Sweet Talkin' Guy

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.”