A FEW MINUTES later, Andy stepped into the lobby and inched past a young couple kissing feverishly, their bodies hovering over a tray of assorted cheeses on a side table. If they writhed a little lower, they could do serious damage to the Camembert.
For the most part, Andy viewed himself as an easygoing kinda guy—even if others disagreed with his self-image—but he did have two pet peeves: people who took love to the gooey stage and good food being wasted. The latter was due to his growing up economically strapped. Which wasn’t a bad thing. When you’re counting pennies to see if you have enough to buy day-old bread, you develop an appreciation for free, wholesome fare, especially the load-up-on-as-much-as-you-can-eat variety.
The girl came up for air, sighed heavily, then fell back into her guy for more kissing and moaning.
“Excuse me,” Andy muttered, grabbing a plate and making a dive for the cheese before it was crushed—or worse, melted—underneath the overheated honeymooners. He piled on some Brie, Camembert and crackers. Juggling the plate with one hand, he reached for the bottle of port and paused.
He looked around, but the only people in the room were Andy and the lip-locked lovers.
A rasping sound, a gentle scraping against wood, caught his attention.
He eyed the spread—plates of cheese, crackers, fruit and assorted utensils, cups and condiments. Next to a salt shaker, a blue-and-white box of cards seemed to move…almost imperceptibly so.
Right. Moving cards.
Next I’ll be seeing floating cheese.
He sloshed some port into a glass and tossed back a sip, letting the rich, plum-scented liquid warm his throat.
The couple teetered, brushed against him.
Andy gave his head a small shake, wondering why some men succumbed to such ridiculous, public displays of needy gooey-ness. Get a room, buddy. The one you’re paying for.
BELLE LEANED against the table, observing Andy. Cynical ruffian, aren’t ya?
She tapped her fingers on the box of cards, debating whether to give it another little shove. But she sensed it was a lost cause. Andy was overly worked up about that kissing couple, whose ghostly gal—hmm, was it Glory?—was a shoo-in for a bedpost notch this weekend.
Belle looked back at Andy, wondering if he was aware that when he got irritated, his neck flushed almost to the color of his hair.
She’d never been one to show her emotions like that. In life, she couldn’t afford to because a good gambler was a master of the placid face. However, Belle certainly related to Andy’s cynicism because she’d been a lot like that herself. How many times had her beloved Drake said in his lazy New Orleans drawl, “Darlin’ gal, you make a skeptic look ambivalent.”
She’d always defended herself by reminding him that a woman on her own in the frontier had to be not only tough, but a good “businessman,” too. And that’s what she’d saved her money for, to own her own business one day. A high-class gambling hall—a place even fancier than Denver’s Palace Theater, which Bat Masterson had acquired about that time.
Belle sighed. Funny to recall how money once drove her. Now it was notches.
She watched Andy juggle the plate of food with one hand while lifting two glasses in the other.
Not bad with his hands.
She’d keep that in mind, later, when things heated up. She smiled to herself, thinking how she’d already kicked off part of the “heated” before she left her room…
Belle stroked the deck of cards one last time, willing the idea of strip poker to occur to Andy. It took more effort to plant the idea because of that passionate couple’s energy. True love was a wild force to be reckoned with, a fact Belle hadn’t known until after she’d left the earthly realm. If humans knew how powerful and far-reaching love’s effects were, they might choose to do many things differently.
Andy suddenly glanced upward, as though startled. Then he slowly grinned, an unholy twinkle in his eyes.
Bull’s-eye. Belle floated away, pleased with her newest ability to send thoughts. Sometimes it worked with dreams, too, a trick she was perfecting.
Andy headed into the foyer, humming a tune, and Belle followed. One peculiar thing about being a ghost—peculiar for Belle, anyway—she felt vibrations from everything. A tree, a sunrise, even a wish. A human singing, even humming, was extraordinarily sensual. She floated up the stairs, enveloping herself in the sensations of Andy’s melodic, deep voice.
Drake had had a good singing voice, too.
A funny ache filled her as she again recalled Andy’s words. “His last words were that he loved her.”
She swallowed, hard, pushing down an old regret. She’d left Tombstone without saying goodbye. Belle had always figured it was easier that way. If the law had badgered Drake about her whereabouts or tried to liquor him up to spill the beans, he honestly would have had no information.
