Sweet Talkin' Guy. Colleen Collins

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