The Man Most Likely

“What is that?” he asked, watching her untie the ribbon that secured the box lid.

“I brought samples.”

“Samples?”

“Of my chocolates.” She selected a truffle from the box and held it up for his inspection, the shiny pink lacquer of her nails contrasting sharply with the velvety blackness of the sweet. “Dark chocolate raspberry,” she said, and offered it to him.

He popped the confection into his mouth and was instantly rewarded with the smooth sensation of melting chocolate, the bitterness of the cocoa and the sweetness of the raspberries in perfect harmony. “Delicious,” he mumbled.

“I’m glad you like it.” She licked the tip of her index finger, where the heat of her body had melted the fragile chocolate. The innocent, unself-conscious gesture sent a jolt of arousal straight through him, rocking him back on his heels. Then she smiled at him and said in that voice, “Would you like another?”

Could I survive another? “Maybe you could leave them for me to enjoy later,” he said.

“Of course.” She replaced the lid on the box and handed it to him. “How long have you been working for the hotel?”

“Not very long.” The last he’d heard, the oddsmakers in town had given him three months before he cried uncle and fled to his former slacker ways. He’d passed that mark two weeks ago, but they still treated his new career as a passing fancy, something he was bound to give up on sooner rather than later.

“And what did you do before that?”

“Different things,” he hedged. Of course, if she was really interested, five minutes spent talking to any of his friends would give her the full, if not necessarily flattering, picture of his past. He’d arrived in Crested Butte seven years ago this month, intending to spend the rest of the winter snowboarding before heading to New York or Chicago or Dallas to put his hotel management degree to use.

As soon as he’d pulled onto Crested Butte’s snow-packed main drag and seen the funky shops and even funkier people, he’d gone into a kind of trance from which he’d only recently awakened. “How long have you had your candy shop?” he asked, anxious to change the subject.

“Three years,” she answered. “The first night I was here I tried to buy chocolate and the only thing I could find was a two-month-old Hershey’s bar. I knew then I’d found my destiny.”

He was amazed she’d known so quickly what she wanted to do, while it had taken him years to figure it out. She had an air of confidence and serenity he hadn’t seen in most of the more conventionally beautiful women he’d dated.

“Is something wrong?”

The question made him realize he’d been staring at her. He looked away and reminded himself of the reason they were standing here in the first place. “How many people do you expect to attend?” he asked.

“About a hundred and fifty. We’re charging fifty-five dollars each or a hundred dollars a couple for tickets. There will be a silent auction as well as food, a cash bar, music and dancing. And chocolate, of course.”

“Of course.” He returned her smile. She had a great smile, one that radiated her enjoyment of the moment. “It sounds like fun.”

“I hope you’ll join us,” she said. “There’ll be a lot of local people there.” They left the ballroom and started toward the front lobby. “Have you seen any of our productions?”

He admitted he had not. Until recently, theater tickets weren’t part of his budget or his scope of interest.

“We’re rehearsing now for I Hate Hamlet,” she said. “We’re always looking for volunteers and it’s a great way to meet new people.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.”

“Our next rehearsal is tomorrow night. We meet at the Mallardi Cabaret, upstairs from the Paragon Galleries, at Second and Elk. You ought to stop by.”

They paused near the front desk. “Thanks for the chocolates,” he said. “It was good to meet you.”

“Thank you. It was a pleasure meeting you.” She gave his hand an extra squeeze on the word pleasure. Struck dumb, he stared after her as she sashayed across the lobby and out the door. Several heads turned to watch her departure. She may not have been skinny, but Angela definitely had style.

“It looks like Ms. Krizova’s been sampling a few too many of her own creations.”

He turned and saw the hotel receptionist standing at his elbow. Rachel was about his age, slim and stylish and part of the crowd of young people who frequented the clubs around town. He usually enjoyed talking to her, but the catty remark about Angela rubbed him the wrong way. No matter that he’d thought much the same thing when he first laid eyes on her. Half an hour in her company had given him a different impression entirely. “Did you need me for something?” he asked.

She arched one carefully plucked eyebrow at his brusque tone. “The Chamber of Commerce called about a donation for the Al Johnson Memorial Ski Race,” she said. “Mr. Phelps said you’d take care of it.”

“Sure.” He took the memorandum from her and turned toward his office.