Then, a month later, when she discovered she was…Well, going back meant dealing with the law, jail time at the minimum, so she kept moving on. Over the years, she figured Drake had forgotten her, married, had his own family. She never knew that her Drake had died thinking of her….
Loving her.
If she still had a beating heart, it would surely break.
JUGGLING the plate and glasses of port, Andy knocked the toe of his boot against the bottom of his room door.
“Locked out?” asked a woman’s voice.
Andy looked over his shoulder. The hotel manager, dressed in a pink and orange floor-length dress that made her look like a huge floating sunset, stood in the hallway.
At the same time, Daphne called out from behind the door, “Who is it?”
The manager swerved her gaze to the door.
“It’s me,” Andy said. He cleared his throat, avoiding the manager’s gaze. “Your husband.”
He wasn’t sure if his response was a stroke of genius or stupidity, but it seemed far better to be married in a honeymoon hotel than to appear he’d gone out and picked up someone.
Which, technically, he’d done, of course.
The chain lock scraped, the door creaked open.
Daphne leaned against the doorjamb, dressed in those cargo pants topped with that green lingerie number. Through the sheer fabric, he saw the circles of her dark nipples. His insides contracted, sucker-punched with hot need.
“Finally!” She fanned herself with her manicured hand. “I’m so hot—” She stopped mid-sentence and stared, openmouthed, at the manager.
Who stared back, blinking rapidly.
Andy quickly stepped inside, hoping to hell he didn’t drop the plate or drinks and make a bigger fiasco than the one brewing on his doorstep. Whenever he found himself struggling with a news story, he threw on more facts. He’d do that now, too. Not that they were real facts, but he needed to fabricate something. Hell, what better time for sweet talkin’? He was going to be here for the entire weekend—requesting access to rooms, stats, historical trivia—it would be damn beneficial not to make an enemy of the manager.
“My, uh, wife arrived after I did, not knowing I’d already checked in.” Good thing he’d stood out of sight of the manager when she and Daphne had had their go-around at the registration desk earlier. Afterward, the manager had left so quickly—scurrying down the hallway that led to the back of the hotel—she’d missed Andy following Daphne to the drugstore across the street.
With a confused expression, the manager said to Andy, “But…she could have mentioned your name, said she was your wife…”
She could have kept her jacket on, too, and not ramrodded my libido answering the door in that next-to-nothing piece of fluff. “She’d been traveling for days—”
“Day,” Daphne corrected.
“From Denver?” The manager frowned. “We’re only an hour’s drive from there.”
“She…walked.”
The owner looked at Daphne’s heels.
“From the bus to the hotel.” Daphne gave a little shrug. “I’m great in heels.”
An image of her wearing nothing but those heels seared through Andy’s mind. “We need to go now,” he croaked, nudging the door closed with his toe.
“You’re married,” the manager said, leaning forward to peer through the closing door, “but travel separately?”
“We travel apart,” Daphne said, her voice rising, “in case one of us is in a fatal accident. The other will survive. We do it for the children—”
The door shut with a resounding click.
Andy paused, then turned and gave Daphne a long look. “Fatal accident? Survival for the children? Cheery sort, aren’t you?” He set the plate and glasses on a corner table.
“I was making our story legitimate. Which someone had to do because the reporter in the bunch was losing it.”
He turned. “Excuse me?”
She swiped a strand of hair out of her eyes. “I’m your wife? Who traveled days from Denver on foot? Hello?”
He opened his mouth to say something intelligent, possibly profound, but his mind turned into a vast wasteland as he stared at the strip of black lace that fringed the silky green. Through the intricate mesh of black, he caught peeks of creamy skin and the hint of cleavage.
“If you want me to make sense,” he rasped, “keep your jacket on.”
She shifted her weight from one high heel to the other. “It got unbearably hot in here after you left.”
“Thought it’d be the other way around.”
“What?”
“That it gets unbearably hot when I’m in the room, not when I’m gone.”
She sucked in a breath that made her breasts press sinfully against the fabric. “You’re impudent.”
“So I’ve heard.” He’d be something else in a moment, something worse, like grossly inappropriate or plain ol’ I-said-I’d-be-good-but-let’s-be-bad-instead if he kept staring at those perky green-draped mounds.
