Colleen Collins - Sweet Talkin' Guy

“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.