“Some of us are meeting up at LoBar tomorrow night,” she said. “There’s a new band playing, so we thought we’d check them out. Want to come?”

Even an hour ago, he would have jumped at the chance, but now the invitation held little attraction. “Sorry, I’ve got other plans.”

She leaned toward him, her tone flirtatious once more. “What are you doing that’s more fun than going out with me and my friends?”

“I promised to stop by the community theater group.” He cleared his throat. “It’s business.”

She looked toward the door Angela had exited. “Uh-huh.” Then she turned back to him, her smile brighter than ever. “Too bad. You’d have a lot more fun with me and my friends. Nobody in that theater group is really your type.”

His type. How could she be so sure what his type was when he didn’t even know himself? He glanced at Rachel again, taking in her trim figure, glossy hair and dazzling smile. She was the sort of woman he usually dated. The type most men preferred. All he had to do was turn on the television or pick up a magazine to know that. Angela must have put him into some chocolate-induced trance to have him thinking otherwise.

“Of course she—I mean the theater group—really isn’t my type.” Carl had encouraged him to foster connections between the hotel and the community, so that’s what he’d be doing.

“It’s just business,” he said, and retreated to his office.

Chapter Two

Angela settled into a front-row seat at the Mallardi Cabaret, home to Crested Butte’s Mountain Theatre group, and pulled out her copy of the script for I Hate Hamlet. Around her, other cast and crew members congregated, sipping coffee, discussing the latest snowfall totals, their plans for the upcoming Al Johnson Memorial Ski Race or bemoaning the number of weeks until softball season began. Angela smiled, reveling in the homey familiarity of the scene. Once upon a time she’d dreamed of being a professional actress, but the daunting reality of competing for professional jobs in Los Angeles or New York had convinced her she was better off sticking close to home. She didn’t make her living on the stage, but outside her candy shop, her life revolved around the dusty velvet seats and greasepaint-scented air of community theater.

She opened the script and turned to her lines for the scene that was first up on the rehearsal schedule. She played the agent, Lillian Troy. Lillian’s claim to fame was that she had once had an affair with the late John Barrymore. Angela’s friend Tanya played Felicia, the glamorous girlfriend of the male lead, Andy, who was played by local heartthrob Austin Davies.

At that moment, the man himself crossed in front of Angela. Dressed casually in jeans and a fleece henley, his hair perfectly styled, his jaw perfectly rugged, Austin was the very picture of the leading man. He was a nice enough guy—vain without being obnoxious, over-confident about his abilities at times, but a decent actor.

He smiled at Angela and she nodded, then ducked her head and pretended renewed interest in her script. She wasn’t interested in being overly friendly with Austin. The truth was he reminded her a little too much of Troy Wakefield, the leading man in the community theater group she’d belonged to in Broomfield, Colorado, where she’d lived before moving to Crested Butte. The man she’d been engaged to for fifteen minutes.

Okay, more like fifteen days. Same difference for all she’d mattered to Troy. Old news that really didn’t concern her anymore.

She looked around to see who else was here. She spotted Tanya on the far side of the stage, running over her lines with Alex Pierce, the older man who was playing Barrymore’s ghost. Though tonight she was dressed like everyone else in jeans and a sweater, Tanya’s costume for the play was a short, tight, sparkly cocktail dress that showed off her perfect figure. With her red hair teased into waves that tumbled about her shoulders, she’d be the picture of the glamorous femme fatale.

Angela, meanwhile, would be stuck in a frumpy tweed skirt, no-nonsense sweater set and makeup designed to make her look thirty years older.

Just once it would have been fun to play the glamour girl, but she’d never been given the opportunity and probably never would.

“All right, places everyone.” Tanya called everyone to order. “Let’s run through the séance scene.”

Angela, Tanya and Austin gathered center stage around a white-draped table while Alex waited in the wings for his cue. Scripts in hand, they began the run-through of the scene in which the three friends try to contact the ghost of John Barrymore.

But instead of the late, great actor showing up on cue, the door to the theater opened, letting in the sounds of traffic on Elk Avenue below and a man in a dark overcoat. “Um, sorry,” he called as he pulled off his gloves. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Bryan! You came to see us after all.” Angela didn’t try to hide her delight. And she couldn’t ignore the way her heart sped up at the sight of him.