She’s right. It’s hot in here.
Andy walked like an automaton to the thermostat. He punched a button with a down arrow several times. “You cranked it up to ninety.”
“I never touched it! Didn’t even know it was there. The thermostat is white against a white wall.”
She had a point. He’d only known where it was because he’d seen it earlier while searching for the light switch. Still, it hadn’t been set on ninety when they’d first come into the room—maybe Daphne had brushed against it, accidentally pushed the button. Although what she’d be doing brushing her body against a wall was a thought best left unthought.
“Okay,” he said, turning around. “I reset it to seventy. It’ll cool down in a moment—”
For a moment he’d thought he’d gone snow-blind. “What’s—?”
“Oh.” Daphne gestured toward the sheet dangling from the ceiling, its bottom edge falling in a line down the middle of the bed. “I thought it would be helpful to divide the bed. You know, your side and my side.”
He looked up at the ceiling, where one end of the sheet was attached to the chandelier, the other tied around one of the track lights at the top of the mirrored wall. He’d been so caught up in the scene at the door, then dealing with the temperature, he’d missed the…
“Sheet?” He gave his head a disbelieving shake. “You hung a sheet to ensure I stay on my side of the bed? You could’ve drawn a line with a black marker down the bedspread and saved yourself some effort.”
“I thought it’d be helpful if we didn’t see each other.”
He stared at her, amazed at her line of reasoning. “When I’m asleep,” he finally said, “my eyes are closed. Don’t need no sheet, baby, not to see you.” He tugged off his fleece jacket and tossed it over a chair. It was hot in here, and growing hotter by the minute even with the thermostat turned down. “Anyway, I already told you I’d sleep on the couch.”
“Which part of you? Upper or lower? It’s not that big.”
“The floor, then.” He looked back at Daphne, who was standing spread-eagled, her fists on her hips. Golden light from the chandelier gilded her body. And he’d thought the lingerie top would be his undoing? Ha. It’d be the buttery light pouring over her arms and legs and glinting sinfully off the zipper of her pants.
“It’s hardwood,” Daphne said.
“Huh?”
“The floor. It’s hardwood.”
With Herculean effort, he raised his gaze to hers, wondering how it would taste to lick warm, melted butter off her naked skin. “I’ve slept hard before.”
“What?”
“Hardwood.” He cleared his throat. “I mean I’ve slept on hardwood floors before. I’ll steal a blanket and a pillow. It’ll be fine.” It’ll be hell, curled up on the floor, knowing your buttery body is mere feet away….
“Don’t be silly. We’ll sleep together in the bed. I trust you.”
Glad one of us does. “I need a drink,” he croaked, walking stiff-kneed to the table and picking up a glass of port. Maybe he should take a cold shower…for the rest of the evening.
Behind him, he heard Daphne talking, something about the layout of the room, or maybe it was the bed, and he forced himself not to fixate on the word lay. In fact, not to fixate on anything she said…or how she looked…or if she liked butter.
I should’ve taken Donita up on her offer. Donita was the new gossip columnist at the Post. A little round, a lot hyper and unafraid to proposition a man outright. He’d discovered that last week at the local watering hole, the Supreme Court Bar, when she inched her stockinged foot into his crotch under the table.
Problem was, as much as Andy had a reputation with the ladies, he had some integrity. For example, he didn’t fool around with co-workers. And he didn’t bed a woman just because she let him know she was available. Or could skillfully wriggle her toes.
Of course, tonight, he was damn close to sharing a bed with a woman who had made it clear she was very unavailable. Even if she changed her mind, the last thing Andy Branigan needed was to invoke the wrath of the possible next governor of the state.
He eased out a long, slow breath. This is going to be a long, long weekend.
He lifted the second glass, turned and offered it to Daphne. “Have a drink.”
Across the room, something on the nightstand caught his eye.
A deck of playing cards? They hadn’t been there before, had they?
“Thank you,” Daphne said, accepting the glass.
Andy pulled his attention back to her, unsure if the sensation skittering down his spine was hot or cold.
