Читать книгу Sweet Talkin' Guy - Colleen Collins - Страница 11

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.