Sweet Talkin' Guy. Colleen Collins

a chilling realization, Daphne saw her future. Small, insignificant, always in the background of G. D.’s life.

      Her insides contracted a little.

      The older man flicked a knob and silence descended. After sliding the bill across the Formica counter, he ambled away.

      Andy shoved the plate of goop steaming with spice and grease toward her. “Help yourself.”

      She wrinkled her nose. “What is it?”

      “Fries topped with chili, chopped onions, jalapeños.” With a pleased guttural sound, Andy dipped his fingers into the mess. She wondered if he dove into life like that, indulging himself the way an animal gleefully rolls in the dirt just because it feels good.

      “I’ll pass.”

      “Shame—you’re missing out on something good.” He shoved chili-drenched fries into his mouth. After swallowing, he frowned. “Your perfume—” he nudged the air with his nose “—smells different than before.”

      “How can you possibly smell anything through that…” She glanced at the pile of grease, cheese and fries.

      He took a silver flask out of his pants pocket, shooting her a wry smile. “When I first sat down I could’ve sworn I caught a whiff of roses and not lilacs.”

      “Lilacs?”

      “The scent I caught back at the hotel.”

      He hadn’t been standing close enough to pick up the scent of her perfume. And Daphne wasn’t the type to splash the stuff on, especially not at several hundred dollars an ounce. “It’s called Dulcinea.” G.D. never commented on her perfume. Not anymore.

      “Dulcinea,” he murmured, rolling the word on his tongue. “The personification of Don Quixote’s dream.” He looked at her. “Don Quixote de La Mancha? Ever read the book?”

      “I’m more a contemporary type.” She recalled those antiquated literature assignments at the private school in England. Truly a hideous time in her life, cooped up, wearing those insane school uniforms that made her look like some kind of nun-in-training. Just as she’d finally discovered an escape route through a hole in the fence—ah, freedom—and the fields beyond where she’d run barefoot, she’d also discovered an escape route with her studies. Thank God for those little yellow pamphlets that offered abridged notes on ponderous literary tomes.

      “Funny how people forget that writers were all ‘contemporary types’ in their time. Anyway, what’s cool about Don Quixote is his ability to see others’ hidden beauty, which he loves with unshakable faith. That love gives him the energy to enter into great battles, to accomplish noble deeds, to become a heroic knight.”

      The way he spoke, his words edged with reverence, took Daphne by surprise. With his worn clothes and cocky in-your-face attitude, he didn’t seem like the kind of man to appreciate a romantic story of love and dreams. Even more astounding that he’d taken the time to wade through an old masterpiece, word by word.

      “You have a love of words.”

      He tipped his flask, pouring liquid into his glass. “Yeah, they call me a sweet-talkin’ guy.”

      For books and for the ladies, she’d bet. “That’s alcohol,” she said, eyeing his flask.

      “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