen. Well, a photo of her standing in the background behind G.D., who, the reporter was explaining, had just won a major legal case involving corporate fraud. The story segued into G.D.’s possible bid for governor and his pet issues of tourism, reemployment assistance and promotion of Colorado’s agricultural products.

She’d heard it all before, a hundred times, had even been coached on how to respond to those same topics herself. And damn if Gordo didn’t wind up his legal victory speech with the sound bite, “No consideration, no contract.”

“Yes, turn it off,” answered Daphne, not wanting to hear more. Didn’t want to be recognized, either, as the woman in the background. But she doubted either man had recognized her. In the photo, her hair was pulled back in a tight chignon, the exact opposite of the curly mass she wore today. And that god-awful dress in the photo was one of those matronly ensembles her mother had insisted she wear. Proper and all that.

Probably overreacting. Who would look at me in that photo, anyway? The focus is on G.D. Was it her imagination, or did she look smaller standing in the background? Definitely insignificant.

With a chilling realization, Daphne saw her future. Small, insignificant, always in the background of G. D.’s life.

Her insides contracted a little.

The older man flicked a knob and silence descended. After sliding the bill across the Formica counter, he ambled away.

Andy shoved the plate of goop steaming with spice and grease toward her. “Help yourself.”

She wrinkled her nose. “What is it?”

“Fries topped with chili, chopped onions, jalapeños.” With a pleased guttural sound, Andy dipped his fingers into the mess. She wondered if he dove into life like that, indulging himself the way an animal gleefully rolls in the dirt just because it feels good.

“I’ll pass.”

“Shame—you’re missing out on something good.” He shoved chili-drenched fries into his mouth. After swallowing, he frowned. “Your perfume—” he nudged the air with his nose “—smells different than before.”

“How can you possibly smell anything through that…” She glanced at the pile of grease, cheese and fries.

He took a silver flask out of his pants pocket, shooting her a wry smile. “When I first sat down I could’ve sworn I caught a whiff of roses and not lilacs.”

“Lilacs?”

“The scent I caught back at the hotel.”

He hadn’t been standing close enough to pick up the scent of her perfume. And Daphne wasn’t the type to splash the stuff on, especially not at several hundred dollars an ounce. “It’s called Dulcinea.” G.D. never commented on her perfume. Not anymore.

“Dulcinea,” he murmured, rolling the word on his tongue. “The personification of Don Quixote’s dream.” He looked at her. “Don Quixote de La Mancha? Ever read the book?”

“I’m more a contemporary type.” She recalled those antiquated literature assignments at the private school in England. Truly a hideous time in her life, cooped up, wearing those insane school uniforms that made her look like some kind of nun-in-training. Just as she’d finally discovered an escape route through a hole in the fence—ah, freedom—and the fields beyond where she’d run barefoot, she’d also discovered an escape route with her studies. Thank God for those little yellow pamphlets that offered abridged notes on ponderous literary tomes.

“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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