Sweet Talkin' Guy

“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.”