DAPHNE TOWELED OFF her face, looking at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, wishing she hadn’t spent all of her cash. I should have bought the less expensive cream so I could purchase some foundation, too. She glared at the smattering of freckles across her nose which she’d always hated. Made her look like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. All she needed was a pair of overalls to complete the look.
Andy said I was transparent.
She arched an eyebrow. Oh, really? Maybe he saw her passing emotions, or in a minute these damn freckles, but no way was she so transparent that he’d see down to her deepest, most private thoughts or dreams. Those she’d learned long ago to keep hidden.
She opened the door and stepped into the bedroom.
And halted.
If she didn’t know better, she’d swear the room was lit by candles, not electricity. She glanced up at the chandelier. Strange. The bulbs seemed dimmer. Yet she remembered distinctly that Andy had flicked a switch, not a dimmer, to turn on the light.
“Feel better?” asked Andy. He was propped against some bunched pillows on the bed, his fingers on the laptop keyboard.
“Felt refreshing to wash my face.”
“Good.” He returned his attention to the computer.
Good? As in good, glad you feel refreshed? Or you look good even though I can count the number of freckles on your face all the way from across the room, Rebecca?
She squeezed shut her eyes. It doesn’t matter. This is my weekend, not a date. But when she thought about Andy, something hot and intense flared within her.
Okay, forget the “this is my weekend” rationale. What he thinks about me matters. But not enough to actually do something about it. It’s not as though I’ve forgotten I’m engaged.
She fiddled with the ring on her hand, wondering when it had started to feel so heavy.
She opened her eyes and looked at Andy. His head was bent, a lock of golden-red hair falling over his brow. When he focused intently, the way he was now, he didn’t seem so cocky. More boyish, studious. The kind of guy who would read a literary masterpiece cover to cover. She liked how he channeled his energy, losing himself in his concentration.
She shuddered involuntarily, imaging what it would be like to be the recipient of that kind of intense, focused energy while making love.
Thinking about sex is the last thing you need to be doing right now. Besides, wasn’t she the one who had been determined to keep things proper by hanging that wall of a sheet?
Andy looked up. “What’re you thinking about?”
Sex. You. “Working on the honeymoon hotel story?” she asked, her voice doing that breathy thing again.
“A bit. Also framing the interview questions I want to ask you.”
“Like—?”
Andy looked at her, his gaze skimming down her body, back to her eyes. “You put your jacket back on.”
“That’s not a question.” I look good to him.
“Want to…take off your jacket?”
Really good to him. “This doesn’t sound like an interview.”
“No, but it’s a question.”
She giggled. Not an oh-that’s-funny giggle, but a wheezy oh-my-toes-are-curling kind of giggle. The way she had behaved when she was thirteen and eighth-grade stud Keith Jones had graced her with one of his bad-boy grins.
Andy’s eyes flashed with interest. One side of his mouth kicked up in a saucy, gotcha grin that made Keith Jones a blur of ancient history. When Andy gave her a possessive, slow once-over, her body heat skyrocketed.
In a flash—as though she were looking at a photograph—she saw the bed without the dividing sheet, the covers tangled, two naked bodies entwined….
She gasped, realizing it was her and Andy.
The image faded, replaced with Andy sitting there, staring at her with a look that messaged heat and sin.
The kind of look that reminded her they were alone in this hotel room…that the door was locked….
She caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bed. Her face was flushed, her hair a mass of wild curls. And that smile…she’d never seen herself smile like that. Her eyes glistening, her lips curved as though suppressing a wicked secret….
Seeing herself like that, looking alive and excited, it hit Daphne how long it’d been since she’d really felt that way. She realized that what she was experiencing in this moment—this hot, sizzling moment—was more real than anything she’d experienced in a long, long time; all her do-gooding these past few years was a sham.
Because, truth be told, she was a renegade. She loved a life free of restraints. Loved to be wild, to indulge herself in life’s exhilarating journeys. But she’d caved in somewhere along the line, tried to be what everybody told her to be. And in a rush of understanding she suddenly knew why.
She’d given up.
She’d given up believing there ever would be more. Believing there would be another chance to embrace life wholeheartedly without fear or guilt. Believing she would ever meet a man whose smile was a portal to adventure and joy and passion…
“Andy,” she whispered, yanking open her jacket. “Come here….”