Sweet Talkin' Guy

“Why, yes, I believe you’re right.” He picked up a knife and stirred his drink. “Vodka to be exact.”

“I don’t believe this establishment has a liquor license.”

“Gonna turn me in?” He jiggled the flask at her before returning it to his pocket. “’Cause if you do, I might get tossed into jail. Which would make it rather difficult for you to share my room at the inn.”

“Share—?” She made a derisive sound. “This is a soda fountain, not a singles’ bar.”

He slid a look to her neckline. “And from that flash of black lace and see-through silk, it’s obvious you know the difference, too.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “You’re—”

“Impudent. I know.” He held her gaze and she felt another wave of heat shimmer through her. “I suppose now’s as good a time as any to tell you I’m also a newspaper reporter at the Denver Post.” He bowed his head slightly. “Andy Branigan.”

Good thing she was sitting down because her entire body went limp. Reporter. Denver Post.

She pressed her suddenly moist fingers against the cool, slick Formica. She’d worked hard these past few years to live down “Renegade Remington” but she might as well kiss off all that do-gooding if this guy penned a story about her escape to Maiden Falls. She could see it now. How she’d been seen wearing lingerie, trying to bribe her way into a remote honeymoon hotel with no G.D. in sight…

Oh God, Maiden Falls.

Before, she’d thought it funny to run away and be a fallen maiden, but this guy had the power to make such a label sound real. Forget Renegade Remington. Next she’d be pegged Randy Remington. Raunchy Remington. God knew what else a reporter could do with an R.

She eased in a steadying breath. Except maybe, just maybe, all this fretting was moot. Maybe he didn’t know who she was.

“Hey, not to worry,” he said, wiping his greasy fingers on a napkin. “I won’t tell.”

“Tell what?” she asked tightly.

“That you’re Daphne Remington, of the Denver Remingtons, set to marry the legal maverick and soon-to-be gubernatorial candidate G. D. McCormick.” He glanced at the four-carat diamond on her finger.

Her mouth went dry. “You recognized me on the news…”

“No, back at the hotel actually. The TV shot cinched it, though, mainly from the look of horror on your face as you recognized yourself on the screen. You’re transparent, you know that?”

“Goes with my see-through attire,” she muttered, not bothering to hide the irritation in her voice.

“Hey, I’m not here to betray you.”

“Words are cheap.”

“I guess a rich girl would know.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How dare you.”

“Sorry. But you’re assuming I’m out to hurt you. Give a guy a chance.”

“You’re a reporter. I’m a Remington. Do the math.” It was time to leave, get away before anything else she said or did was smeared across tomorrow’s news. Damn, if her cell phone worked up here in the mountains, she’d call one of her pals in Vail or Breckenridge and say, “Pick me up! Get me out of here!”

As she slipped off her stool, he caught her arm.

“Daphne,” he said, his cocky attitude gone, replaced by a seriousness that surprised her. “If I wanted to write a fast, flashy piece on the ‘Runaway Remington’ I could have easily phoned it in already. Tell you the truth, when I first saw you, that sure as hell crossed my mind. But I didn’t do it. As I followed you over here, I decided on a better proposition. A decent one.”

“Let go of me.”

Andy did, reluctantly. I shouldn’t have grabbed her like that. Hell, he never forcefully made a woman stay put—if anything, on several occasions he’d been the one making a beeline for the nearest exit. “Please. Hear me out. Besides, you don’t have transportation, so where you gonna go?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “How do you know?”

“No Jags or Beemers parked nearby.” He smiled.

She didn’t.

But she also didn’t leave.

“Here’s the deal,” he said, leaning closer, bringing their faces level. He hadn’t noticed before the flecks of gold buried in her hazel eyes. “Months ago, the Post reserved a room for me at the inn where I’d stay while writing a piece on Colorado honeymoon hotels—it’s part of a series that’s running throughout May, in time for June brides and all that. What I’d like to do, if you’re willing of course, is also use this weekend to interview you, write a story about whatever happened to Renegade Remington…why she ran away on the eve of her wedding—”

“I didn’t run away!”

“High heels in the Rockies? No luggage?

“Do you realize what the Post did to me?”

Taking in her suddenly ashen face, he felt a flash of remorse for following her in here. If he’d learned anything since losing his grandfather a year ago, it was that life is too short. Sure, Andy was tough-minded—most people called him worse things—but that didn’t mean he hadn’t done his share of soul searching lately, trying to figure out what mattered in this crazy world. Often he’d wondered if his granddad had been right—that, bottom line, what truly mattered was how people treated one another.

“I’m sorry, Daphne. I shouldn’t have—” No, he wouldn’t back down. No reason to feel guilty because what he was offering was good, for both of them. “Haven’t you ever wished a newspaper story also told your side of things?”

Her eyes widened again, and for an instant he swore he caught a look of interest.

“Because we could do that,” he said, taking advantage of the moment. And he meant it. This could be very good. “It’d be a story that fleshes out the real Daphne Remington, her thoughts and options—”

“People are more interested in G.D.’s.”

Andy paused. “Sure, G.D. You can talk up his political ambitions, agenda, whatever.” Maybe she brought up the idea, but she didn’t look so happy with it. “Plus you’ll have two whole days of anonymity in Maiden Falls.”

Damn if her whole face didn’t light up on that one.

So that was it.

Forget G.D. She wanted a few days of freedom. Funny, that was the one thing money couldn’t buy, not in this zoom lens, Internet world where people were ravenous to see into and hear about the high and mighty. He could take off for hikes, concerts or just a cup of java in the sunshine and nobody gave a damn that Andy Branigan was taking some time to enjoy himself. But for someone like Daphne Remington, such outings invited peering eyes, busybodies…

Reporters.

“Look, I don’t want to pressure you.” He stood, pulled a wad of money out of his pocket. “It’s your choice. I already have my work cut out for me writing the honeymoon piece on the Inn at Maiden Falls. Just thought it’d be beneficial to you, and for me, to write this other piece.”

He stood, taking his sweet time to count out a few bills.

“No one at the Post ever seemed interested in my side of things…”

He looked up. “What? Oh, right, you probably had one of those tomcat reporters only interested in making a name for himself.”